OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY 
o        OF 


THE     WORKS     OF 


ALFRED 


LORD     TENNYSON 


H5&<^° 


•^    '^^    o 


k 


THE    WORKS    OF 


ALFRED 


LORD    TENxNYSON 


POET    LAUREATE 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1898 

All  rights  reserved 


1  . 


Copyright,  1892, 
By  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


Printed  by  R.  &  R.  Clark,  January  1884.  Reprinted,  with  slight  corrections, 
April  1SS4.  Repritited  February  and  October  1885;  May  1886;  with  slight  altera- 
tions, Decetnber  1886.  Reprinted  1887;  May  and  Novonber  1888;  with  many 
additions,  February  1889.  Reprinted  April  and  December  1889;  June  and 
November  1890;    July  and  Decetnber  1891. 

Complete  Edition  with  additions,  January  1893.     Reprinted  May  1893,  July  1894 
August  1895.     Ne^v  edition  April  1898. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

To  THE  Queen    .       .        .        .        .        .        i 

Juvenilia     .        .    • 2 

Claribel 2 

Nothing  will  Die 2 

All  Things  will  Die 3 

Leonine  Elegiacs  .....  3 
Supposed   Confessions  of  a   Second-rate 

Sensitive  Mind 3 

The  Kraken 5 

Song 6 

Lilian  .......         6 

Isabel  6 

Mariana 7 

To 8 

Madeline 8 

Song  —  the  Owl  .....         9 

Second  Song — to  the  Same  ...  9 
Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights  .  9 
Ode  to  Memory  .         .         .         .         .11 

Song  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .12 

A  Character 13 

The  Poet .13 

The  Poet's  Mind 14 

The  Sea-Fairies 14 

The  Deserted  House  .         .         .         .15 

The  Dying  Swan 15 

A  Dirge      .......       16 

Love  and  Death 17 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana         .         .         .         -17 

Circumstance .18 

The  Merman 18 

The  Mermaid 19 

Adeline       .......       20 

Margaret 20 

Rosalind     .......       21 

Eleanore     .......       22 

'  My  life  is  full  of  weary  days'  .  .  23 
Early  Sonnets 24 

1.  Sonnet  to .         .         .         .         .24 

2.  Sonnet  to  J.  M.  K 24 

3.  '  Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit '       .       24 

4.  Alexander  .....       24 

5.  Bonaparte 25 


PAGE 

Juvenilia  —  Early  Sonnets  continued  : 

6.  Poland       ......  25 

7.  '  Caress'd  or  chidden '       .         .         .25 

8.  '  The  form,  the  form  alone  is   elo- 

quent '  .         .         .         .         .         -25 

9.  '  Wan  sculptor,  weepest  thou ' .         .26 

10.  '  If  I  were  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be  '  .  26 

11.  The  Bridesmaid         ....  26 

The  Lady  of  Shalott,  and  other  Poems: 

=-  The  Lady  of  Shalott 27 

Mariana  in  the  South         ....  29 

The  Two  Voices 30 

The  Miller's  Daughter      ....  36 

Fatima 38 

(Enone 39 

The  Sisters 43 

To 43 

The  Palace  of  Art 43 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  ....  48 

The  May  Queen 49 

New  Year's  Eve     .....  50 

Conclusion 51 

The  Lotos-Eaters 53 

Choric  Song 53 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women  .         .         •         •  55 

The  Blackbird 60 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year       ...  60 

To  J.  S 61 

On  a  Mourner 62 

'  You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease'  .         .  63 

'  Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights '         .  63 

'  Love  thou  thy  land'         ....  63 

England  and  America  in  1782   ...  65 

The  Goose 65 

English  Idyls,  and  other  Poems: 

The  Epic 66 

Morte  d'Arthur 67 

The  Gardener's  Daughter;  or,  the  Pictures  71 

Dora 75 

Audley  Court 78 

Walking  to  the  Mail          ....  79 

Edwin  Morris;  or,  the  Lake     ...  81 

St.  Simeon  Stylites 83 


ivi5691CG 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

English  Idyls,  and  other  Poems  contd.  : 

The  Talking  Oak 86 

Love  and  Duty           .....  90 

The  Golden  Year 91 

Ulysses 93 

""^.Tithonus 94 

V,„,Locksley  Hall 95 

Godiva        .......  loi 

The  Day-Dream 102 

Prologue 102 

The  Sleeping  Palace      ....  102 

The  Sleeping  Beauty     ....  103 

The  Arrival 103 

The  Revival 104 

The  Departure 104 

Moral 104 

L'Envoi 105 

Epilogue 105 

Amphion 105 

St.  Agnes'  Eve ,.  107 

Sir  Galahad 107 

Edward  Gray 108 

Will  Waterproof 's  Lyrical  Monologue     .  .108 

Lady  Clare in 

The  Captain       .         .         .         .         .         .112 

The  Lord  of  Burleigh         .         .         .         .113 

The  Voyage 114 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere         .  115 

A  Farewell 116 

The  Beggar  Maid 116 

The  Eagle 116 

'  Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave  '  116 

'  Come  not,  when  I  am  dead '    .        .        .  116 

The  Letters 117 

The  Vision  of  Sin 117 

To ,  after  reading  a  Life  and  Letters  120 

To  E.  L.  on  his  Travels  in  Greece   .        .  121 

'  Break,  break,  break'       ....  121 

The  Poet's  Song 121 

Enoch  Arden,  and  other  Poems: 

Enoch  Arden 122 

The  Brook 136 

Aylmer's  Field i39 

Sea  Dreams 152 

"  """Lucretius i57 


A  Welcome  to  Her  Royal  Highness  Marie 

Alexandrovna,  Duchess  of  Edinburgh 
The  Grandmother 
Northern  Farmer.     Old  Style 
Northern  Farmer.     New  Style 
The  Daisy     .... 
To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice 
Will       .... 
^;^In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz 
In  the  Garden  at  Swainston 
The  Flower   . 
Requiescat     . 
The  Sailor  Boy 
The  Islet 
Child-Songs  . 

1.  The  City  Child      . 

2.  Minnie  and  Winnie 
The  Spiteful  Letter 
Literary  Squabbles 
The  Victim    . 
Wages  .... 
The  Higher  Pantheism 
The  Voice  and  the  Peak 
'  Flower  in  the  crannied  wall ' 
A  Dedication 


The  Princess:  a  Medley 


161 


Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  212 
The  Third  of  February,  1852  .  .  .216 
The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  .  .  217 
Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  of  the  International 

Exhibition 217 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra     .         .         .         .     218 


219 
220 
223 
225 
227 
229 
229 
229 
230 
230 
230 
230 
231 
231 
231 
231 
232 
232 
232 
233 
234 
234 
235 
235 


Experiments: 

Boadicea 235 

In  Quantity 237 

Specimen  of  a  Translation  of  the  Iliad  in 

Blank  Verse 238 

The  Window  ;  or,  the  Song  of  the  Wrens  : 

The  Window 239 

On  the  Hill 239 

At  the  Window 239 

Gone 239 

Winter 239 

Spring 240 

The  Letter 240 

No  Answer 240 

The  Answer 240 

Ay 241 

When  .       , 241 

Marriage  Morning 241 


In  Memoriam  A.  H.  H. 


Maud  :  A  Monodrama 


Idylls  of  the  King.    In  Twelve  Books. 


Dedication 

The  Coming  of  Arthur 
The  Round  Table      . 
Gareth  and  Lynette 
The  Marriage  of  Geraint 


241 


281 


302 

303 
311 

311 
335 


CONTENTS. 


Vll 


Idylls  of  the  King.    Round  Table  c 

ontd.  : 

Geraint  and  Enid  . 

■     347 

Balin  and  Balan 

.     362 

Merlin  and  Vivien  . 

•     373 

Lancelot  and  Elaine 

.     388 

The  Holy  Grail      . 

.     410 

Pelleas  and  Ettarre 

•     425 

The  Last  Tournament 

•     435 

Guinevere 

•     447 

The  Passing  of  Arthur 

•     458 

To  the  Queen 

.     466 

The  Lover's  Tale 

•     467 

To  Alfred  Tennyson,  my  Grandsc 

>N       .      490 

Ballads,  and  other  Poems: 

The  First  Quarrel 

•      490 

Rizpah 

■      492 

The  Northern  Cobbler 

•      494 

The  Revenge:   A  Ballad  of  the  Flee 

<■         ■     497 

The  Sisters       .           ... 

•     499 

The  Village  Wife;  or,  the  Entail 

■     504 

In  the  Children's  Ho.spital 

•     507 

Dedicator>'  Poem  to  the  Princess  W 

ice    .     508 

The  Defence  of  Lucknow 

509 

Sir  John  f  )ldcastlc.  Lord  Cobham 

•     5" 

Columbus 

•     514 

The  Voyage  of  Maeldune  . 

.     518 

De  Profundis: 

The  Two  Greetings 

•     521 

The  Human  Cry 

.     522 

Sonnets: 

Prefatory    Sonnet     to     the    '  Ninct 

:enth 

Century '         .         .         .         . 

.      522 

To  the  Rev.  \V.  H.  Brookfield 

.      322 

Montenegro        .... 

•     523 

To  Victor  Hugo         .         .         .         . 

•     523 

Tkanslations,  etc. 

Battle  of  Brunanburh 

•     523 

Achilles  over  the  Trench  . 

•     525 

To  the  Princess  Fredcrica  of  Hanov 

er  on 

her  Marriage  .         .         .         .         . 

.     526 

Sir  John  Franklin      .         .         .         . 

.     526 

To  Dante   . 

.     526 

Tiresias,  and  other  Poems 
To  E.  Fitzgerald 
Tiresias 
The  Wreck 
Despair 

The  Ancient  Sage 
The  Flight 
Tomorrow 

The  Spinster's  Sweet-Arts 
Locksley  Hall  Si.xty  Years  After 
Prologue  to  General  Hamley    . 
The   Charge   of   the    Heavy    Brigade   at 
Balaclava 


526 


533 
536 
540 

543 
545 
548 


556 


Tiresias,  and  other  Poems  continued : 

Epilogue    ...... 

To  Virgil 

The  Dead  Prophet     .... 

Early  Spring      ..... 

Prefatory  Poem  to  my  Hrother's  Sonnets 

Frater  Ave  atque  Vale 

Helen's  Tower  ..... 

Epitaph  on  Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe 

Epitaph  on  General  Gordon 

Epitaph  on  Caxton    .... 

To  the  Duke  of  Argj'll 

Hands  all  Round       .... 

Freedom     ...... 

To  H.  R.  H.  Princess  Beatrice 

The  Fleet 

Opening  of  the  Indian  and  Colonial  E.\ 
hibition  by  the  Queen    . 

Poets  and  their  bibliographies  . 

To  W.  C.  Macready 

Queen  Mary 

Hakold         ...... 


5ecket  .... 

The  Cup 

The  Falcon        •      «. 

The  Promise  of  May 

Demeter,  and  other  Poems: 
To  the  Marcjuis  of  Dufferin  and  Ava 
On  the  Jubilee  of  Queen  Victoria 
To  Professor  Jebb 
Demeter  and  Persephone  . 
Owd  Roa 
Vastness 
The  Ring 
Forlorn 
Happy 
To  Ulysses 
To  Mary  Boyle 
The  Progress  of  Spring 
Merlin  and  The  (ilearn 
Romney's  Remorse  . 
Parnassus  .... 
By  an  Evolutionist    . 
Far  —  far  —  away 
Politics       .... 
Beautiful  City    . 
The  Ro.'Jes  on  the  Terrace 
The  Play    .... 
On  One  who  affected  an  F-'.fleminate  M 
To  One  who  ran  down  the  English 
The  Snowdrop   .... 
The  Throstle      .... 

The  Oak 

In  Memoriam  —  William  George  Ward 


557 
558 
559 
560 
561 
561 
561 
562 
562 
562 
562 
562 
563 
563 
564 

564 

565 

565 

566 

636 

676 

730 

/ 

756 


781 
782 
783 
783 
785 
788 
790 
797 
798 
802 
803 
804 
806 
807 
810 
810 
811 
811 
811 
812 
812 
anner  812 
812 
812 
812 
812 
813 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


The  Foresters 


PAGE 
814 


The  Death  of  Q^none,  Akbar's  Dream, 

AND   OTHER   PoEMS: 

June  Bracken  and  Heather  .  .  .  851 
To  the  Master  of  Balliol  .  .  •  .851 
The  Death  of  Oinone         ,         .         .         .851 

St.  Telemachus 853 

Akbar's  Dream 854 

The  Bandit's  Death 859 

The  Church- Warden  and  the  Curate        .     860 

Charity 862 

Kapiolani 863 

The  Dawn 864 

The  Making  of  Man .  .  .  .  .865 
The  Dreamer 865 


The  Death  of  CEnone,  Akbar's  Dream, 
AND  other  Poems  continued : 

Mechanophilus  ...... 

Riflemen  Form ! 

The  Tourney     ...... 

The  Bee  and  the  Flower   .... 

The  Wanderer 

Poets  and  Critics        ..... 

A  Voice  spake  out  of  the  Skies 

Doubt  and  Prayer 

Faith 

The  Silent  Voices      ..... 

God  and  the  Universe       .... 

The  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence  and 
Avondale        ...... 

Crossing  the  Bar 


865 
866 
866 
867 
867 
867 
867 
867 
868 


868 


Index  to  the  First  Lines 871 


TO    THE    QUEEN. 


Revered,  beloved —  O  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  ojffice  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  poiuer  of  brain,  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria,  —  since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  uttered  nothing  base  ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there  ; 


Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  S07ig ; 
For  t ho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 
In  vacant  charnbers,  I  could  trust 

Your  kindness.     May  you  rule  us  long, 

Afzd  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 

As  noble  till  the  latest  day  ! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 
'  She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good ; 

'Her  court  was  pure  ;  her  life  serene; 
God  gave  her  peace  ;  her  land  reposed , 
A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 

In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen  ; 


Then  —  while  a  sweeter  music  wakes. 
And  thro'  zui Id  March  the  throstle  calls. 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  su7i-lit  almojtd-blossom  shakes  — 


*  And  statesmen  at  her  council  viet 
Who  kneiu  the  seasofis  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 

The  boiaids  of  freedom  zvider  yet 


March,  \%i^\. 
B 


'  By  shaping  some  august  decree. 

Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still. 
Broad-based  upon  her  people's  will, 
And  compassed  by  the  inviolate  sea.' 


JUVENILIA. 


CLARIBEL. 

A  MELODY. 
I. 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial. 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 

II. 

At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 

Athwart  the  thicket  lone  : 
At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 

About  the  moss'd  headstone  : 
At  midnight  the  moon  cometh. 

And  looketh  down  alone. 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth, 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumbrous  wave  outwelleth. 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


NOTHING   WILL  DIE. 

When    will    the  stream    be    aweary   of 
flowing 

Under  my  eye? 
When  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of  blowing 

Over  the  sky? 


When    will    the    clouds    be    aweary    of 

fleeting? 
When    will    the    heart    be    aweary    of 
beating? 

And  nature  die? 
Never,  oh  !  never,  nothing  will  die; 
The  stream  flows. 
The  wind  blows. 
The  cloud  fleets, 
The  heart  beats, 
Nothing  will  die. 

Nothing  will  die; 
All  things  will  change 
Thro'  eternity.  * 

■  'Tis  the  world's  winter; 
Autumn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago; 
Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre, 
But  spring,  a  new  comer, 
A  spring  rich  and  strange, 
Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Round  and  round, 
Thro'  and  thro'. 

Here  and  there, 
Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  fill'd  with  life  anew. 

The  world  was  never  made; 

It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 

So  let  the  wind  range; 

For  even  and  morn 

Ever  will  be 

Thro'  eternity. 
Nothing  was  born ; 
Nothing  will  die; 
All  things  will  change. 


ALL    THLNGS    WILL   DIE  — LEONINE  ELEGIACS. 


ALL  THINGS   WILL   DIE. 

Clearly    the    l)lue   river    chimes   in  its 
flowing 

Under  my  eye  ; 
Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds  are 
blowing 

Over  the  sky. 
One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are 

fleeting; 
Every  heart  this  May  morning  in  joyance 
is  beating 

Full  merrily; 
Yet  all  things  must  die. 
The  stream  will  cease  to  flow; 
The  wind  will  cease  to  blow; 
The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet; 
The  heart  will  cease  to  beat; 
For  all  things  must  die. 
All  things  must  die. 
Spring  will  come  never  more. 

Oh  !  vanity ! 
Death  waits  at  the  door. 
See  !  our  friends  are  all  forsaking 
The  wine  and  the  merrymaking. 
We  are  call'd  —  we  must  go. 
Laid  low,  very  low, 
In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 
The  merry  glees  are  still; 
The  voice  of  the  bird 
Shall  no  more  be  heard, 
Nor  the  wind  on  the  hill. 

Oh  !  misery ! 
Hark  !   death  is  calling 
While  I  speak  to  ye. 
The  jaw  is  falling, 
The  red  cheek  paling. 
The  strong  limbs  failing; 
Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing; 
The  eyeballs  fixing. 
Nine  times  goes  the  passing  bell: 
Ye  merry  souls,  farewell. 
The  old  earth 
Had  a  birth. 
As  all  men  know, 
Long  ago. 
And  the  old  earth  must  die. 
So  let  the  warm  winds  range, 
And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ye  will  never  see 
Thro'  eternity. 


All  things  were  born. 
Ve  will  come  never  more, 
For  all  things  must  die. 


LEONINE   ELEGIACS. 

Low-flowing  breezes  are  roaming  the 

broad  valley  dimm'd  in  the  gloaming  : 
Thro'  the  black-stemm'd  pines  only  the 

far  river  shines. 
Creeping  thro' blossomy  rushes  and  bowers 

of  rose-blowing  bushes, 
Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivulets  babble 

and  fall. 
Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerly;    the 

grasshopper  carolleth  clearly; 
Deeply  the  wood-dove  coos;   shrilly  the 

owlet  halloos; 
Winds  creep;    dews  fall   chilly:    in  her 

first  sleep  earth  breathes  stilly : 
Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  water- gnats 

murmur  and  mourn. 
Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth :  the  glimmer- 
ing water  outfloweth  : 
Twin  peaks  shadow'd  with  pine  slope  to 

the  dark  hyaline. 
Low-throned  Hesper  is  stayed  between 

the  two  peaks;   but  the  Naiad 
Throbbing    in    mild    unrest    holds    him 

beneath  in  her  breast. 
The  ancient  poetess  singeth,  that   Hes- 
perus all  things  bringeth, 
Smoothing  the  wearied  mind  :  bring  me 

my  love,  Rosalind. 
Thou    comest    morning    or    even;     she 

cometh  not  morning  or  even. 
False-eyed  Hesper,  unkind,  where  is  my 

sweet  Rosalind? 


SUPPOSED    CONFESSIONS 

OF   A    SECOND-RATE   SENSITIVE   MIND. 

0  God  !  my  God  !  have  mercy  now. 

1  faint,  I  fall.     Men  say  that  Thou 
Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  me. 
Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn. 
And  that  my  sin  was  as  a  thorn 
Among  the  thorns  that  girt  Thy  brow, 
Wounding  Thy  soul.  —  That  even  now, 
In  this  extremest  misery 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    SENSITIVE  MIND. 


Of  ignorance,  I  should  require 

A  sign  !  and  if  a  bolt  of  fire 

Would  rive  the  slumbrous  summer  noon 

While  I  do  pray  to  Thee  alone, 

Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grow  ! 

Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low? 

The  boastings  of  ifly  spirit  still? 

The  joy  I  had  in  my  freewill 

All  cold,  and  dead,  and  corpse-like  grown  ? 

And  what  is  left  to  me,  but  Thou, 

And  faith  in  Thee?     Men  pass  me  by; 

Christians  with  happy  countenances  — 

And  children  all  seem  full  of  Thee  ! 

And  women  smile  with  saint-like  glances 

Like  Thine  own  mother's  when  she  bow'd 

Above  Thee,  on  that  happy  morn 

When  angels  spake  to  men  aloud, 

And  Thou  and  peace  to  earth  were  born. 

Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all  — 

I  one  of  them  :   my  brothers  they  : 

Brothers  in  Christ  —  a  world  of  peace 

And  confidence,  day  after  day; 

And  trust  and  hope  till  things  should  cease. 

And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

How  sweet  to  have  a  common  faith ! 

To  hold  a  common  scorn  of  death ! 

And  at  a  burial  to  hear 

The  creaking  cords  which  wound  and  eat 

Into  my  human  heart,  whene'er 

Earth  goes  to  earth,  with  grief,  not  fear, 

With  hopeful  grief,  were  passing  sw^et ! 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 
The  trustful  infant  on  the  knee  ! 
Who  lets  his  rosy  fingers  play 
About  his  mother's  neck,  and  knows 
Nothing  beyond  his  mother's  eyes. 
They  comfort  him  by  night  and  day; 
They  light  his  little  life  alway; 
He  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes; 
He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  death; 
Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arise, 
Because  the  Spirit  of  happiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is; 
And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart, 
Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth, 
Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell. 
Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and  far  apart, 
Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth. 
Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air. 
Whose  chillness  would  make  visible 


Her  subtil,  warm,  and  golden  breath, 
Which  mixing  with  the  infant's  blood, 
Fulfils  him  with  beatitude. 
Oh !  sure  it  is  a  special  care 
Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt. 
To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple-mailed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant's  dawning  year. 

Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 

As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brows 

Propt  on  thy  knees,  my  hands  upheld 

In  thine,  I  listen'd  to  thy  vows, 

For  me  outpour'd  in  holiest  prayer  — 

For  me  unworthy  !  —  and  beheld 

Thy  mild  deep  eyes  upraised,  that  knew 

The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith, 

And  the  clear  spirit  shining  thro'. 

Oh !  wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 

From  roots  which  strike  so  deep?  why 

dare 
Paths  in  the  desert?     Could  not  I 
Bow  myself  down,  where  thou  hast  knelt, 
To  the  earth  —  until  the  ice  would  melt 
Here,  and  I  feel  as  thou  hast  felt? 
What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 
Flowers  thou  hadst  rear'd —  to  brush  the 

dew 
From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 
Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay? 
Myself?     Is  it  thus?     Myself?     Had  I 
So  little  love  for  thee?     But  why 
Prevail'd    not   thy  pure    prayers?     Why 

pray 
To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 
But  will  not?     Great  in  faith,  and  strong 
Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 
Wert  thou,  and  yet  unheard.     What  if 
Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 
Thro'  utter  dark  a  full-sail'd  skiff, 
Unpiloted  i'  the  echoing  dance 
Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 
Unto  the  death,  not  sunk  !     I  know 
At  matins  and  at  evensong. 
That  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive. 
In  deep  and  daily  prayers  would'st  strive 
To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 
Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 
At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmur  still  — 
*  Bring  this  lamb  back  into  Thy  fold, 
My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  Thy  will.' 
Woultl'st  tell  me  I  must  brook  the  rod 
And  chastisement  of  human  pride; 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A    SENSITIVE   MIND—  THE  KRAKEN. 


That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 

Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God ! 

That  hitherto  I  had  defied 

And  had  rejected  God  —  that  grace 

Would  drop  from  his  o'er-brimming  love, 

As  manna  on  my  wilderness, 

If  I  would  pray  —  that  God  would  move 

And   strike    the    hard,    hard    rock,    and 

thence, 
Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness, 
Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 
Which   would   keep   green   hope's   life. 

Alas! 
I  think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 
Nor  sojourn  in  me.     I  am  void, 
Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then?     Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moor'd  and  rested?     Ask  the  sea 
At  midnight,  when  the  crisp  slope  waves 
After  a  tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broad-imbased  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a  mountain  tarn? 
Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  mere? 
Wherefore  he  moaneth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  his  vexed  pools 
All   that   blue   heaven  which  hues  and 

paves 
The  other?     I  am  too  forlorn, 
Too  shaken  :  my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls, 
Moved  from  beneath  with  doubt  and  fear. 

'  Yet,'  said  I,  in  my  morn  of  youth. 
The  unsunn'd  freshness  of  my  strength. 
When  I  went  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 
'  It  is  man's  privilege  to  doubt, 
If  so  be  that  from  doubt  at  length. 
Truth    may    stand    forth     unmoved    of 

change, 
An  image  with  profulgent  brows. 
And  perfect  limbs,  as  from  the  storm 
Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 
Of  lawless  airs,  at  last  stood  out 
This  excellence  and  solid  form 
Of  constant  beauty.     For  the  Ox 
Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 
The  horned  valleys  all  about. 
And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills 
In  summer  heats,  with  placid  lows 
Unfearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 


About  his  hoof.     And  in  the  flocks 
The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  year, 
And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere. 
And  answers  to  his  mother's  calls 
From  the  flower'd  furrow.     In  a  time, 
Of  which  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 
Thro'  his  warm   heart;    and  then,  from 

whence 
He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 
A  shadow;    and  his  native  slope, 
Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb, 
Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eyes. 
And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 
His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 
Shall  man  live  thus,  in  joy  and  hope 
As  a  young  lamb,  who  cannot  dream, 
Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on? 
Shall  we  not  look  into  the  laws 
Of  life  and  death,  and  things  that  seem. 
And  things  that  be,  and  analyse 
Our  double  nature,  and  compare 
All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one, 
If  one  there  be?  '     Ay  me  !  I  fear 
All  may  not  doubt,  but  everywhere 
Some  must  clasp  Idols.     Yet,  my  God, 
Whom  call  I  Idol?     Let  Thy  dove 
Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 
Be  unremember'd,  and  Thy  love 
Enlighten  me.     Oh  teach  me  yet 
Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 
Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 
Of  that  sharp-headed  worm  begins 
In  the  gross  blackness  underneath. 

O  weary  life  !     O  weary  death  ! 
O  spirit  and  heart  made  desolate ! 
O  damned  vacillating  state  ! 


THE  KRAKEN. 

Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep; 
Far,  far  beneath  in  the  abysmal  sea, 
His  ancient,  dreamless,  uninvaded  sleep 
The  Kraken  sleepeth :  faintest  sunlights 

flee 
About  his  shadowy  sides  :  above  him  swell 
Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth  and 

height; 
And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light. 
From  many  a  wondrous  grot  and  secret 

cell 
Unnumber'd  and  enormous  polypi 


SOxVG  —  LILIAN—  ISABEL. 


Winnow  with  giant  arms  the  slumbering 

green. 
There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 
Battening   upon  huge   seaworms   in  his 

sleep, 
Until  the  latter  tire  shall  heat  the  deep; 
Then  once  by  man  and  angels  to  be  seen, 
In  roaring  he  shall  rise  and  on  the  sur- 
face die. 


SONG. 

The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth, 
Leaning  upon  the  ridged  sea, 

Breathed  low  around  the  rolling  earth 
With  mellow  preludes,  *  We  are  free.' 

The  streams  through  many  a  lilied  row 
Down-carolling  to  the  crisped  sea, 

Low-tinkled  with  a  bell-like  flow 
Atween  the  blossoms,  '  We  are  free.' 


LILIAN. 


Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me. 
Claps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 

Laughing  all  she  can; 
She'll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me. 

Cruel  little  Lilian. 


When  my  passion  seeks 
Pleasance  in  love-sighs, 
She,  looking  thro'  and  thro'  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 
Smiling,  never  speaks  : 
So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple. 
From  beneath  her  gathered  wimple 

Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 
The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks; 
Then  away  she  flies. 

III. 

Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian  I 

Gaiety  without  eclipse 
Wearieth  me.  May  Lilian ; 


Thro'  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 

Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth  : 
Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian. 


IV. 


Praying  all  I  can. 
If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian. 


ISABEL. 


Eyes  not   down-dropt    nor    over-bright, 
but  fed 
With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chastity. 
Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended  by 
Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the   trans- 
lucent fane 
Of  her  still  spirit;  locks  not  wide-dispread, 
Madonna-wise    on   either    side   her 

head; 
Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually  did 
reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity, 
Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood, 

Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and  head. 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude. 
Of  perfect  wifehood  and  pure  lowli- 
head. 


The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 

And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 
Error  from  crime;     a    prudence    to 

withhold ; 
The  laws  of  marriage  character'd  in 
gold 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart ; 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 
To  read  those  laws;   an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 

Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress. 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho'  unde- 
scried, 
Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gentle- 
ness 
Thru'    all    the    outworks    of    suspicious 
pride; 


ISABEL  —  MARIANA. 


A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey; 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance,  and  of  sway, 
Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect 
wife. 

III. 

The  mellow'd  reflex  of  a  winter  moon; 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy  one, 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 
With  swifter  movement  and  in  purer 
light 
The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward 
brother: 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite, 
Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had 
fallen  quite 
With    cluster'd    flower-bells   and  am- 
brosial orbs 
Of    rich    fruit-bunches    leaning    on 

each  other  — 
Shadow  forth  thee:  —  the  world  hath 
not  another 
(Tho'  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types  of 

thee. 
And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 
Of  such  a  finish'd  chasten'd  purity. 

MARIANA. 

'  Mariana  in  the  moated  grange.' 

Measure  /or  Measure. 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all: 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange: 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,'  she  said; 
She  said,  *  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  ' 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 

She  drew  her  casement  curtain  by. 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 


She  only  said,  'The  night  is  dreary. 
He  Cometh  not,'  she  said; 

She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  I ' 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow: 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light: 
From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
Came  to  her :  without  hope  of  change. 
In  sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forlorn. 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  *  The  day  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,'  she  said; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  ' 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 

The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway, 
All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark: 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 

She  said,  *  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  ! ' 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low. 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  '  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 
She  said, '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  ' 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd; 

The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane;  the  mouse 
Behind     the      mouldering      wainscot 
shriek'd, 

Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer'd  thro'  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 

Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 


MARIANA  —  MADELINE. 


She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary, 
He  Cometh  not,'  she  said; 

She  said,  *  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 

Her  sense ;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 

When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 

Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 

Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bovver. 

Then,  said  she,  *  I  am  very  dreary. 

He  will  not  come,'  she  said; 

She  wept,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

Oh  God,  that  I  were  dead !' 


TO 


Clear-headed  friend,  whose  joyful  scorn. 
Edged  with  sharp  laughter,  cuts  atwain 
The  knots  that  tangle  human  creeds, 
The  wounding   cords   that   bind   and 
strain 
The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 
Ray-fringed  eyelids  of  the  morn 

Roof  not  a  glance  so  keen  as  thine  : 
If  aught  of  prophecy  be  mine. 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 


Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit; 

Falsehood  shall  bare  her  plaited  brow: 

Fair-fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not  now 
With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 
Nor  martyr-flames,  nor  trenchant  swords, 

Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie; 

A  gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die. 
Shot  thro'  and  thro'  with  cunning  words. 

III. 

Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crutch, 
Wan,  wasted  Truth  in  her  utmost  need. 
Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed. 
Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold, 

And  weary  with  a  finger's  touch 

Those  writhed  limbsof  lightning  speed; 

Like  that  strange  angel  which  of  old. 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light. 


Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 

Past  Yabbok  broke  the  livelong  night, 
And  heaven's  mazed  signs  stood  still 
In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


MADELINE. 


Thou  art  not  steep'd  in  golden  languors, 

No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine. 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 

Thro'    light   and    shadow   thou    dost 
range, 

Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 
Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers. 

And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 

II. 

Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles  :  but  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter? 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter, 

Who  may  know? 
Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine. 
Like  little  clouds  sun-fringed,  are  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another, 
Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine; 
Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 

III. 

A  subtle,  sudden  flame, 

By  veering  passion  fann'd. 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances: 

When  1  would  kiss  thy  hand. 
The  flush  of  anger'd  shame 

O'erflows  thy  calmer  glances, 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown  : 
But  when  I  turn  away. 
Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 

Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest; 


SONG:    THE    OWL— THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


But,  looking  fixedly  the  while, 
All  my  bounden  heart  entanglest 

In  a  golden-netted  smile; 
Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 
If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously, 
Again  thou  blushest  angerly; 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown. 

SONG  — THE   OWL. 


When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 

And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb. 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round; 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

II. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay, 
And   the    cock   hath   sung  beneath  the 
thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

SECOND   SONG. 

TO   THE   SAME. 
I. 

Thy  tuwhits  are  luU'd,  I  wot. 

Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 
Which  upon  the  dark  afloat, 
So  took  echo  with  delight. 
So  took  echo  with  delight. 

That  her  voice  untuneful  grown. 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 

II. 

I  would  mock  thy  chaunt  anew; 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo. 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit. 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

With  a  lengthen'd  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  THE 
ARABIAN   NIGHTS. 

When  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew 

free 
In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy, 
The  tide  of  time  flow'd  back  with  me. 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time; 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer-morn, 
Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne, 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn. 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro' 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and  clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue  : 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim. 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide, 
Gold  glittering  thro'  lamplight  dim, 
And  broider'd  sofas  on  each  side  : 
In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Often,     where      clear-stemm'd     platans 

guard 
The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a  broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of    braided     blooms    unmown,     which 

crept 
Adown  to  where  the  water  slept 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro'  the  star-strown  calm, 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  enter'd,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbower'd  vaults  of  pillar'd  palm. 
Imprisoning     sweets,     which,     as     they 

clomb 
Heavenward,    were    stay'd    beneath    the 

dome 


lO 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   THE   ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


Of  hollow  boughs.  —  A  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward ;   and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical, 
Thro'  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fall'n  silver-chiming,  seemed  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro'  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-colour'd  shells 
Wander'd  engrain'd.     On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large, 
Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odour  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon  grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung. 
The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung; 
Not  he  :  but  something  which  possess'd 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight. 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd. 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber'd  :     the     solemn     palms    were 

ranged 
Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind  : 
A  sudden  splendour  from  behind 
Flush'd    all   the    leaves   with  rich  gold- 
green, 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.     A  lovely  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame : 
So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat. 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat. 
In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank, 

Entranced  with  that  place  and  time, 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn  — 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound, 
And  many  a  shadow-chequer'd  lawn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound, 
And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks. 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn, 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 
Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 
In  honour  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  alley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade, 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time. 
And  humour  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look'd  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  stream'd 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous  time 
To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone. 
Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
( )f  darkness,  and  a  brow  of  pearl 


ODE    TO  MEMORY. 


II 


Tressed  with  redolent  ebony, 
In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl, 
Flowing  beneath  her  ruse-hued  zone; 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time. 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side, 
Pure  silver,  underpropt  a  rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 
Down-droop'd,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 
Engarlanded  and  diaper'd 
With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold. 
Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr'd 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride, 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him  —  in  his  golden  prime. 
The  Good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


ODE  TO   MEMORY. 

ADDRESSED   TO   . 

I. 


Thou  \vho  stealest  fire, 
From  the  fountains  of  the  past. 
To  glorify  the  present;   oh,  haste, 

Visit  my  low  desire  ! 
Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  I 
I  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


II. 


Come  not  as  thou  camest  of  late. 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day;   but  robed  in  soften'd 
light 

Of  orient  state. 
Whilome  thou  camest  with  the  morning 
mist, 
Even  as  a  maid,  whose  stately  brow 
The  dew-impearled  winds  of  dawn  have 
kiss'd. 

When  she,  as  thou. 
Stays   on  her    floating   locks   the   lovely 

freight 
Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest  shoots 
( )f  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of  fruits, 
Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 


III. 

Whilome  thou  camest  with  the  morning 
mist. 

And  with  the  evening  cloud. 
Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth   into  my 

open  breast 
(Those    peerless   flowers    which    in    the 
rudest  wind 

Never  grow  sere, 
When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind, 
Because   they  are  the   earliest  of  the 
year). 
Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken  rest 
Thou  leddest  by  the   hand  thine  infant 

Hope. 
The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught  from 

thee 
The  light  of  thy  great  presence;  and  the 
cope 
Of  the  half-attain'd  futurity, 
Tho'  deep  not  fathomless, 
W^as  cloven  with  the  million  stars  which 

tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  infancy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life's  distress; 
For  sure   she   deem'd  no   mist   of  earth 

could  dull 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and 

beautiful : 
Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heaven's  spheres. 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

IV. 

Come  forth,  I  charge  thee,  arise, 

Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad 

eyes ! 
Thou  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunting 
vines 

Unto  mine  inner  eye, 
Divinest  Memory  I 
Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  waterfall 
Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried  : 
Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray 
hill-side, 


12 


ODE    TO  MEMORY— SONG. 


The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door, 
And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed  sand, 
Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves. 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  urn, 

In  every  elbow  and  turn. 
The  filter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland, 

O  !  hither  lead  thy  feet ! 
Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled 
folds, 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds. 
When  the  first  matin-song  hath  waken'd 

loud 
Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 
What  time  the  amber  morn 
Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung 
cloud. 

V. 

Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led. 

With  music  and  SAveet  showers 
Of  festal  flowers, 
Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 
Well  hast  thou  done,  great  artist  Memory, 
In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 
With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought 
gold; 
Needs   must   thou   dearly  love   thy  first 

essay. 
And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 
Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight  falls 
Upon  the  storied  walls; 

For  the  discovery 
And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased  thee. 
That  all  which  thou  hast  drawn  of  fairest 

Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 
The  first-born  of  thy  genius.     Artist-like, 
Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 
On  the  prime  labour  of  thine  early  days : 
No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bushless 

Pike, 
Or  even  a  sand-built  ridge 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea, 
Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 
Or  even  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 


Stretch'd  wide  and  wild  the  waste  enor- 
mous marsh, 
Where  from  the  frequent  bridge, 
Like  emblems  of  infinity, 
The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to  sky; 
Or  a  garden  bower'd  close 
With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 
Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight  grots, 
Or  opening  upon  level  plots 
Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 
Purple-spiked  lavender : 
Whither  in  after  life  retired 
From  brawling  storms. 
From  weary  wind. 
With  youthful  fancy  re-inspired. 

We  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 
Of  the  many-sided  mind. 
And  those  whom  passion  hath  not  blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 

My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone. 
Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne ! 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


SONG. 


A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers  : 

To  himself  he  talks; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly. 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and 
sigh 
In  the  walks; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy 
stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over    its   grave    i'    the   earth    so 
chilly; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 

II. 

The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close, 
As  a  sick   man's  room  when  he  taketh 
repose 


A    CHAR  A  C  TER  —  THE  FOE  T. 


13 


An  hour  before  death  ; 
My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul 

grieves 
At   the    moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting 
leaves, 
And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  be- 
neath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over    its    grave    i'    the    earth    so 
chilly; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


A   CHARACTER. 

With  a  half-glance  upon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  '  The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things.' 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beauty :  that  the  dull 

Saw  no  divinity  in  grass, 

Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air; 

Then  looking  as  'twere  in  a  glass, 

He   smooth'd   his   chin  and  sleek'd  his 

hair, 
And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 

He  spake  of  virtue :  not  the  gods 
More  purely  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by : 
And  with  a  sweeping  of  the  arm, 
And  a  lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye. 
Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 

Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvassed  human  mysteries, 
And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes, 
And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

With  lips  depress'd  as  he  were  meek. 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold: 
Upon  himself  himself  did  feed  : 
Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold, 
And  other  than  his  form  of  creed, 
With  chisell'd  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE   POET. 

The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above; 
Dower'd    with    the    hate    of    hate,    the 
scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good 
and  ill. 
He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 
An  open  scroll, 

Before    him   lay :    with  echoing  feet  he 
threaded 
The  secretest  walks  of  fame : 
The   viewless    arrows    of    his    thoughts 
were  headed 
And  wing'd  with  flame. 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver 
tongue, 
And  of  so  fierce  a  flight, 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung. 
Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which 
bore 
Them  earthward  till  they  lit; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field 
flower, 
The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth 
anew 
Where'er  they  fell,  behold. 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance, 
grew 
A  flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  furnish'd  all  abroad  to  fling 

The  winged  shafts  of  truth, 
To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breath- 
ing spring 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with 
beams, 
Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven   flow'd  upon  the  soul   in  many 
dreams 
Of  high  desire. 


14 


THE  POET'S  MIND  — THE   SEA-FAIRIES. 


Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the 

II. 

world 

Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 

Dark-brow'd  sophist,  come  not  anear; 

And  thro'    the  wreaths  of  floating  dark 

All  the  place  is  holy  ground; 

upcurl'd, 

Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 

Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

Come  not  here. 

Holy  water  will  I  pour 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  august  sun- 

Into every  spicy  flower 

rise 

Of  the  laurel-shrubs  that  hedge  it  around. 

Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 

The   flowers  would   faint   at   your  cruel 

When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burning 

cheer. 

eyes 

In  your  eye  there  is  death, 

Melted  like  snow. 

There  is  frost  in  your  breath 

Which  would  blight  the  plants. 

There  was   no   blood  upon  her  maiden 

Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 

robes 

From  the  groves  within 

Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies ; 

The  wild-bird's  din. 

But    round    about    the    circles    of    the 

In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry  bird 

globes 

chants. 

Of  her  keen  eyes 

It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in 

in. 
In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 

flame 

Like  sheet  lightning. 

Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 

Ever  brightening 

All    evil    dreams   of    power  —  a    sacred 

With  a  low  melodious  thunder; 

name. 

All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 

And  when  she  spake. 

From  the  brain  of  the  purple  moun- 
tain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder : 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they 

ran, 

It  springs  on  a  level  of  bowery  lawn, 

And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 

And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heaven 

Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man, 

above. 

Making  earth  wonder, 

And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love; 

And  yet,  tho'  its  voice  be  so  clear  and 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words.     No 

full. 

sword 

You  never  would  hear  it;    your  ears  are 

Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd. 

so  dull; 

But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his 

So  keep  where  you  are :  you  are  foul  with 

word 

sin; 

She  shook  the  world. 

It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you  came 

in. 

THE  POET'S   MIND. 

THE   SEA-FAIRIES. 

I. 

Slow    sail'd    the    weary    mariners    and 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 

saw. 

With  thy  shallow  wit : 

Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  running 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind; 

foam. 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms 

Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 

prest 

Flowing  like  a  crystal  river; 

To  little  harps  of  gold;   and  while  they 

Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 

mused 

THE  DESERTED   HOUSE— THE   DYING   SWAN. 


'5 


Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 
Shrill  music  reacliM  them  on  the  middle 


Whither    away,    whither   away,    whither 

away?  Hy  no  more. 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field, 

and  the  happy  blossoming  shore? 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain 

calls  : 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea : 
Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells, 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover-hill 

swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea: 
O    hither,    come    hither    and    furl   your 

sails, 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me  : 
Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and  play; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day : 
Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails, 
For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and  dales, 
And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales. 
And    the    spangle   dances  in   bight  and 

bay, 
And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the 

land 
Over  the  islands  free; 
And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of  the 

sand; 
Hither,  come  hither  and  see; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising 

wave. 
And   sweet   is   the   colour   of  cove  and 

cave. 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be  : 
O  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords, 
For  merry  brides  are  we  : 
We   will   kiss   sweet   kisses,  and   speak 

sweet  words : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  golden 

chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 
All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er? 
Whither  away?  listen  and  stay  :   mariner, 

mariner,  fly  no  more. 


THE   DESERTED    HOUSE. 


Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 

Side  by  side, 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide  : 
Careless  tenants  they ! 


All  within  is  dark  as  night : 
In  the  windows  is  no  light; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

III. 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 

Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 

IV. 

Come  away :  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

V. 

Come  away :  for  Life  and  Thought 

Here  no  longer  dwell ; 
But  in  a  city  glorious  — 
A  great  and  distant  city  —  have  bought 

A  mansion  incorruptible. 
Would  they  could  have  stayed  with  us ! 


THE  DYING   SWAN. 

I. 

The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare. 
Wide,  w-ild,  and  open  to  the  air, 
Which  had  built  up  everywhere 

An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 
With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan. 
And  loudly  did  lament. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 


Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 
And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky. 


i6 


THE  DYING   SWAN— A   DIRGE. 


Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 
And  far  thro'  the  marish  green  and 

still 
The  tangled  water-courses  slept. 
Shot  over  with  purple,  and   green,  and 


yellow. 


III. 


The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the  soul 
Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 
Hidden  in  sorrow :   at  first  to  the  ear 
The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear; 
And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 
Prevailing   in    weakness,    the    coronach 

stole 
Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear 
But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice. 
With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 
Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold 
As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice 
With   shawms,   and    with    cymbals,   and 

harps  of  gold, 
And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roll'd 
Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar. 
To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the  even- 
ing star. 
And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering 

weeds, 
And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank. 
And   the   wavy   swell   of   the    soughing 

reeds, 
And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echoing 

bank. 
And     the     silvery     marish-flowers     that 

throng 
The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 
Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 

A   DIRGE. 
I. 

Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast, 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 
Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


II. 

Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 
Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

III. 

Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed; 
Chaunteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny? 

Let  them  rave. 
Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

IV. 

Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee  ; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 

Let  them  rave. 
Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

V. 

Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep. 
Bramble  roses,  faint  and  pale. 
And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 
These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro'  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

VI. 

The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine  ; 
The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine. 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

VII. 

Wild  words  wander  here  and  there : 
God's  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused : 
But  let  them  rave. 


LOVE   AND  DEATH— THE   BALLAD    OF   OKI  ANA. 


»7 


The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  fulds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 


LOVE   AND   DEATH. 

What  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gather- 
ing light 

Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Paradise, 

And  all  about  him  roU'd  his  lustrous  eyes; 

When,  turning  round  a  cassia,  full  in  view, 

Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a  yew, 

And  talking  to  himself,  lirst  met  his 
sight : 

'  You  must  begone,'  said  Death,  '  these 
walks  are  mine.' 

Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans 
for  tiight; 

Yet  ere  he  parted  said,  '  This  hour  is 
thine : 

Thou  art  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as  the 
tree 

Stands  in  the  sun  and  shadows  all  be- 
neath, 

So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 

Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of  death; 

The  shadow  passeth  when  the  tree  shall 
fall. 

But  I  shall  reign  for  ever  over  all.' 

THE  BALLAD   OF   ORIANA. 

My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana, 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 
When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb'd  with 

snow, 
And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing. 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana. 


In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 
While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 

She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana: 
She  watch'd  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana : 
She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call. 
When  forth  there  stept  a  foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 
And    pierced    thy    heart,    my    love,    my 
bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh  !  narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana, 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh  !  death ful  stabs  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepen'd  in  its  place, 

Oriana; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana ! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana? 
How  could  I  look  upon  the  day? 
They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana  — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

Oriana. 

O  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 
Oriana ! 


i8 


CIRCUMSTANCE— THE  MERMAN. 


0  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak, 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana  : 
What   wantest   thou?   whom   dost   thou 
seek, 

Oriana? 

1  cry  aloud  :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriana. 
I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 

O  cursed  hand  !     O  cursed  blow ! 
Oriana ! 

0  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana ! 
All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the  sea, 
Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbour  villages, 

Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  heathy  leas  ; 

Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival ; 

Two  lovers  whispered  by  an  orchard 
wall; 

Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with  golden 
ease; 

Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray 
church -tower, 

VVash'd  with  still  rains  and  daisy  blos- 
somed ; 


Two    children    in  one  hamlet  born  and 

bred ; 
So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to 

hour. 


THE   MERMAN. 


Who  would  be 
A  merman  bold. 
Sitting  alone. 
Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea, 
With  a  crown  of  gold. 
On  a  throne  ? 


I  would  be  a  merman  bold, 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the 

day; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice  of 

power; 
But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad  and 

play 
With  the  mermaids  in  and  out   of  the 

rocks. 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea- 
flower; 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flowing 

locks 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly; 
And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 
To    the    pale-green   sea-groves    straight 

and  high, 
Chasing  each  other  merrily. 

III. 

There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star; 
But  the  wave  would  make  music  above 

us  afar  — 
Low    thunder    and    light    in    the    magic 
night  — 
Neither  moon  nor  star. 
We    would    call    aloud    in    the    dreamy 

dells. 
Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily; 
They  would  pelt  me  with  starry  spangles 
and  shells, 


THE  MERMAID. 


19 


Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands  be- 
tween, 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily: 
But  I  would  throw  to  them  hack  in  mine 
Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine : 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly. 
Oh  !   what  a  happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green  I 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE  MERMAID. 


Who  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair. 
Singing  alone, 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea. 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl. 
On  a  throne? 

II. 

I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair ; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the 

day; 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb  my 

hair; 
And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing  and 

say, 
'  Who    is    it   loves   me  ?  who   loves  not 

me?  ' 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets 
would  fall 

Low  adown,  low  adown, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 

Low  adown  and  around, 
And   I  should  look    like    a    fountain  of 
gold 

Springing  alone 
With  a  shrill  inner  sound. 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall; 
Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coiled    sleeps    in    the    central 
deeps 


Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look  in 

at  the  gate 
With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love  of 

me. 
And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 
Would  feel  their  immortality 
Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 


III. 


But    at    night    I    would    wander    away, 

away, 
I    would    fling  on  each  side  my  low- 
flowing  locks, 
And  lightly  vault   from    the  throne  and 

play 
With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the 

rocks; 
We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and 

seek, 
On  the  broad  sea-wolds  in  the  crimson 

shells. 
Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the 

sea. 
But  if  any  came  near  I  would   call,  and 

shriek, 
And    adown    the   steep   like  a   wave    I 

would  leap 
From  the  diamond-ledges  that  jut  from 

the  dells; 
For  I  would   not   be  kiss'd  by  all  who 

would  list, 
Of  the  bold   merry  mermen    under   the 

sea; 
They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and 

flatter  me, 
In  the  purple  twilights  under  the  sea; 
But, the  king  of  them  all  would  carry 

me, 
Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marry  me, 
In    the    branching    jaspers    under     the 

sea; 
Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 
In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
AVould  curl  round  my  silver  feet  silently, 
All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
All  things  that  are   forked,  and  horned, 

and  soft 
Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere 

of  the  sea. 
All  looking  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


20 


ADELINE  —  MAR  GARE  T. 


ADELINE. 


Mystery  of  mysteries, 

Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 
Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 

Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest, 

But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair; 

Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breast. 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine. 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 


Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine. 

Like  a  lily  which  the  sun 
Looks  thro'  in  his  sad  decline, 

And  a  rose-bush  leans  upon. 
Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still. 

As  a  Naiad  in  a  well, 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day, 
Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 

Of  a  maiden  past  away, 
Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  thine. 

Spiritual  Adeline? 

III. 

W^hat  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline? 
For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone. 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient  springs 
Keep  measure  with  thine  own? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wings? 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews? 
Or  when  little  airs  arise, 
How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath? 
Hast  thou  look'd  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise? 
Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine. 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline? 

IV. 

Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind. 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 


In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee?  whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  soften'd,  shadow'd  brow. 
And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine. 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline? 

V. 

Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies? 
Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 

Wander  from  the  side  of  the  morn, 
Dripping  with  Sabaean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn, 
Breathing  Light  against  thy  face, 
While  his  locks  a-drooping  twined 

Round  thy  neck  in  subtle  ring 
Make  a  carcanet  of  rays. 

And  ye  talk  together  still. 
In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 
Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill? 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


MARGARET. 


O  SWEET  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power. 
Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower? 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 
Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect  pale, 
Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower? 
From  the  westward-winding  flood, 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 

From  all  things  outward  you  have 
won 
A  tearful  grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak, 

That  dimples  your  transparent  cheek. 
Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedeth 
The  senses  with  a  still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound. 
Like  the  tender  amber  round, 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spreadeth. 
Moving  thro'  a  fleecy  night. 


MARGARET—  ROSALIND. 


21 


II. 

Vou  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea, 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  light. 

You  are  the  evening  star,  ahvay 

Remaining  betwixt  dark  and  bright : 

LuU'd  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to  you,  gleams  of  mellow  light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of  night. 

III. 

What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

What  songs  below  the  waning  stars 
The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet, 

Sang  looking  thro'  his  prison  bars? 
Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can  tell 
The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 
Just  ere  the  falling  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true  heart. 
Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so  well? 

IV. 

A  fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  shade, 

Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
You  move  not  in  such  solitudes. 

You  are  not  less  divine, 
But  more  human  in  your  moods, 

Than  your  twin- sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touch'd  with  a  somewhat  darker  hue. 

And  less  aerially  blue, 

But  ever  trembling  thro'  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woeful  sympathies. 


O  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me 

speak  : 
Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek  : 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set. 
The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady, 
And  faint  rainy  lights  are  seen, 
Moving  in  the  leavy  beech. 
Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady, 

W^here  all  day  long  you  sit  between 
Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 


Or  only  look  across  the  lawn, 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves, 

Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  eyes  dawn 
Upon  me  thro'  the  jasmine-leaves. 


ROSALIND. 


My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  frolic  falcon,  with  bright  eyes. 

Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height  of 

rapid  flight, 
Stoops  at  all  game  that  wing  the  skies, 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My  bright-eyed,  wild-eyed  falcon,  whither, 
Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather, 
Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye, 
Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind? 

II. 

The  quick  lark's  closest-caroU'd  strains. 
The  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea. 
The  lightning  flash  atween  the  rains, 
The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea, 
The  leaping  stream,  the  very  wind, 
That  will  not  stay,  upon  his  way. 
To  stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains, 
Is  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 
As  you,  my  falcon  Rosalind. 
You  care  not  for  another's  pains, 
Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy, 
Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 
Life  shoots  and  glances  thro'  your  veins, 
And  flashes  off  a  thousand  ways. 
Thro'  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 
Your  hawk-eyes  are  keen  and  bright, 
Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 
To  pierce  me  thro'  with  pointed  light; 
But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 
Like  sunshine  on  a  dancing  rill. 
And  your  words  are  seeming- bitter. 
Sharp  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter 
From  excess  of  swift  delight. 

III. 

Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 
My  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind  : 
Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies; 
Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will; 
But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes, 
That  care  not  whom  they  kill, 


22 


ELEANORE. 


And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 
Is  so  sparkUng-fresh  to  view, 
Some  red  heath-flower  in  the  dew, 
Touch'd  with  sunrise.     We  must  bind 
And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosahnd, 
Fast,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 
And  clip  your  wings,  and  make  you  love  : 
When  we  have  lured  you  from  above, 
And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  by  day 

or  night, 
From  North  to  South, 
We'll  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords, 
And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 
From  off  your  rosy  mouth. 


ELEANORE. 


Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not. 

Nor  first  reveal'd  themselves  to  English 
air, 
For  there  is  nothing  here. 
Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward 

brought. 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
Far  off  from  human  neighbourhood. 

Thou  wert  born  on  a  summer  morn, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann'd 

With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades, 
But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious 
land 
Of  lavish  lights,  and  floating  shades  : 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 
The  oriental  fairy  brought, 
At  the  moment  of  thy  birth, 
From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills, 
And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills. 

And  shadow'd  coves  on  a  sunny  shore, 
The    choicest    wealth    of   all    the 
earth, 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore, 
To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 

II. 

Or  the  yellow-banded  bees, 
Thro'  half- open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  Ijreeze, 

Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone. 

With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gar- 
dens cull'd  — 


A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone, 
I  n  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding  down, 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 

Into  dreamful  slumber  lull'd. 

III. 

Who  may  minister  to  thee  r 
Summer  herself  should  minister 

To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be, 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 
Grape- thicken'd    from    the     light,    and 
blinded 
With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like 
flower 
Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 

Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven, 
.    And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowing  shore, 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore ! 

IV. 

How  may  fuU-sail'd  verse  express, 

How  may  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 
Eleanore? 
The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 
Eleanore? 
Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleanore, 
And  the  steady  sunset  glow. 
That  stays  upon  thee?   For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From  one  censer  in  one  shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingle, 
Mingle  ever.     Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho' 
They  were  modulated  so 

To  an  unheard  melody, 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 
Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep; 
Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore? 

V. 

I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore; 

I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold. 


ELEANORE. 


23 


Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold, 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.     1  would  1  were 

So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies, 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore, 
Gazing  on  thee  for  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore  I 


VI. 


Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 

Ciazing,  I  seem  to  see 

Thought    folded    over    thought,    smiling 

asleep, 
Slowly  awaken'd,  grow  so  full  and  deep 
In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower'd  quite, 
I  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 
Hut  am  as  nothing  in  its  light : 
As  tho'  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 
Ev'n  while  we  gaze  on  it, 
Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and  slowly 

grow 
To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 
Fix'd  —  then  as  slowly  fade  again. 

And    draw    itself    to    what    it    was 
before; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow, 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore. 


VII. 


As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 
Roofd  the  world  with    doubt   and 
fear. 
Floating  thro'  an  evening  atmosphere, 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky; 
In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passionless, 
Touch' d  by  thy  spirit's  mellowness. 
Losing  his  hre  and  active  might 

In  a  silent  meditation, 
Falling  into  a  still  delight. 

And  luxury  of  contemplation 
As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 

Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will : 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move, 
Pressing  up  against  the  land. 
With  motions  uf  the  outer  sea  : 


And  the  self-same  influence 
Controlleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 
His  bow-string  slacken'd,  languid   Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding  thee, 
And  so  would  languish  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 

VIII. 

But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses 

unconfined, 
While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 

Breathes  low  between  the  sunset  and 
the  moon; 
Or,  in  a  shadowy  saloon, 
On  silken  cushions  half  reclined; 

I  watch  thy  grace ;  and  in  its  place 
My  heart  a  charmed  slumber  keeps. 

While  I  muse  upon  thy  face; 
And  a  languid  fire  creeps 

Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly  :  soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  MY  name 
Floweth;   and  then,  as  in  a  swoon, 
With    dinning    sound   my   ears    are 
rife, 
My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 
I  lose  my  colour,  I  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimmed  with  delirious  draughts  of  warm- 
est life. 
I  die  with  my  delight,  before 

I   hear  what  I  would   hear  from 

thee; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 
I  wotild  be  dying  evermore. 
So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


Mv  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 

But  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 
Nor  wander'd  into  other  ways  : 

I  have  not  lack'd  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise. 

And  now  shake  hands  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go  : 

Shake  hands  once  more  :  I  cannot  sink 
So  far  —  far  down,  but  I  shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 


24 


EARLY  SONNETS. 


II. 

When  in  the  darkness  over  me 

The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape, 

Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree, 

Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful  crape, 
But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 

And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green  beneath  the  showery  gray, 

And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud, 

And  thro'  damp  holts  new-flush'd  with 

May, 
Ring  sudden  scritches  of  the  jay, 

Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will. 
And  on  my  clay  her  darnel  grow; 

Come  only,  when  the  days  are  still, 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low, 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow. 


EARLY   SONNETS. 


TO 


As  when  with  downcast  eyes  we  muse  and 

brood. 
And  ebb  into  a  former  life,  or  seem 
To  lapse  far  back  in  some  confused  dream 
To  states  of  mystical  similitude; 
If  one  but  speaks  or  hems  or  stirs  his  chair, 
Ever  the  wonder  vvaxeth  more  and  more. 
So  that  we  say, '  All  this  hath  been  before, 
All  this  hath  been,  I  know  not  when  or 

where.' 
So,  friend,  when  first  I  look'd  upon  your 

face. 
Our  thought  gave  answer  each  to  each,  so 

true  — 
Opposed  mirrors  each  reflecting  each  — 
That  tho'  I  knew  not  in  what  time  or  place, 
Methought  that  I  had  often  met  with  you, 
And  either   lived  in   cither's    heart  and 


speech. 


II. 


TO   J.    M.    K. 

My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  —  thou 

wilt  be 
A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 


To  scare  church-harpies  from  the  master's 

feast ; 
Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of 

thee  : 
Thou  art  no  Sabbath-drawler  of  old  saws, 
Distill'd      from      some     worm-canker'd 

homily; 
But  spurr'd  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 
To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy  cause 
With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 
The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit-drone 
Half  God's  good  sabbath,  while  the  worn- 
out  clerk 
Brow-beats  his  desk  below.     Thou  from 

a  throne 
Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the 

dark 
Arrows  of  lightnings.     I  will  stand  and 

mark. 

III. 

Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit,  full  and 

free, 
Like    some    broad    river   rushing   down 

alone, 
With  the  selfsame  impulse  wherewith  he 

was  thrown 
From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing 

lea:  — 
Which  with  increasing  might  doth  for- 
ward flee 
By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape, 

and  isle. 
And  in  the  middle  of  the  green  salt  sea 
Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many  a 

mile. 
Mine  be  the  power  which  ever  to  its  sway 
Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by  degrees 
May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow; 
Ev'n  as  the  warm  gulf-stream  of  Florida 
Floats  far  away  into  the  Northern  seas 
The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mexico. 

IV. 

ALEXANDER. 

Warrior  of  God,  whose  strong  right 
arm  debased 

The  throne  of  Persia,  when  her  Satrap 
bled 

At  Issus  by  the  Syrian  gates,  or  fled 

Beyond  the  Memmian  naphtha-pits,  dis- 
graced 


EARLY  SONNETS. 


25 


For    ever  —  thee    (thy    pathway    sand- 

eraseil) 
Gliding  with  equal  crowns  two  serpents  led 
Joyful  to  that  palm-planted  fountain-fed 
Ammonian  Oasis  in  the  waste. 
There  in  a  silent  shade  of  laurel  brown 
Apart  the  Chamian  Oracle  divine 
Shelter'd  his  unapproached  mysteries: 
High  things  were  spoken  there,  unhanded 

down ; 
Only  they  saw  thee  from  the  secret  shrine 
Returning  with   hot  cheek  and  kindled 

eves. 


BUONAPARTE. 

He  thought  to  quell  the  stubborn  hearts 

of  oak, 
Madman! — to  chain  with    chains,   and 

bind  with  bands 
That  island  queen  who  sways  the  floods 

and  lands 
P'rom  Ind  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight  woke, 
When   from   her  wooden  walls,  —  lit  by 

surejiands,  — 
With  thunders,  and  with  lightnings,  and 

with  smoke,  — 
Peal  after  peal,  the  British  battle  broke. 
Lulling  the  brine  against  the  Coptic  sands. 
We  taught  him  lowlier  moods,  when  El- 

sinore 
Heard.the  war  moan  along  the  distant  sea. 
Rocking  with  shatter'd  spars,  with  sud- 
den fires 
Flamed  over  :  at  Trafalgar  yet  once  more 
We  taught  him  :  late  he  learned  humility 
Perforce,  like  those  whom  Gideon  school'd 

with  briers. 

VI. 

POLAND. 

How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden 
down. 

And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and  least 

Of  men?  The  heart  of  Poland  hath  not 
ceased 

To  quiver,  tho'  her  sacred  blood  doth 
drown 

The  fields,  and  out  of  every  smouldering 
town 

Cries  to  Thee,  lest  brute  Power  be  in- 
creased, 


Till  that  o'ergrown  Barbarian  in  the  East 
Transgress  his  ample  bound  to  some  new 

crown :  — 
Cries    to  Thee,    '  Lord,    how   long   shall 

these  things  be? 
How  long  this  icy-hearted  Muscovite 
Oppress  the  region?'     Us,  O  Just   and 

Good, 
Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was  torn 

in  three; 
Us,  who  stand  now,  when  we  should  aid 

the  right  — 
A  matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of  blood  ! 

VII. 

Caress'd  or  chidden  by  the  slender  hand. 
And  singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that. 
Light  Hope  at  Beauty's  call  would  perch 

and  stand. 
And  run  thro'  every  change  of  sharp  and 

flat; 
And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillow  sat, 
W^hen  Sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  rosy 

band. 
And  chased  away  the  still-recurring  gnat. 
And  woke  her  with  a  lay  from  fairy  land. 
But  now  they  live  with  Beauty  less  and 

less, 
For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wanders  far, 
Nor  cares  to  lisp  in  love's  delicious  creeds; 
And  Fancy  watches  in  the  wilderness, 
Poor  Fancy  sadder  than  a  single  star, 
That  sets  at  twilight  in  a  land  of  reeds. 

VIII. 

The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent ! 
A  nobler  yearning  never  broke  her  rest 
Than  but  to   dance   and   sing,   be  gaily 

drest, 
And  win  all  eyes  with   all    accomplish- 
ment : 
Yet  in  the  whirling  dances  as  we  went. 
My  fancy  made  me  for  a  moment  blest 
To  find  my  heart  so  near  the  beauteous 

breast 
That  once  had  power  to  rob  it  of  content, 
A  moment  came  the  tenderness  of  tears, 
The  phantom  of  a  wish  that  once  could 

move, 
A  ghost  of  passion    that  no  smiles  re- 
store — 
For  ah  !  the  slight  coquettej  she  cannot 
love, 


26 


EARLY  SONNETS. 


And  if  you  kiss'd    her  feet  a  thousand 

years, 
She  still  would  take  the  praise,  and  care 

no  more. 

IX. 

Wan  Sculptor,  weepest  thou  to  take  the 

cast 
Of  those  dead  lineaments  that  near  thee 

lie? 

0  sorrowest  thou,  pale  Painter,  for  the 

past. 
In    painting    some     dead    friend     from 

memory? 
Weep  on :   beyond  his  object  Love  can 

last: 
His  object   lives :    more   cause   to  weep 

have  I : 
My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  are  flowing  fast, 
No  tears  of  love,  but  tears  that  Love  can 

die. 

1  pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup. 
Nor  care  to  sit  beside  her  where  she  sits  — 
Ah  pity  —  hint  it  not  in  human  tones. 
But  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it  up 
With  secret  death  for  ever,  in  the  pits 
Which  some  green  Christmas  crams  with 

weary  bones. 


If  I  were  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be, 
What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of  the 

earth. 
And  range  of  evil  between  death  and  birth, 
That  I  should  fear,  —  if  I  were  loved  by 

thee? 
All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  of  pain 
Clear  Love  would  pierce  and  cleave,  if 

thou  wert  mine, 
As  I  have  heard  that,  somewhere  in  the 

main, 


Fresh-water    springs    come    up    through 

bitter  brine. 
'Twere  joy,  not  fear,  claspt  hand-in-hand 

with  thee. 
To  wait  for  death  —  mute  —  careless  of 

all  ills. 
Apart  upon  a  mountain,  tho'  the  surge 
Of  some  new  deluge  from  a  thousand  hills 
Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into  the 

gorge 
Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 

XI. 

THE   BRIDESMAID. 

0  BRIDESMAID,  ere  the  happy  knot  was 

tied, 
Thine  eyes  so  wept  that  they  could  hardly 

see; 
Thy  sister  smiled  and  said,  '  No  tears  for 

me ! 
A    happy   bridesmaid    makes    a   happy 

bride.' 
And  then,  the  couple  standing   side  by 

side. 
Love  lighted  down  between  them  full  of 

alee 
And   over  his   left   shoulder    laugh'd   at 

thee, 
'  O    happy    bridesmaid,    make    a    happy 

bride.' 
And  all  at  once  a  pleasant  truth  I  learn'd, 
For  while  the  tender  service  made  thee 

weep, 

1  loved  thee  for  the  tear  thou  couldst  not 

hide. 
And  prest  thy  hand,  and  knew  the  press 

return'd. 
And  thought,  '  My  life  is  sick  of  single 

sleep : 
O    happy     bridesmaid,    make    a    happy 

bride  ! ' 


THE  LADY   OF  SHALOTT. 


27 


THE    LADY    OF   SHALOTT 


AND    OTHER   POEMS. 


THE   LADY   OF   SHALOTT. 

PART    I. 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  Camelot; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers. 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses;   and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  '  'Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott,' 


PART    II. 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colours  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year. 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot  : 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls. 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls. 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott, 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad. 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad. 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad. 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot : 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  oveihead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed; 
'  I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,'  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


28 


THE  LADY   OF  SHALOTT. 


PART   III. 

A  BOW-SHOT  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzHng  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamfed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red- cross  knight  for  ever  kneel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free. 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather. 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light. 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
'  Tirra  lirra,'  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom. 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom. 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side; 
*  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,'  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


PART   IV. 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complain- 
ing, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat. 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance. 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot : 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side. 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 

vSilent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came. 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


MARIANA   IN   THE   SOUTH. 


29 


Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space; 
He  said,  '  She  has  a  lovely  face; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.' 

MARIANA   IN  THE   SOUTH. 

With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet. 

The  house  thro'  all  the  level  shines, 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat, 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines  : 
A  faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right, 
An  empty  river-bed  before, 
And  shallows  on  a  distant  shore, 
In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  '  Ave  Mary,'  made  she  moan, 

And  '  Ave  Mary,'  night  and  morn, 

And  '  Ah,'  she  sang, '  to  be  all  alone. 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.' 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew. 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 
Thro'  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest  brown 
To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear 
Still-lighted  in  a  secret  shrine, 
Her  melancholy  eyes  divine, 
The  home  of  woe  without  a  tear. 

And  '  Ave  Mary,'  was  her  moan, 

*  Madonna,  sad  is  night  and  morn,' 

And  '  Ah,'  she  sang, '  to  be  all  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.' 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 

Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea, 
Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast, 
Before  Our  Lady  murmurM  she; 
Complaining,  '  Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load.' 
And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow'd 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

'  Is  this   the    form,'   she    made   her 
moan, 
'That  won  his  praises  night  and 
morn  ?  ' 
And  'Ah,'   she   said,   'but   I   wake 
alone, 
I  sleep  forgotten,  I  wake  forlorn.' 


Nor  bird   would   sing,  nor  lamb  would 
bleat, 
Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault. 
But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat. 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again, 

And   seem'd   knee-deep   in  mountain 

grass, 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass, 
x\nd  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 

She  breathed  in  sleep  a  lower  moan. 
And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and 
morn. 
She  thought, '  My  spirit  is  here  alone, 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn.' 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream : 
She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke  :  the  babble  of  the  stream 
Fell,  and,  without,  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  one  sick  willow  sere  and  small. 
The  river-bed  was  dusty-white; 
And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 
She  whisper'd,  with  a  stifled  moan 

More  inward  than  at  night  or  morn, 
'  Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here  alone 
Live  forgotten  and  die  forlorn,' 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 

Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth, 
For  'Love,'  they  said,  'must  needs  be 
true, 
To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth.' 
An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say 
'  But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away, 
So  be  alone  for  evermore.' 

'  O  cruel  heart,'  she  changed  her  tone, 
'  And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is  scorn. 
Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone. 
To  live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn  ? ' 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 
An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 

To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

'  But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more.' 

And  flaming  downward  over  all 

From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased. 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 

The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall, 

'The  day  to   night,'  she   made  her 
moan. 


30 


THE    TWO   VOICES. 


'The  day  to  night,  the  night   to 
morn, 
And  day  and  night  I  am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.' 

At  eve  a  dry  cicala  sung, 

There  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung. 

And  lean'd  upon  the  balcony. 
There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 

Large  Hesper  glitter'd  on  her  tears, 

And  deepening  thro'  the  silent  spheres 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 
And  weeping  then  she  made  her  moan, 

'The  night  comes  on  that  knows  not 
morn, 
When  I  shall  cease  to  be  all  alone. 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.' 

THE  TWO   VOICES. 

A  STILL  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 
'  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be? ' 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said : 

*  Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made.' 

To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply: 

'  To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 

Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

'An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk  :  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail. 

'  He  dried  his  wings :    like   gauze    they 

grew; 
Thro'  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  flash  of  light  he  flew.' 

I  said,  '  When  first  the  world  began. 
Young  Nature  thro'  five  cycles  ran. 
And  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man. 

'  She  gave  hirri  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest. 
Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast.' 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied  : 

*  Self-blinded  are  you  by  your  pride  : 
Look  up  thro'  night :  the  world  is  wide. 


'This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse. 

That  in  a  boundless  universe 

Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse. 

*  Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and  fears 
Could  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 

In  yonder  hundred  million  spheres?' 

It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind : 

'  Tho'  thou  wert  scatter'd  to  the  wind, 

Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind.' 

Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall : 
'  No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball 
Is  like  another,  all  in  all.' 

To  which  he  answer'd  scoffingly : 
'  Good  soul !  suppose  I  grant  it  thee, 
Who'll  weep  for  thy  deficiency? 

'  Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense, 

When  thy  peculiar  difference 

Is  cancell'd  in  the  world  of  sense?  ' 

I   would    have    said,   '  Thou   canst   not 

know,' 
But  my  full  heart,  that  work'd  below, 
Rain'd  thro'  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me : 

*  Thou  art  so  steep'd  in  misery, 
Surely  'twere  better  not  to  be. 

'  Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 
Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep  : 
Thou    canst    not   think,  "but   thou   wilt 
weep.' 

I  said,  '  The  years  with  change  advance : 
If  I  make  dark  my  countenance, 
I  shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

'  Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might  take, 
Ev'n   yet.'      But  he :    '  What   drug   can 

make 
A  wither'd  palsy  cease  to  shake?' 

I  wept,  '  Tho'  I  should  die,  I  know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow; 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


31 


'  And  men,  thro'  novel  spheres  of  thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought, 
Will  learn  new  things  when  I  am  not.' 

'Yet,'  said  the  secret  voice,  'some  time, 
Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  thy  grass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

'  Not  less  swift  souls  that  yearn  for  light. 
Rapt  after  heaven's  starry  flight. 
Would  sweep  the  tracts  of  day  and  night. 

'  Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her  cells. 
The  furzy  prickle  tire  the  dells, 
The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells.' 

I  said  that  '  all  the  years  invent; 
Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

'  Were  this  not  well,  to  bide  mine  hour, 
Tho'  watching  from  a  ruin'd  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power? ' 

'  The  highest-mounted  mind,'  he  said, 
'  Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

'  Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain, 
Just  breaking  over  land  and  main? 

'  Or    make    that    morn,    from    his     cold 

crown 
And  crystal  silence  creeping  down, 
Flood  with  full  daylight  glebe  and  town? 

'  Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 

Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 

In  midst  of  knowledge,  dream'd  not  yet. 

'Thou  hast  not  gain'd  a  real  height. 
Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light. 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

'  'Twere  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak. 
Than  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak. 
And  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

'  Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 

Asks  what  thou  lackest,  thought  resign'd, 

A  healthy  frame,  a  quiet  mind.' 


I  said,  *  When  I  am  gone  away, 

"  He  dared  not  tarry,"  men  will  say, 

Doing  dishonour  to  my  clay.' 

'  This  is  more  vile,'  he  made  reply, 

'To    breathe    and    loathe,    to    live    and 

sigh, 
Than  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

'  Sick  art  thou  —  a  divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a  coward  still. 

'  Do  men  love  thee?     Art  thou  so  bound 
To  men,  that  how  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground? 

'The  memory  of  the  wither'd  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garner'd  Autumn-sheaf. 

'Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust; 
The  right  ear,  that  is  fiU'd  with  dust. 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just.' 

'  Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,'  I  cried, 
'  From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride  ! 

'Nay  —  rather  yet  that  I  could  raise 
One  hope  that  warm'd  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I  yearn'd  for  human  praise. 

'  When,  wide  in  soul  and  bold  of  tongue. 
Among  the  tents  I  paused  and  sung. 
The  distant  battle  flash'd  and  rung. 

'  I  sung  the  joyful  Paean  clear, 
And,  sitting,  burnish'd  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear  — 

'  Waiting  to  strive  a  happy  strife, 
To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife. 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life  — 

'Some  hidden  principle  to  move, 
To  put  together,  part  and  prove. 
And  mete  the  bounds  of  hate  and  love  — 

'  As  far  as  might  be,  to  carve  out 
Free  space  for  every  human  doubt, 
That  the  whole  mind  might  orb  about  — 


32 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


'  To  search  thro'  all  I  felt  or  saw, 
The  springs  of  life,  the  depths  of  awe, 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law : 

*  At  least,  not  rotting  like  a  weed, 
But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed. 
Fruitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 

'  To  pass,  when  Life  her  light  withdraws. 
Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause, 
Nor  merely  in  a  selfish  cause  — 

'  In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own, 
To  perish,  wept  for,  honour'd,  known, 
And  like  a  warrior  overthrown; 

*  Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  glorious  tears. 
When  soil'd  with  noble  dust,  he  hears 
His  country's  war-song  thrill  his  ears  : 

'  Then  dying  of  a  mortal  stroke, 
What  time  the  foeman's  line  is  broke, 
And  all  the  war  is  roll'd  in  smoke. 

'  Yea ! '   said  the  voice,  '  thy  dream  was 

good, 
While  thou  abodest  in  the  bud. 
It  was  the  stirring  of  the  blood. 

*  If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  opening  of  the  flower, 
Who  is  it  that  could  live  an  hour? 

'Then  comes  the  check,  the  change,  the 

fall, 
Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

'  Yet  hadst  thou,  thro'  enduring  pain, 
Link'd  month  to  month  with  such  a  chain 
Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

'Thou hadst  not  between  death  and  birth 
Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 
So  were  thy  labour  little-worth. 

'  That  men  with  knowledge  merely  play'd 
I  told  thee  —  hardly  nigher  made, 
Tho'  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade; 

'  Much  less  this  dreamer,  deaf  and  blind. 
Named  man,  may  hope  some  truth  to  find, 
That  bears  relation  to  the  mind. 


'  For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  different   threads,   and   late    and 

soon 
Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 

'  Cry,  faint  not  :  either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn. 
Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

'  Cry,  faint  not,  climb:  the  summits  slope 
Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope, 
Wrapt  in  dense  cloud  from  base  to  cope. 

*  Sometimes  a  little  corner  shines, 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

'  I  will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  find  her  now. 
Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

'  If  straight  thy  track,  or  if  oblique, 
Thou  know'st  not.     Shadows  thou  dost 

strike. 
Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like; 

'  And  owning  but  a  little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor, 
Calling  thyself  a  little  lower 

'  Than  angels.    Cease  to  wail  and  brawl ! 
Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all.' 

'  O  dull,  one-sided  voice,'  said  I, 
'  Wilt  thou  make  everything  a  lie, 
To  flatter  me  that  I  may  die? 

'  I  know  that  age  to  age  succeeds, 
Blowing  a  noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A  dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

'  I  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven  : 

'  Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream. 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam. 
And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dream; 

'  But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Ev'n  in  the  charnels  of  the.  dead, 
The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head  — 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


zz 


'  Which  did  accomplish  their  desire, 
Bore  and  forebore,  and  did  not  tire, 
Like  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

'  He  heeded  not  reviling  tones. 
Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 
Tho'    cursed   and  scorn'd,   and    bruised 
with  stones : 

'  But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace. 
He  pray'd,  and  from  a  happy  place 
God's  glory  smote  him  on  the  face.' 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt: 

*  Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were  fix'd. 
The  elements  were  kindlier  mix'd.' 

I  said,  '  I  toil  beneath  the  curse, 
But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 
I  fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 

'  And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo 
One  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 
1  knit  a  hundred  others  new  : 

*  Or  that  this  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
Unmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense. 
Be  fix'd  and  froz'n  to  permanence  : 

*  For  I  go,  weak  from  suffering  here : 
Naked  I  go,  and  void  of  cheer: 
What  is  it  that  I  may  not  fear?  ' 

*  Consider  well,'  the  voice  replied, 

'  His    face,    that    two    hours   since    hath 

died; 
Wilt  thou  find  passion,  pain  or  pride  ? 

'  Will  he  obey  when  one  commands  ? 
Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands, 

'  His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast : 
There  is  no  other  thing  express'd 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 

*  His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek : 
Tho'  one  should  smite  him  on  the  cheek. 
And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

'  His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss'd,  taking  his  last  embrace. 
Becomes  dishonour  to  her  race  — 


'  His  sons  grow  up  that  bear  his  name. 
Some  grow  to  honour,  some  to  shame,  — 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 

'  He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave, 
Nor,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 

'  High  up  the  vapours  fold  and  swim  : 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim : 
The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him.' 

'  If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,'  I  said, 

'  These    things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and 

dread. 
Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 

'  The  sap  dries  up  ;    the  plant  declines. 

A  deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 

Know  I  not  Death?  the  outward  signs? 

*  I  found  him  when  my  years  were  few; 
A  shadow  on  the  graves  I  knew, 
And  darkness  in  the  village  yew. 

'  From  grave  to  grave  the  shadow  crept : 
In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept : 
Touch'd  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 

'The  simple  senses  crown'd  his  head: 
"  Omega  !  thou  art  Lord,"  they  said, 
"  We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead." 

'  Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease, 
Should    that   plain    fact,   as    taught    by 

these. 
Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease? 

'  Who  forged  that  other  influence, 

That  heat  of  inward  evidence. 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense? 

'  He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes. 
That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise, 
Not  simple  as  a  thing  that  dies. 

'  Here  sits  he  shaping  wings  to  fly  : 
His  heart  forebodes  a  mystery : 
He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

'  That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 
He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 


34 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


'  He  seems  to  hear  a  Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro'  thick  veils  to  apprehend 
A  labour  working  to  an  end. 

'The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 
His  reason  :   many  things  perplex, 
With  motions,  checks,  and  counterchecks. 

'  He  knows  a  baseness  in  his  blood 

At    such    strange    war    with    something 

good. 
He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 

'  Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn, 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn. 
Half  shown,  are  broken  and  withdrawn. 

'  Ah  !  sure  within  him  and  without. 
Could  his  dark  wisdom  find  it  out, 
There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt, 

*  But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 
With  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain. 
Or  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 

'  The  doubt  would  rest,  I  dare  not  solve. 
In  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 
Assurance  only  breeds  resolve.' 

As  when  a  billow,  blown  against. 

Falls    back,    the    voice    with    which    1 

fenced 
A  httle  ceased,  but  recommenced. 

'  Where  wert  thou  when  thy  father  play'd 
In  his  free  field,  and  pastime  made, 
A  merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade? 

*  A  merry  boy  they  call'd  him  then. 
He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 

In  days  that  never  come  again. 

*  Before  the  little  ducts  began 

To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 
Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man : 

'  Who  took  a  wife,  who  rear'd  his  race, 
Whose  wrinkles  gather'd  on  his  face, 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days : 

*  A  life  of  nothings,  nothing-worth. 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  l)irth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth  !  ' 


'  These  words,'  I  said,  '  are  like  the  rest; 
No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A  vague  suspicion  of  the  breast : 

'  But  if  I  grant,  thou  mightst  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend  — 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end; 

'  Yet  how  should  I  for  certain  hold, 
Because  my  memory  is  so  cold, 
That  I  first  was  in  human  mould? 

'  I  cannot  make  this  matter  plain. 
But  I  would  shoot,  howe'er  in  vain, 
A  random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

'  It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found. 
Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 

'  As  old  mythologies  relate, 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 

The  slipping  thro'  from  state  to  state. 

'  As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  happens  then, 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again, 

'  So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 
As  one  before,  remember  much. 
For   those    two    hkes   might   meet    and 
touch. 

*  But,  if  I  lapsed  from  nobler  place, 
Some  legend  of  a  fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace; 

*  Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 
In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height, 

Some    yearning    toward    the    lamps    of 
night; 

*  Or  if  thro'  lower  lives  I  came  — 
Tho'  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame  — 

'  I  might  forget  my  weaker  lot; 
For  is  not  our  first  year  forgot? 
The  haunts  of  memory  echo  not. 

'  And  men,  whose  reason  long  was  blind. 
From  cells  of  madness  unconfined, 
Oft  lose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


35 


'  Much  more,  if  first  I  floated  free, 
As  naked  essence,  must  I  be 
Incompetent  of  memory : 

*  For  memory  dealing  but  with  time, 
And  he  with  matter,  could  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime? 

'  Moreover,  something  is  or  seems. 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  — 

'  Of  something  felt,  like  something  here; 
Of  something  done,  I  know  not  where; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare.' 

The  still  voice   laugh'd.     '  I   talk,'   said 

he, 
'  Not  with  thy  dreams.     Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a  reality.' 

'  But    thou,'    said    I,    *  hast    missed    thy 

mark. 
Who  sought'st  to  wreck  my  mortal  ark, 
By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 

'  Why  not  set  forth,  if  I  should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new? 

'  Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 

No  life  that  breathes  with  human  breath 

Has  ever  truly  long'd  for  death, 

'  'Tis  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant. 
Oh  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant; 
More  fife,  and  fuller,  that  I  want.' 

I  ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 
Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn, 
'  Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  morn.' 

And  I  arose,  and  I  released 

The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 

With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften'd  airs  that  blowing  steal, 
When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal. 
The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  God's  house  the  people  prest : 
Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest, 
Each  enter'd  like  a  welcome  ffuest. 


One  walk'd  between  his  wife  and  child, 
With  measured  footfall  firm  and  mild, 
x\nd  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean'd  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good. 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure. 
The  little  maiden  walk'd  demure, 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure. 

These  three  made  unity  so  sweet, 
My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat, 
Remembering  its  ancient  heat. 

I  blest  them,  and  they  wander'd  on : 
I  spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none : 
The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

A  second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

A  little  whisper  silver-clear, 

A  murmur,  '  Be  of  better  cheer.' 

As  from  some  blissful  neighbourhood, 

A  notice  faintly  understood, 

'  I  see  the  end,  and  know  the  good.' 

A  little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A  hint,  a  whisper  breathing  low, 

'  I  may  not  speak  of  what  I  know.' 

Like  an  ^F^olian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes  : 

Such  seem'd  the  whisper  at  my  side  : 
'  What  is  it  thou  knowest,  sweet  voice?  ' 

I  cried. 
'  A  hidden  hope,'  the  voice  replied  : 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  hour 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a  power 
Broke,     like     the     rainbow     from     the 
shower. 

To  feel,  altho'  no  tongue  can  prove, 
That  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I  went, 
And  Nature's  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 


36 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


1  wonder'd  at  the  bounteous  hours, 
The  slow  result  of  winter  showers : 
You    scarce    could    see    the    grass    for 
flowers. 

I  wonder'd,  while  I  paced  along : 
The  woods  were  fiU'd  so  full  with  song, 
There    seem'd    no    room    for    sense    of 
wrong; 

And  all  so  variously  wrought, 

I  marvell'd  how  the  mind  was  brought 

To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought; 

And  wherefore  rather  I  made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice, 
Than  him  that  said,  'Rejoice  !    Rejoice  ! ' 


THE   MILLER'S   DAUGHTER. 

I  SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet. 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size, 
And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 

The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes? 
The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 

His  dusty  forehead  drily  curl'd, 
Seem'd  half-within  and  half-without, 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world? 

In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit. 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver  cup  — 
I  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest  —  gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad. 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole, 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass :  give  me  one  kiss : 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 
There's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 
There's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life. 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 
Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife, 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth? 

I  least   should  breathe   a  thought    of 
pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 


So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 
And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine  — 

It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  — 

To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire, 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire : 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long, 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song. 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan; 
But  ere  I  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce- my  life  with  fancy  play'd 

Before  I  dream'd  that  pleasant  dream  — 
Still  hither  thither  idly  sway'd 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  lean'd  to  hear 

The  milldam  rushing  down  with  noise. 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise. 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones. 
Or     those    three    chestnuts    near,    that 
hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that. 

When,  after  roving  in  the  woods 
('Twas  April  then),  I  came  and  sat 

Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
I  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you. 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read. 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long. 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes. 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a  thousand  times. 

Then  leapt  a  trout.     In  lazy  mood 
I  watch'd  the  little  circles  die; 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


They  past  into  the  level  flood, 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye ; 

The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 
A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck. 

As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 
Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set, 

That  morning,  on  the  casement-edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette. 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  two  so  full  and  bright  — 
Such  eyes !  I  swear  to  you,  my  love. 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 

That  I  should  die  an  early  death : 
For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere, 

And  fill'd  the  breast  with  purer  breath. 
My  mother  thought, '  What  ails  the  boy?  ' 

For  I  was  alter'd,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 

Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still, 
The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor, 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel. 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold. 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow, 
And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away, 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hop 
From  off  the  wold  I  ca,me,  and  lay 

Upon  thefreshly-flower'd  slope. 

The   deep   brook   groan'd    beneath   the 
mill; 

And  'By  that  lamp,'  I   thought,  'she 
sits  !  ' 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 

Gleam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits, 
'  O  that  I  were  beside  her  now  ! 

O  will  she  answer  if  I  call? 
O  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 

Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all?  ' 


Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind, 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within, 

Sometimes   your    shadow   cross'd   the 
blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light, 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night, 

And  all  the  casement  darken'd  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak, 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with 
may. 
Your    ripe    lips    moved    not,    but    your 
cheek 

Flush'd  like  the  coming  of  the  day; 
And  so  it  was — half-sly,  half-shy. 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little  one  ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly. 

And  you  and  I  were  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire  : 
She  wish'd  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

I  might  have  look'd  a  little  higher; 
And  I  was  young  —  too  young  to  wed:* 

'  Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,'  she  said  : 

Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I  went  to  fetch  my  bride  : 

But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried. 

Too  fearful  that  you  should  not  please. 
I  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  could  not  look  but  well; 
And    dews,    that   would    have   fall'n    in 
tears, 

I  kiss'd  away  before  they  fell. 

I  watch'd  the  little  flutterings, 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see; 
She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things. 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me; 
And  turning  look'd  upon  your  face. 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart. 
And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 

Approaching,  press'd  you  heart  to  heart. 

Ah,  well  —  but  sing  the  foolish  song  . 

I  gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER  —  FATLMA. 


With  bridal  flowers  —  that  I  may  seem, 
As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 

Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream, 
While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper  by. 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 
And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 

That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  in  her  ear: 

For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 
About  her  dainty  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me. 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest: 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom. 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 

A  trifle,  sweet !  which  true  love  spells  — 

True  love  interprets  —  right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 
So,  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  truth 

You  must  blame  Love,     His  early  rage 
Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth. 

And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone, 

Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art, 
While  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one. 

Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart : 
So  sing  that  other  song  I  made, 

Half-anger'd  with  my  happy  lot. 
The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 

I  found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 

Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net. 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 

Even  so. 
Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love?  for  we  forget: 

Ah,  no!  no! 


Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine.     True 
wife. 

Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  thro'  my  very  soul  with  thine  ! 
Untouch'd  with  any  shade  of  years, 

May  those  kind  eyes  for  ever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 

Dear   eyes,  since    first   I  knew   them 
well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed  :  they  had  their  part 

Of  sorrow  :  for  when  time  was  ripe. 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type. 
That  into  stillness  past  again. 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before; 
Although  the  loss  had  brought  us  pain. 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more, 

With  farther  lookings  on.     The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss. 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee  : 
But   that   God    bless   thee,    dear  —  who 
wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth. 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds; 
For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north. 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds, 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below  : 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 

Is  dry  and  dewless.     Let  us  go. 


FATIMA. 

O  Love,  Love,  Love  !  O  withering  might ! 
O  sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  I  strain  my  sight. 
Throbbing  thro'  all  thy  heat  and  light, 
Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 
Lo,   parch'd   and   wither'd,    deaf  and 

l)lind, 
I  whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

Last  night  I  wasted  hateful  hours 
Below  the  city's  eastern  towers : 


FA  TIM  A  —  (ENONE. 


39 


I  thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers : 
I  roll'd  among  the  tender  flowers  : 

I  crush'd  them  on  my  breast,  my  mouth ; 
I  look'd  athwart  the  burning  drouth 
Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when   some  one  spoke   his 

name, 
From  my  swift  blood  that  went  and  came 
A  thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shiver'd  in  my  narrow  frame. 

0  Love,  O  fire  !  once  he  drew 

With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  thro' 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I  know 
He  Cometh  quickly  :  from  below 
Sweet  gales,  as  from  deep  gardens,  blow 
Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 
In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to  swoon, 
Faints  like  a  dazzled  morning  moon. 

The  wind  sounds  like  a  silver  wire. 
And  from  beyond  the  noon  a  fire 
Is  pour'd  upon  the  hills,  and  nigher 
The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire; 
And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light. 
My   heart,    pierced    thro'    with    fierce 

delight. 
Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently. 
All  naked  in  a  sultry  sky. 
Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye  : 
I  will  possess  him  or  will  die. 

1  will  grow  round  him  in  his  place, 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face, 
Die,  dying  clasp'd  in  his  embrace. 


CENONE. 

There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 

The  swimming  vapour  slopes  athwart  the 

glen. 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine 

to  pine. 
And   loiters,   slowly    drawn.     On    either 

hand 
The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway 

down 


Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them 

roars 
The  long  brook  falling  thro'  the  clov'n 

ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 
Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning  :  but  in 

front 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  Ilion's  column'd  citadel. 
The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
ISIournful  Qinone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round 

her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  seem'd  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with 

vine. 
Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain- 
shade 
Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the 

upper  clifl". 

'  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill : 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass : 
The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone. 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  winds  are 

dead. 
The   purple  flower  droops :    the   golden 

bee 
Is  lily-cradled  :   I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love. 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are 

dim. 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

'  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  Earth,  hear  me,  O  Hills,  O 

Caves 
That  house  the  cold  crown'd  snake  1     O 

mountain  brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed, 
A  cloud  that  gather'd  shape  :  for  it  may  be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper 

woe. 


40 


CENONE. 


*  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 

I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills, 
Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy-dark, 
iVnd  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain  pine : 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leading  a  jet-black   goat  white-horn'd, 

white-hooved, 
Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

*  O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Far-off  the  torrent  call'd  me  from  the  cleft : 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 

The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.     With  down- 

dropt  eyes 
I  sat  alone :  white-breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved;   a  leopard 

skin 
Droop'd  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny 

hair 
Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a  God's : 
And  his  cheek  brighten'd  as  the  foam-bow 

brightens 
When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all 

my  heart 
Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere 

he  came. 

*  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk- 
white  palm 

Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold. 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  Ilook'd 
And   listen'd,    the    full-flowing   river   of 

speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

'  "  My  own  CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd  CEnone,  my  own  soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind 

ingrav'n 
*  For    the    most    fair,'    would    seem    to 

award  it  thine, 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married 

brows." 

'  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine, 
And  added   "  This   was    cast    upon    the 

board. 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the 

Gods 


Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus;   where- 
upon 
Rose    feud,   with    question    unto    whom 

'twere  due : 
But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve. 
Delivering  that  to  me,  by  common  voice 
Elected  umpire.  Here  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.     Thou,  within  the 

cave 
Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them    unbeheld,  un- 
heard 
Hear  all,    and   see    thy   Paris  judge    of 
Gods." 

'  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep    midnoon  :  one   silvery 

cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.      Then  to  the  bower 

they  came, 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded 

bower. 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like 

fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
Lotos  and  lilies :  and  a  wind  arose, 
And    overhead   the  wandering   ivy  and 

vine, 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro' 

and  thro'. 

'  O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit, 
And  o'er  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud,  and 

lean'd 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice   of  her,  to 

whom 
Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that 

grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the 

Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.    She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestion'd,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith    to    embellish    state,    "  from 

many  a  vale 
And    river-sunder'd  champaign    clothed 

with  corn. 


(ENONE. 


41 


Or  labour'd  mine  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honour,"  she    said,   "  and   homage,  tax 

and  toll, 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd   beneath   her    shadowing 

citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers." 

'  O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of 

power, 
"  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all; 
Power    fitted    to    the    season;     wisdom- 
bred 
And  throned  of  wisdom  —  from  all  neigh- 
bour crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.     Such  boon 

from  me. 
From    me.    Heaven's   Queen,    Paris,   to 

thee  king-born, 
A  shepherd  all  thyhfe  but  yet  king-born, 
Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  men, 

in  power 
Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  attain'd 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  Vjliss 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy." 

*  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She    ceased,  and  Paris  held    the    costly 

fruit 
Out  at  arm's  length,  so  much  the  thought 

of  power 
Flatter'd  his  spirit;   but  Pallas  where  she 

stood 
Somewhat   apart,    her   clear    and    bared 

limbs 
O'erthwarted    with     the    brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon  her  peatly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
The  while,  above,  her  full    and  earnest 

eye 

her 

cheek 
Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  reply. 

*  "  Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self- 

control, 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign 

power. 
Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 


Would  come  uncall'd  for)  but  to  live  by 
law. 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear; 

And  because  right  is  right,  to  follow 
right 

Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  conse- 
quence." 

*  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said :   "  I  woo  thee  not  with 

gifts. 
Sequel  of   guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.     Judge    thou  me   by  what  I 

am. 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair, 
Unbias'd  by  self-profit,  oh  !   rest  the  sure. 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to 

thee, 
So  that  my  vigour,  wedded  to  thy  blood. 
Shall    strike    within     thy    pulses   like    a 

God's, 
To    push    thee    forward    thro'    a   life  of 

shocks. 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Sinew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown 

will. 
Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom." 

'  Here  she  ceas'd. 
And    Paris   ponder'd,  and  I    cried,   "  O 

Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas  1  "  but  he  heard  me  not, 
Or  hearing  w'ould  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me  I 

'  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful. 
Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in  Paphian 

wells, 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her 

deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder  :   from  the  violets  her  light 

foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded 

form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated    the    glowing    sunlights,   as   she 

moved. 


42 


(ENONE. 


'  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes, 
The    herald    of    her    triumph,    drawing 

nigh 
Half-whisper'd   in  his   ear,   "  I  promise 

thee 
The    fairest    and    most   loving    wife    in 

Greece." 
She  spoke  and  laugh'd :  I  shut  my  sight 

for  fear: 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  raised  his 

arm, 
And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes, 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud. 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower ; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

'  Yet,  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest  —  why  fairest  wife?  am  I  not  fair? 
My  love  hath  told   me    so    a   thousand 

times. 
Methinks  1  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday, 
When  I  past  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard, 
Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful 

tail 
Crouch'd   fawning   in   the  weed.     Most 

loving  is  she? 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my 

arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips 

prest 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling 

dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

*  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,   they   cut   away   my   tallest 

pines, 
My   tall   dark    pines,    that    plumed   the 

craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Foster'd  the  callow  eaglet —  from  beneath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the 

dark  morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while 

I  sat 
Low  in  the  valley.     Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  G^none  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro'  them ;   never  see  them  over- 
laid 


With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver  cloud, 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trem- 
bling stars. 

'  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd  folds, 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the 

glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with 

her 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall. 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board. 
And  bred  this  change;  that  I  might  speak 

my  mind. 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and 

men. 

*  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand 

times. 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green  hill, 
Ev'n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on   this 

stone? 
Seal'd   it   with    kisses?    water'd    it  with 

tears? 
O  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these ! 
O  happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my 

face? 
O  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my 

weight? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating 

cloud, 
There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth; 
Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live  : 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life, 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within. 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids :  let  me  die. 

'  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more  and 

more, 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  in- 
most hills. 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.     I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born  :  her  child  !  —  a  shudder 


THE   SISTERS— THE  PALACE    OF  ART. 


43 


Across  me  :  never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes  ! 

*  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth.     I  will  not  die  alone. 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to 

me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road   of 

Death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.     I  will  rise  and 

go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come 

forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What    this  may  be   I   know  not,  but  I 

know 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire.' 


THE   SISTERS. 

We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race  : 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face : 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

She  died  :  she  went  to  burning  flame  : 
She  mix'd  her  ancient  blood  with  shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and  tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early  and 

late. 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait : 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  made  a  feast;    I  bade  him  come; 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed, 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head : 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  kissed  his  eyelids  into  rest : 
His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell, 
But  I  loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


I  rose  up  in  the  silent  night : 

I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew, 
Three  times  I  stabb'd  him  thro'  and  thro'. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  curl'd  and  comb'd  his  comely  head, 
He  look'd  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 

The   wind  is   blowing   in    turret    and 
tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 


TO 


WITH   THE   FOLLOWING    POEM. 

I  SEND  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 
(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a  soul, 
A  sinful  soul  possess'd  of  many  gifts, 
A  spacious  garden  full  of  flowering  weeds, 
A  glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and  brain. 
That  did  love  Beauty  only  (Beauty  seen 
In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind), 
And  Knowledge  for    its   beauty;     or    if 

Good, 
Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 
That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge  are 

three  sisters 
That  dote  upon  each  other,   friends  to 

man. 
Living  together  under  the  same  roof. 
And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without  tears. 
And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn  shall 

be 
Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  threshold 

lie. 
Howling  in  outer  darkness.    Not  for  this 
Was  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  common 

earth 
Moulded  by  God,  and  temper'd  with  the 

tears 
Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


THE   PALACE  OF  ART. 

I  BUILT  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house. 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
I  said, '  O  Soul,  make  merry  and  carouse, 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well.' 


44 


THE  PALACE    OF  ART. 


A  huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  burnish'd 
brass 
I  chose.     The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon   I   built  it  firm.      Of  ledge  or 
shelf 
The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  '  While  the  world  runs  round  and 
round,'  I  said, 
*  Reign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king, 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  stedfast 
shade 
Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring.' 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily : 

'  Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me, 
So  royal-rich  and  wide.' 


Four  courts  I  made,  East,  West  and  South 
and  North, 
In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The   golden   gorge  of  dragons   spouted 
forth 
A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there 
ran  a  row 
Of    cloisters,     branch'd    like    mighty 
woods. 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 

And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands. 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the 
sky 
Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one 
swell 
Across  the  mountain  stream'd  below 
In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seem'd 
To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 


A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odour  steam'd 
From  out  a  golden  cup. 

So   that   she    thought,   '  And  who    shall 
gaze  upon 
My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes. 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun, 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise?' 

For  that  sweet   incense  rose  and  never 
fail'd. 
And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted  higher, 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail'd, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise   the   deep-set  windows,  stain'd 
and  traced. 
Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires 
From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  interlaced, 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 

*  *  *  * 

*  *  *  * 
Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom, 
Thro'  which    the    livelong    day  my  soul 
did  pass, 
Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace 
stood, 
All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For   some  were   hung  with  arras  green 
and  blue. 
Showing  a  gaudy  summer-morn, 
Where  with  puff 'd  cheek  the  belted  hunter 
blew 
His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red  —  a  tract  of 
sand, 
And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  for  ever  in  a  glimmering  land, 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One    show'd    an    iron    coast    and    angry 
waves. 
You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing 
caves, 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 


THE  PALACE    OF  ART. 


45 


And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 
The    ragged   rims  of  thunder   brooding 
low, 
\Vith  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  thefr  sultry  toil. 
In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.     Be- 
hind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one  a  foreground  black  with  stones 
and  slags, 
Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All    barr'd   with    long    white    cloud    the 
scornful  crags, 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And  one,  an  English  home  —  gray  twi- 
light pour'd 
On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 
Softer   than   sleep  —  all  things  in  order 
stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace, 

Nor   these   alone,    but    every   landscape 
fair. 
As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind. 
Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern,  was 
there 
Not  less  than  truth  design'd. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix, 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm, 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonyx 
Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear-wall'd  city  on  the  sea. 
Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  with  white  roses,  slept  St.  Cecily; 
An  angel  look'd  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise 

A  group  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 
That  said.  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply-wounded  son 
In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 


Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 

To  list  a  foot-fall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay'd    the   Ausonian 
king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice. 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowly  sail'd 
A  summer  fann'd  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  unclasp'd, 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne  : 
From   one  hand   droop'd  a  crocus :   one 
hand  grasp'd 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 

Or  else  flush'd  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half-buried  in  the  Eagle's  down, 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  the  pillar'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone  :   but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 


Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells 
that  swung, 
Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound ; 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men  I 
hung 
The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph  strong, 
Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and  mild ; 
And  there  the  world-worn  Dante  grasp'd 
his  song. 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest; 

A  million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin; 
A  hundred  winters  snow'd  upon  his  breast. 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift. 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 
With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 


46 


THE  PALACE    OF  ART. 


Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 
So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 
Toil'd  onward,  prick'd  with  goads  and 
stings; 
Here  play'd,  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings; 

Here  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or 
bind 
All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 
And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man 
declined. 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod :  and  those  great 
bells 
Began  to  chime.    She  took  her  throne  : 
She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And  thro'  the  topmost  Oriels'   coloured 
flame 
Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below; 
Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow'd  Verulam, 
The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names,  that  in  their  motion 
were 
Full-welling  fountain-heads  of  change. 
Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon'd 
fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange : 

Thro'    which    the    lights,    rose,    amber, 
emerald,  blue, 
Flush'd  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes. 
And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  from  Memnon, 
drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone. 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'd  song 
Throb  thro'  the  ribbed  stone; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her   feastful 
mirth. 
Joying  to  feel  herself  alive. 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord   of  the  visible 
earth. 
Lord  of  the  senses  five; 


Communing  with  herself:   'All  these  are 
mine, 
And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 
'Tis  one  to  me.'    She  —  when  young  night 
divine 
Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars. 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delicious  toils  — 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems. 
And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 
In  hollow'd  moons  of  gems, 

To  mimic  heaven;   and  clapt  her  hands 
and  cried, 
*  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich,  and  wide. 
Be  flatter'd  to  the  height. 

'O   all   things   fair  to   sate    my   various 
eyes ! 

0  shapes   and   hues   that   please  me 

well ! 

0  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods,  with  whom  I  dwell ! 

'  O  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain. 
What  time  I  watch  the  darkening  droves 

of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

'  In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient  skin, 
They   graze    and   wallow,   breed    and 
sleep; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in, 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep.' 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead. 
As  hers  by  right  of  fuU-accomplish'd  Fate ; 
And  at  the  last  she  said : 

*  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 

1  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 

But  contemplating  all.' 


P^uU  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not   the   less   held  she   her  solemn 
mirth. 
And  intellectual  throne. 


THE  PALACE    OF  ART. 


47 


And   so  she    throve   and   prosper'd :    so 
three  years 
She  prosper'd :  on  the  fourth  she  fell, 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his 
ears, 
Struck  thro'  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she   would    think,   where'er    she 
turn'd  her  sight 
The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought. 
Wrote,  '  Mene,  mene,'  and  divided  quite 
The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 
Fell    on  her,   from  which   mood   was 
born 
Scorn  of  herself;    again,  from  out   that 
mood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

*  What  I  is  not  this  my  place  of  strength,' 
she  said, 
'  My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof    the    strong    foundation-stones 
were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory?  ' 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes;   and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears 
of  blood, 
And  horrible  nightmares, 

And  hollow  shades,  enclosing  hearts  of 
flame. 
And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 
On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noon  she 
came, 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light 

Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  my  soul, 
'Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars  of 
sand. 
Left  on  the  shore;   that  hears  all  night 


The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from 
the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white. 

A  star  that  with  the  choral  starry  dance 

Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 
The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
Roll'd  round  by  one  fix'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had 
curl'd. 
'  No  voice,'  she  shriek'd  in  that  lone 
hall, 
'  No  voice  breaks  thro'  the  stillness  of 
this  world : 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all ! ' 

She,   mouldering   with    the    dull    earth's 
mouldering  sod. 
In  wrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally. 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair. 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 
No  comfort  anywhere; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears, 
And  ever  worse  with  growing  time. 
And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears. 
And  all  alone  in  crime : 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt  round 

With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall, 
Far  off  she  seem'd  to  hear  the  dully  sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walking 
slow. 
In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea; 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder,  or  a  sound 
Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep 
cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts;   then  thinketh,  'I 
have  found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die.' 

She  howl'd  aloud,  '  I  am  on  fire  within. 
There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 


48 


LADY   CLARA    VERB  DE    VERE. 


What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin, 
And  save  me  lest  I  die? ' 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished, 
She  threw  her  royal  robes  away. 

*  Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,'  she  said, 

'  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 

*  Yet   pull  not  down  my  palace  towers, 

that  are 
So  lightly,  beautifully  built : 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others  there 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt.' 

LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown  : 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired: 
'  The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name, 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not   thrice  your   branching   limes  have 
blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies  : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be; 


But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view. 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps   the  caste  of  Vere  de 
Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door  : 

You   changed   a  wholesome   heart  to 
gall. 
You  hekl  your  course  without  remorse. 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And,  last,  you  fix'd  a  vacant  stare, 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 
The  gardener  Adam  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers  : 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth. 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as 
these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate. 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands? 
Oh  !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  heaven  for  a  human  heart. 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN,  49 


THE   MAY   QUEEN. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear; 

To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day; 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

There's  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as  mine; 

There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate  and  Caroline : 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say, 

So  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break : 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands  ga)^ 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye  should  I  see, 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him  yesterday, 

But  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white. 

And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  light. 

They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

They  say  he's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother  —  what  is  that  to  me? 

There's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer  day, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 

And  you'll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen; 

For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far  away. 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  wov'n  its  wavy  bowers. 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-grass. 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day. 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still. 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  and  play, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 
£ 


50  THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year : 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day. 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


NEW-YEAR'S   EVE. 

If  you're  waking  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 

For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see. 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould  and  think  no  more  of  me. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set :  he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  mind; 
And  the  New-year's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers:  we  had  a  merry  day; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May; 
And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse. 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills :  the  frost  is  on  the  pane : 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again : 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high : 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea. 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er  the  wave, 

But  I  shall  He  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine. 
In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill, 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light 
You'll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 

You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade. 
And  you'll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall  hear  you  when  you  pass, 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

* 
I  have  been  w^ild  and  wayward,  but  you'll  forgive  me  now; 
You'll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and  forgive  me  ere  I  go; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild, 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN.  51 


If  I  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place; 
Tho'  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your  face; 
Tho'  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  harken  what  you  say. 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I'm  far  away. 

Goodnight,  goodnight,  when  I  have  said  goodnight  for  evermore. 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door; 
Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green : 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

She'll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor : 
Let  her  take  'em  :  they  are  hers  :   I  shall  never  garden  more  : 
But  tell  her,  when  I'm  gone,  to  train  the  rosebush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlour-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Goodnight,  sweet  mother  :  call  me  before  the  day  is  born. 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 
So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 


CONCLUSION. 

I  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year  ! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet's  here. 

O  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies, 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise. 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow. 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seem'd  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun, 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done  ! 
But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before  I  find  release; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

O  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair  ! 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there ! 

0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head ! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show'd  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  tho'  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there's  One  will  let  me  in  : 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again  if  that  could  be. 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

1  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat. 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet : 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 


52  THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  Efifie  dear; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house  and  I  no  longer  here; 
With  all  my  strength  I  pray'd  for  both,  and  so  I  felt  resign'd, 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  my  bed. 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me  —  I  know  not  what  was  said; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping;   and  I  said,  *  It's  not  for  them  :  it's  mine.' 
And  if  it  come  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars, 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  trust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day. 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  passed  away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret; 
There's  many  a  worthier  than  I,  would  make  him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived  —  I  cannot  tell  —  I  might  have  been  his  wife; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  life. 

O  look  !  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow; 

He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 

And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine  — 

Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

O  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the  sun  — 
For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just  souls  and  true  — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan?  why  make  we  such  ado? 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a  blessed  home  — 

And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effie  come  — 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast  — 

And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


53 


THE   LOTOS-EATERS. 

*  Courage  ! '  he  said,  and  pointed  toward 

the  land, 
'  This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shore- 
ward soon.' 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 

swoon, 
Breathing  like   one  that   hath    a  weary 

dream. 
Full-faced   above    the   valley   stood    the 

moon; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender 

stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall 

did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams !  some,  like  a  down- 
ward smoke. 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did 
go; 

And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and 
shadows  broke. 

Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land  :  far  off,  three  moun- 
tain-tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow. 

Stood  sunset-flush'd :  and,  dew'd  with 
showery  drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the 
woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 
In  the  red  West :    thro'  mountain  clefts 

the  dale 
Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 
Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding 

vale 
And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale; 
A  land  where   all  things  always  seem'd 

the  same  ! 
And    round    about    the    keel  with  faces 

pale, 
Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame. 
The  mild-eyed  melancholy   Lotos-eaters 

came. 
Branches  they  bore   of  that    enchanted 

stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they 

gave 


To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them. 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  alien  shores;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the 

grave ; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake. 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart 

did  make. 

They  sat  them   down  upon   the   yellow 

sand, 
Between  the  sun   and   moon    upon   the 

shore; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave;   but  ever- 
more 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the 

oar. 
Weary  the   wandering  fields    of  barren 

foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  '  We  Avill  return  no 

more;  ' 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  '  Our  island 

home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave;   we  will  no  longer 

roam.' 

CHORIC  SONG. 


There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass. 
Or  night-dews    on  still  waters  between 

walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tii''d  eyes; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from 

the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers 

weep. 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy 

hangs  in  sleep. 

II. 

WTiy  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heavi- 
ness, 

And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  dis- 
tress. 


54 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


While   all    things    else    have    rest    from 

weariness? 
All    things   have    rest :    why   should    we 

toil  alone, 
We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things. 
And  make  perpetual  moan, 
Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown : 
Nor  ever  fold  our  wings. 
And  cease  from  wanderings, 
Nor  steep    our   brows  in  slumber's  holy 

balm; 
Nor  harken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 
'  There  is  no  joy  but  calm  !  ' 
Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and 

crown  of  things? 

III. 

Lo  !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the 

bud 
With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and   broad,  and   takes  no 

care, 
Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed;   and  turning  yellow 
Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 
Lo  I  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light. 
The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mel- 
low. 
Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 
All  its  allotted  length  of  days. 
The  flower  ripens  in  its  place. 
Ripens  and   fades,  and   falls,  and   hath 

no  toil, 
Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 

IV. 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life;   ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labour  be? 
Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth  onward  fast, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  us  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  last? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 
Let    us  alone.     What    pleasure    can  we 

have 
To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave? 
All    things  have  rest,  and    ripen  toward 

the  grave 


In  silence;  ripen,  fall  and  cease: 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death, 
or  dreamful  ease. 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  down- 
ward stream. 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 

Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber 
light, 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on 
the  height; 

To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech; 

Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day. 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the 
beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melan- 
choly; 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in 
memory. 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an 
urn  of  brass ! 

VI. 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives. 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 
And  their  warm  tears :  but  all  hath  suf- 

fer'd  change : 
For  surely  now  our   household   hearths 

are  cold : 
Our    sons    inherit    us :    our    looks    are 

strange : 
And   we   should    come    like    ghosts   to 

trouble  joy. 
Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat   our  substance,  and    the  min- 
strel sings 
Before    them   of  the    ten   years'   war  in 

Troy, 
And  our  great    deeds,  as  half-forgotten 

things. 
Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile : 
'Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 
Long  labour  unto  aged  breath, 


THE   LOTOS-EATERS— A   DREAM   OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


55 


Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many  wars 
And    eyes    grown    dim   with    gazing   on 
the  pilot-stars. 

VII. 

But,    propt    on   beds    of  amaranth    and 

moly, 
How   sweet    (while   warm   airs   lull   us, 

blowing  lowly) 
With  half-dropt  eyelid  still, 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing 

slowly 
His  waters  from  the  purple  hill  — 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick-twined 

vine  — 
To   watch    the    emerald-colour'd   water 

falling 
Thro'    many   a    wov'n    acanthus-wreath 

divine ! 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  spark- 
ling brine, 
Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd    out 

beneath  the  pine. 

VIII. 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak  : 
The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek  : 
All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mel- 
lower tone : 
Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 
Round  and  round   the  spicy  downs  the 

yellow  Lotos-dust  is  blown. 
We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of 

motion  we, 
Roll'd    to  starboard,  roll'd    to   larboard, 

when  the  surge  was  seething  free, 
Where    the  wallowing  monster   spouted 

his  foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with 

an  equal  mind. 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie 

reclined 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless 

of  mankind. 
For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the 

bolts  are  hurl'd 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the 

clouds  are  lightly  curl'd 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with 

the  gleaming  world : 


Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over 

wasted  lands, 
Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake, 

roaring  deeps  and  fiery  sands, 
Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and 

sinking  ships,  and  praying  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred 

in  a  doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  an- 
cient tale  of  wrong, 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning    tho'    the 

words  are  strong; 
Chanted    from  an  ill-used   race  of  men 

that  cleave  the  soil. 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with 

enduring  toil. 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and 

wine  and  oil; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer  —  some, 

'tis  whisper'd  —  down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian 

valleys  dwell. 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of 

asphodel. 
Surely,   surely,   slumber    is   more   sweet 

than  toil,  the  shore 
Than    labour   in   the    deep    mid-ocean, 

wind  and  wave  and  oar; 
Oh    rest   ye,   brother   mariners,  we    will 

not  wander  more. 


A   DREAM   OF   FAIR   WOMEN. 

I    READ,  before  my  eyelids    dropt    their 
shade, 
*  The  Legend  of  Good  Wofnen,''  long  ago 
Sung  by  the  morning  star  of  song,  who 
made 
His  music  heard  below; 

Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose 
sweet  breath 

Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 

With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 
Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong 
gales 
Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  tho' 
my  heart. 
Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 


56 


A   DREAM   OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.     In 

As  when  a  great  thought  strikes  along 

every  land 

the  brain, 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 

And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in  hand 

The  downward  slope  to  death. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down 

A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 

That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leaguer'd  town; 

Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burning 

And  then,  I  know  not  how, 

stars, 

And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame,  and 

All  those  sharp  fancies,  by  down-lapsing 

wrong, 

thought 

And  trumpets  blown  for  wars; 

Stream'd  onward,  lost  their  edges,  and 

did  creep 

And  clattering  flints  batter'd  with  clang- 

Roll'd on  each  other,  rounded,  smooth'd, 

ing  hoofs; 

and  brought 

And  I  saw  crowds  in  column'd  sanctu- 

Into the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

aries  ; 
And  forms  that  pass'd  at  windows  and  on 

At  last  methought  that  I  had  wander'd  far 

roofs 

In  an  old  wood  ;  fresh-wash'd  in  coolest 

Of  marble  palaces; 

dew 

The  maiden  splendours  of  the  morning  star 

Corpses  across  the  threshold;   heroes  tall 

Shook  in  the  stedfast  blue. 

Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 

Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall; 

Enormous  elm-tree-boles  did  stoop  and 

Lances  in  ambush  set; 

lean 

Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  underneath 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst  thro'  with 

Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged  wfth 

heated  blasts 

clearest  green, 

That  run  before  the  fluttering  tongues 

New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

of  fire; 

White  surf  wind-scatter'd  over  sails  and 

The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her  journey 

masts. 

done. 

And  ever  climbing  higher; 

And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the  twi- 

light plain. 

Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  brazen 

Half-fall'n  across  the  threshold  of  the  sun, 

plates. 

Never  to  rise  again. 

Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  divers 

woes, 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead  air, 

Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with   iron 

Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill; 

grates. 

Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 

And  hush'd  seraglios. 

Is  not  so  deadly  still 

So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as,  when 

As  that  wide  forest.     Growths  of  jasmine 

to  land 

turn'd 

Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self- 

Their humid  arms  festooning  tree  to 

same  way. 

tree, 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along   the  level 

And  at  the  root  thro'  lush  green  grasses 

sand, 

burn'd 

Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

The  red  anemone. 

I  started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in  pain. 

I  knew  the  flowers,  1  knew  the  leaves,  I 

Resolved  on  noble  things,  and  strove 

knew 

to  speak, 

The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid  dawn 

A   DREAM   OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


57 


On   those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-walks 

'  Still   strove   to   speak :    my   voice   was 

drench'd  in  dew, 

thick  with  sighs 

Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

As  in  a  dream.     Uimly  I  could  descry 

The  stern  black-bearded  kings  with  wolf- 

The smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 

ish  eyes. 

Pour'd  back  into  my  empty  soul  and 

Waiting  to  see  me  die. 

frame 

The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 

'  The   high   masts  flicker'd   as   they  lay 

Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

afloat; 

The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver'd,  and 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  under-tone 

the  shore; 

Thrill'd  thro'  mine  ears  in  that  unbliss- 

The  bright  death  quiver'd  at  the  victim's 

ful  clime, 

throat; 

'Pass  freely  thro' :  thewoodisallthineown. 

Touch'd;   and  I  knew  no  more.' 

Until  the  end  of  time.' 

Whereto    the    other   with    a    downward 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call, 

brow : 

Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  standing 

'  I  would  the  white  cold  heavy-plung- 

there; 

ing  foam. 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 

W^hirl'd  by  the  wind,  had  roll'd  me  deep 

And  most  divinely  fair. 

below. 

Then  when  I  left  my  home.' 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with  sur- 

prise 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro'  the  silence 

Froze  my  swift  speech  :  she  turning  on 

drear. 

my  face 

As   thunder-drops   fall  on  a  sleeping 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes. 

sea  : 

Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

Sudden  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried,  '  Come 
here. 
That  I  may  look  on  thee.' 

*  I  had  great  beauty :   ask  thou  not  my 

name  : 

No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise. 

Many  drew  swords  and  died.     Where'er 

One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  unroU'd ; 

I  came 

A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold 

I  brought  calamity.' 

black  eyes, 

Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

'No  marvel,  sovereign  lady:  in  fair  field 

Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly  died,' 

She,  flashing  forth  a  haughty  smile,  began : 

I  answer'd  free;   and  turning  I  appeal'd 

'  I  govern'd  men  by  change,  and  so  I 

To  one  that  stood  beside. 

sway'd 

All  moods.     'Tis  long  since  I  have  seen 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks  averse, 

a  man. 

To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature 

Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

draws; 

*  My  youth,'  she  said,  '  was  blasted  with 

'The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 

a  curse : 

According  to  my  humour  ebb  and  flow. 

This  woman  was  the  cause. 

I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood: 

That  makes  my  only  woe. 

'  I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place, 

Which  men  call'd  Aulis  in  those  iron 

'  Nay  —  yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could  not 

years : 

bend 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face; 

One  will;     nor  tame    and  tutor  with 

I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

mine  eye 

58 


A   DREAM   OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


That  dull  cold-blooded  Caesar.     Prythee, 

From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro'  all 

friend, 

change 

Where  is  Mark  Antony? 

Of  liveliest  utterance. 

*  The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I  rode 

When   she  m.ade  pause  I  knew  not  for 

sublime 

delight; 

On  Fortune's  neck:  we  sat  as  God  by 

Because  with  sudden  motion  from  the 

God: 

ground 

The  Nilus  would  have   risen  before    his 

She  raised  her  piercing  orbs,  and  fill'd 

time 

with  light 

And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

The  interval  of  sound. 

*  We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep,  and 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keenest 

lit 

darts; 

Lamps  which  out-burn'd  Canopus.     0 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning 

my  life 

rings 

In  Egypt !     O  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 

All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty 

The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

hearts 

Of  captains  and  of  kings. 

'  And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from  war's 

alarms, 

Slowly    my   sense    undazzled.      Then    I 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 

heard 

My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my  arms, 

A  noise  of  some  one  coming  thro'  the 

Contented  there  to  die  ! 

lawn. 

And    singing  clearer    than    the    crested 

'  And  there  he  died :   and  when  I  heard 

bird 

my  name 

That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

Sigh'd    forth   with   life    I   would   not 

brook  my  fear 

'The  torrent  brooks  of  hallow'd  Israel 

Of  the  other :   with  a  worm  I  balk'd  his 

From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late  and 

fame. 

soon, 

What  else  was  left?   look  here  !  ' 

Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thro'  the 

dell. 

(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and 

Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

half 

The  polish'd  argent   of  her  breast  to 

*  The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 

sight 

Floods  all  the   deep-blue  gloom  with 

Laid  bare.     Thereto  she  pointed  with  a 

beams  divine  : 

laugh, 

All  night  the  splinter'd  crags  that  wall 

Showing  the  aspick's  bite.) 

the  dell 

With  spires  of  silver  shine.' 

*  I  died  a  Queen.     The    Roman  soldier 

found 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sunshine 

Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my 

laves 

brows, 

The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  thro'  the 

A   name    for    ever !  —  lying   robed    and 

door 

crown'd, 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 

Worthy  a  Roman  spouse.' 

Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 

Her   warbling   voice,    a    lyre    of   widest 

Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm'd  and 

range 

tied 

Struck  by  all  passion,  did    fall    down 

To   where    he    stands,  —  so    stood    I, 

and  glance 

when  that  flow 

A   DREAM  OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


59 


Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 
To  save  her  father's  vow; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 
A  maiden    pure;    as   when    she   went 
along 
From  IMizpeh's    tower'd  gate  with  wel- 
come light, 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

INIy   words  leapt  forth :   '  Heaven  heads 
the  count  of  crimes 
With  that  wild  oath.'      She  render'd 
answer  high : 
'Not    so,  nor   once    alone;   a   thousand 
times 
I  would  be  born  and  die. 

'  Single  I  grew,  like  some   green  plant, 
whose  root 
Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes  be- 
neath. 
Feeding  the  flower;  but  ere  my  flower  to 
fruit 
Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 

r     'My  God,  my  land,   my   father — these 
did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature 
gave, 
l-ower'd  softly  with  a  threefold   cord  of 
love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

'  And  I  went  mourning,  "  No  fair  Hebrew 

boy 
Shall  smile    away  my   maiden    blame 

among 
The  Hebrew  mothers  "  —  emptied  of  all 

Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

*  Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below. 
Leaving    the     promise   of  my   bridal 
bower. 
The  valleys   of  grape-loaded  vines   that 
glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 

'  The  light  white  cloud  swam   over  us. 
Anon 
We   heard  the  Ijon  roaring  from  his 
den; 


We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by 
one. 
Or,  from  the  darken'd  glen, 

'  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying 
flame. 
And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 
I  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and   grief 
became 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

'  When  the    next  moon  was  roU'd   into 
the  sky, 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equall'd  my 
desire. 
How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
For  God  and  for  my  sire  ! 

'  It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to 
dwell, 
That    I    subdued    me    to    my   father's 
will; 
Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell. 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

*  Morieover  it  is  written  that  my  race 
Hew'd  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,   from 
Aroer 
On   Arnon    unto  Minneth.'        Here  her 
face 
Glow'd,  as  I  look'd  at  her. 

.She  lock'd  her  lips  :  she  left  me  where  I 
stood : 
*  Glory  to   God,'  she   sang,    and   past 
afar, 
Thridding   the    sombre   boskage  of   the 
wood. 
Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively, 
As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans  his 
head. 
When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  sud- 
denly, 
And  the  old  year  is  dead. 

'  Alas  !    alas  i '    a  low  voice,  full  of  care, 
Murmur'd  beside  me  :   '  Turn  and  look 
on  me : 
I  am  that    Rosamond,  whom   men    call 
fair, 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 


6o 


A   DREAM  OF  FAIR    WOMEN— THE  BLACKBIRD. 


*  Would  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse 
and  poor  ! 

O  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the  light  I 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 

Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night,' 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope  and 
trust : 
To    whom    the    Egyptian :     '  Oh,   you 
tamely  died ! 
You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's  waist, 
and  thrust 
The  dagger  thro'  her  side.' 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's 
creeping  beams, 
Stol'n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the  mystery 
Of  folded    sleep.      The    captain    of  my 
dreams 
Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  broaden'd  on  the  borders  of  the  dark. 
Ere  I  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her  last 
trance 
Her  murder'd  father's  head,  or  Joan  of 
Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France; 

Or  her  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish 
Death, 
Who   kneeling,   with    one    arm  about 
her  king, 
Drew  forth   the  poison  with  her  balmy 
breath, 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labours  longer  from  the  deep 
Gold-mines    of    thought    to   lift    the 
hidden  ore 
That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from 
sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.     With  what 
dull  pain 
Compass' d,  how  eagerly  I   sought   to 
strike 
Into    that   wondrous    track    of    dreams 
again ! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath  been 
blest, 


Desiring   what   is   mingled   with  past 
years, 
In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 
By  sighs  or  groans  or  tears; 

Because  all  words,  tho'  cull'd  with  choicest 
art. 

Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sweet, 
Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the  heart 

Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 

THE  BLACKBIRD. 

O  BLACKBIRD  !  sing  me  something  well : 
While    all   the  neighbours  shoot  thee 

round, 
I  keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitful  ground, 

Where  thoumay'st  warble,  eat  and  dwell. 

The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 

Are    thine;     the    range    of  lawn   and 

park  : 
The  unnetted  black-hearts  ripen  dark, 

All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho'  I  spared  thee  all  the  spring, 
Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still, 
With  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bill 

To  fret  the  summer  jenneting. 

A  golden  bill !  the  silver  tongue. 

Cold  February  loved,  is  dry : 

Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 
That   made    thee  .  famous    once,   when 
young : 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares, 

Now  thy  flute-notes   are   changed   to 

coarse, 
I  hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  when  a  hawker  hawks  his  wares. 

Take  warning !  he  that  will  not  sing 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue, 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are  new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD 
YEAR. 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sigh- 
ing : 


THE  DEA  TH   OF   THE    OLD    YEAR  —  TO  J.   S. 


6i 


Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  die; 
You  came  to  us  so  readily. 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still :  he  doth  not  move  : 
He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 
He  hath  no  other  life  above. 
He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true-love. 
And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  go; 
So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us. 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  froth'd  his  bumpers  to  the  brim; 
A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
But  tho'  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim. 
And  tho'  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you. 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest. 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The    night    is   starry    and  cold,  my 
friend. 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold, 
my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just,  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 
The  cricket  chirps :  the  light  burns  low  : 
'Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 

Alack  !  our  friend  is  gone. 

Close  up  his  eyes :   tie  up  his  chin  : 


Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone. 
And  waiteth  at  the  door. 
There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my 

friend, 
And   a   new  face    at    the  door,  my 

friend, 
A  new  face  at  the  door. 


TO   J.    S. 

The  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain,  blows 
More  softly  round  the  open  wold, 

And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made. 
Or  else  I  had  not  dared  to  flow 

In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade 
Even  with  a  verse  your  holy  woe. 

'Tis  strange  that  those  we  lean  on  most. 
Those  in  whose  laps  our  limbs  are 
nursed. 

Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost : 

Those  we  love  first  are  taken  first. 

God  gives  us  love.     Something  to  love 
He  lends  us ;  but,  when  love  is  grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time.     Alas  ! 

In  grief  I  am  not  all  unlearn'd; 
Once  thro'  mine  own  doors  Death'did  pass ; 

One  went,  who  never  hath  return'd. 

He  will  not  smile  —  not  speak  to  me 

Once  more.     Two  years  his  chair  is 
seen 

Empty  before  us.     That  was  he 

Without  whose  life  I  had  not  been. 

Your  loss  is  rarer;   for  this  star 

Rose  with  you  thro'  a  little  arc 

Of  heaven,  nor  having  wander'd  far 
Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark. 

I  knew  your  brother :  his  mute  dust 
I  honour  and  his  living  worth  : 

A  man  more  pure  and  bold  and  just 
Was  never  born  into  the  earth. 


62 


TO  J.   S.—  ON  A   MOURNER. 


I  have  not  look'd  upon  you  nigh, 

Since  that  dear  soul  hath  fall'n  asleep. 

Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I : 
I  will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

And  tho'  mine  own  eyes  fill  with  dew, 
Drawn  from  the  spirit  thro'  the  brain, 

I  will  not  even  preach  to  you, 

*  Weep,   weeping   dulls   the   inward 
pain.' 

Let  Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 

She  loveth  her  own  anguish  deep 
More  than  much  pleasure.     Let  her  will 

Be  done  —  to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 

I  will  not  say,  *  God's  ordinance 

Of  Death  is  blown  in  every  wind;  ' 

For  that  is  not  a  common  chance 
That  takes  away  a  noble  mind. 

His  memory  long  will  live  alone 

In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light 

That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun, 

And  dwells  in  heaven  half  the  night. 

Vain  solace  !  Memory  standing  near 

Cast   down   her    eyes,    and   in   her 
throat 

Her  voice  seem'd  distant,  and  a  tear 
Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I  wrote. 

I  wrote  I  know  not  what.     In  truth, 
How  shotild  I  soothe  you  anyway, 

Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth? 
Yet  something  I  did  wish  to  say : 

For  he  too  was  a  friend  to  me : 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  true 
breast 

Bleedeth  for  both;   yet  it  may  be 
That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

Words   weaker   than   your   grief  would 
make 
Grief  more.     'Twere  better  I  should 
cease 
Although  myself  could  almost  take 

The    place    of    him   that   sleeps   in 
peace. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace  : 
Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul, 


While  the  stars  burn,  the  moons  increase. 
And  the  great  ages  onward  roll. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet. 

Nothing  comes  to  thee  new  or  strange. 
Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet; 

Lie  still,  dry  dust,  secure  of  change. 

ON   A   MOURNER. 


Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies. 
Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 

To  every  land  beneath  the  skies, 

Counts  nothing   that   she   meets  with 

base. 
But  lives  and  loves  in  every  place; 

II. 

Fills  out  the  homely  quickset-screens, 
And  makes  the  purple  lilac  ripe, 

Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 
The  swamp,  where  humm'd  the  drop- 
ping snipe. 
With  moss  and  braided  marish-pipe; 

III. 

And  on  thy  heart  a  finger  lays, 

Saying,  '  Beat  quicker,  for  the  time 

Is  pleasant,  and  the  woods  and  ways 
Are  pleasant,  and  the  beech  and  lime 
Put  forth  and  feel  a  gladder  clime.' 

IV. 

And  murmurs  of  a  deeper  voice, 
Going  before  to  some  far  shrine, 

Teach  that  sick  heart  the  stronger  choice. 
Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  Will  that  closes  thine. 


And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 
Where  yon  dark  valleys  wind  forlorn. 

Come   Hope  and    Memory,  spouse  and 
bride. 
From  out  the  borders  of  the  morn, 
With  that  fair  child  betwixt  them  born. 

VI. 

And  when  no  mortal  motion  jars 

The  blackness  round  the  tombing  sod, 


LOVE    THOU    THY  LAND. 


Thro'  silence  and  the  trembhng  stars 
Comes  Faith  from  tracts  no  feet  have 

trod, 
And  Virtue,  like  a  household  god 

VII, 

Promising  empire;   such  as  those 

Once  heard  at  dead  of  night  to  greet 

Troy's  wandering  prince,  so  that  he  rose 
With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  fleet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I  subsist, 
W^hose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist. 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas. 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till, 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose. 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends  or 
foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown, 
W'here    Freedom    slowly    broadens 
down 

From  precedent  to  precedent  : 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head. 

But  by  degrees  to  fullness  wrought. 
The     strength     of     some     diftusive 
thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute; 

Tho'   Power   should  make  from  land  to 
land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great  — 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  fill  and  choke  with  golden  sand  — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbour-mouth, 
W^ild  wind  I     I  seek  a  warmer  sky. 
And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 

The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet : 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights  : 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 

Self-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind. 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then   stept   she    down   thro'   town    and 
field 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race. 
And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 

The  fullness  of  her  face  — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works. 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down. 

Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks. 
And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown : 

Pier  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.     May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 
Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our 
dreams. 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes ! 


Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  and  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turn'd  round  on  fixed  poles. 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends. 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends, 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time. 
Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble  wings 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 


Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait 
day, 

Tho'  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 


for 


64 


LOVE    THOU   THY  LAND. 


Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds; 

But  let  her  herald,  Reverence,  fly 

Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch    what    main-currents    draw    the 
years : 
Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain: 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain  : 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers  : 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 

Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise  : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days : 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  overmuch  : 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw; 

Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term; 

Not   swift    nor    slow   to    change,    but 
firm : 
And  in  its  season  bring  the  law; 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  may  fall 
With    Life,    that,    working   strongly, 

binds  — 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm, 
And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long, 
Thro'  many  agents  making  strong. 

Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 
We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees, 

All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To   ingroove   itself    with    that    which 

flies, 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A  saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals, 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 

Ev'n  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom  — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 


A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a  painful  school; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States  — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour. 
But  vague  in  vapour,  hard  to  mark; 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd. 
Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 

Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind; 

A  wind  to  puff"  your  idol-fires. 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

Oh  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 

Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war  — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud. 
Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes. 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall  close. 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood; 

Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To   hold   his   hope    thro'  shame   and 

guilt, 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt, 
Would    pace    the    troubled    land,    like 
Peace; 

Not  less,  tho'  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 

Would   serve  his  kind    in    deed    and 

word, 
Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the  sword 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  away  — 

Would    love    the    gleams    of   good    that 
broke 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes  : 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should  rise 

Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one  stroke  : 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day. 
As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead  : 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 

Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Decay. 


ENGLAND   AND   AMERICA   IN  1782— THE    GOOSE. 


65 


ENGL.\ND    AND   AMERICA 
IN    1782. 

O  THOU,  that  sendest  out  the  man 

To  rule  by  land  and  sea, 
Strong  mother  of  a  Lion-line, 
Be  proud  of  those  strong  sons  of  thine 

Who  wrench'd  their  rights  from  thee  ! 

What  wonder,  if  in  noble  heat 

Those  men  thine  arms  withstood, 
Retaught  the  lesson  thou  hadst  taught, 
And  in  thy  spirit  with  thee  fought  — 
Who  sprang  from  English  blood ! 

But  Thou  rejoice  with  liberal  joy, 

Lift  up  thy  rocky  face, 
And  shatter,  when  the  storms  are  black, 
In  many  a  streaming  torrent  back, 

The  seas  that  shock  thy  base  ! 

Whatever  harmonies  of  law 

The  growing  world  assume, 
Thy  work  is  thine  —  The  single  note 
From  that  deep  chord  which  Hampden 
smote 

Will  vibrate  to  the  doom. 


THE   GOOSE. 

I  KNEW  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor. 
Her  rags  scarce  held  together; 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door. 
And  it  was  windy  weather. 

He  held  a  goose  upon  his  arm. 
He  utter'd  rhyme  and  reason, 

*  Here,   take  the  goose,   and   keep    you 
warm, 
It  is  a  stormy  season.' 

She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg, 
A  goose  —  'twas  no  great  matter. 

The  goose  let  fall  a  golden  egg 
With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

She   dropt  the   goose,    and    caught    the 
•     pelf, 

And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbours; 
And  bless'd  herself,  and  cursed  herself. 

And  rested  from  her  labours. 


And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft, 

Grew  plump  and  able-bodied; 
Until  the  grave  churchwarden  doff'd, 

The  parson  smirk'd  and  nodded. 

So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid. 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder  : 

But  ah  !  the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack'd  and  cackled  louder. 

It  clutter'd  here,  it  chuckled  there; 

It  stirr'd  the  old  wife's  mettle : 
She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair, 

And  hurl'd  the  pan  and  kettle. 

'  A  quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note  !  ' 
Then  wax'd  her  anger  stronger. 

'  Go,    take    the    goose,    and    wring    her 
throat, 
I  will  not  bear  it  longer.' 

Then   yelp'd    the    cur,    and   yawl'd    the 
cat; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer. 
The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that. 

And  fiU'd  the  house  with  clamour. 

As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 

They  flounder'd  all  together, 
There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door,         the 

And  it  was  windy  weather : 

nd 


iter 


oud, 


He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm, 
He  utter'd  words  of  scorning  : 

*  So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm, 
It  is  a  stormy  morning.' 

The  wild  wind  rang  from  park  and  plain, 
And  round  the  attics  rumbled. 

Till  all  the  tables  danced  again, 
And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out, 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 

Her  cap  blew  off",  her  gown  blew  up, 
And  a  whirlwind  clear'd  the  larder : 

And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loose 
Her  household  fled  the  danger, 

Quoth  she,  *  The  Devil  take  the  goose, 
And  God  forget  the  stranger  ! ' 


ork 


66 


THE   EPIC. 


ENGLISH    IDYLS 

AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


THE   EPIC. 

At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas- 
eve,  — 

The  game  of  forfeits  done  —  the  girls  all 
kiss'd 

Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  past  away  — 

The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard 
Hall, 

The  host,  and  I  sat  round  the  wassail- 
bowl. 

Then  half-way  ebb'd :  and  there  we  held 
a  talk. 

How  all  the  old  honour  had  from  Christ- 
mas gone, 

Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some  odd 
games 

In  some  odd  nooks  like  this;  till  I,  tired 
out 

With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon   the 

For  P°"^^' 

•  V^here,  three   times   slipping   from   the 


Tc 


Th 


outer  edge. 


,  ,      bump'd  the  ice  into  three  several  stars, 
/ell  in  a  doze;  and  half-awake  I  heard 


The     parson    taking    wide    and    wider 
^  sweeps, 

^\ow    harping   on    the    church-commis- 
sioners, 

Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism; 

Until  I  woke,  and  found  him  settled  down 

Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 

Right  thro'  the  world,  '  at  home  was  little 
left, 

And  none  abroad :  there  was  no  anchor, 
none. 

To   hold   by.'     Francis,   laughing,   clapt 
his  hand 

On  Everard's  shoulder,  with   '  I  hold  by 
him.' 

*  And  I,'  quoth  Everard,  '  by  the  wassail- 

bowl,' 

•  Why  yes,'  I  said.  *  we  knew  your  gift 

that  way 
At  college  :   but  another  which  you  had, 
I  mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it  then). 


What  came  of  that?  '     *  You  know,'  said 

Frank,  '  he  burnt 
His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve 

books ' — 
And  then  to  me  demanding  why?     'Oh, 

sir. 
He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said, 

or  else 
Something  so  said  'twas  nothing  —  that  a 

truth 
Looks   freshest   in   the    fashion    of   the 

day  : 
God  knows:   he  has  a  mint  of  reasons: 

ask. 
It  pleased  me  well  enough.'    '  Nay,  nay,' 

said  Hall, 
*  Why   take    the    style   of   those    heroic 

times? 
For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Masto- 
don, 
Nor  we  those  times;  and  why  should  any 

man 
Remodel  models?  these  twelve  books  of 

mine 
Were    faint   Homeric    echoes,   nothing- 
worth, 
Mere  chaff  and  draff,  much  better  burnt.' 

'  But  I,' 
Said  Francis,  '  pick'd  the  eleventh  from 

this  hearth 
And  have  it :  keep  a  thing,  its  use  will 

come. 
I  hoard  it  as  a  sugar-plum  for  Holmes.' 
He    laugh'd,   and  I,   tho'  sleepy,  like  a 

horse 
That    hears    the  corn-bin    open,  prick'd 

my  ears; 
For  I  remember'd  Everard's  college  fame 
When  we  were  Freshmen :  then  at  my 

request 
He    brought    it;     and    the    poet    little 

urged, 
But  with  some  prelude  of  disparagerftent, 
Read,  mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes  and 

aes. 
Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE  n ARTHUR. 


67 


MORTE   D'ARTHUR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roU'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  Lord, 
King  Arthur :  then,  because   his  wound 

was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and   the   moon  was 

full. 
Then     spake     King    Arthur     to     Sir 

Bedivere  : 
'  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The     goodliest     fellowship     of    famous 

knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such 

a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think 

that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I   should   come 

again 
To  rule  once  more  —  but  let  what  will  be, 

be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride  :   for  thou  remem- 

berest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an 

arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful. 
Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  row'd 

across 
And  took  it,  and    have  worn  it,  like  a 

king: 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not :   take  Excalibur, 


And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere  : 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring 

me  word.' 
To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
'  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 

thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  1  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee 

word.' 
So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he 

stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 

tombs. 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 

men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill,   chill,  with    flakes  of  foam.     He, 

stepping  down 
By   zig-zag   paths,  and   juts   of  pointed 

rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 
There     drew     he     forth     the     brand 

Excalibur, 
And    o'er    him,    drawing   it,  the    winter 

moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 

ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the 

hilt: 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 

sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he 

stood, 
This  way  and    that    dividing    the    swift 

mind. 
In  act  to  throw :  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry    about    the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi' 

vere  : 
'  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which 

I  gave? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast 

heard?' 


c 


68 


MORTE  n ARTHUR. 


And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere : 
*  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag.' 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale  : 
'Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy 

name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 

thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me 

word.' 
Then  went  Sir  Bedivere   the    second 

time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 

mere. 
Counting    the    dewy    pebbles,    fix'd    in 

thought; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 

smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud, 
'  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the  earth, 
Which   might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of 

many  men.  ' 

What  good  should   follow    this,    if  this 

were  done? 
What  harm,  undone?  deep  harm  to  dis- 
obey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey,  then,  if  a  king  de- 
mand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he 

does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumours  of  a  doubt?  but  were  this 

kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 

kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms. 
Saying,  "  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought   by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 


Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the 

deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills." 
So    might  some   old  man  speak  in   the 

aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honour  and  much  fame 

were  lost.' 
So  spake   he,   clouded   with  his   own 

conceit. 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 
Then  spoke    King  Arthur,   breathing 

heavily  : 
'  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast 

heard?  ' 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere: 
'  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag. 
And   the    long   ripple    washing    in   the 

reeds.' 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much 

in  wrath: 
'Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !   Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what 

thou  art. 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights. 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious 

hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee 

hence: 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands.' 
Then  quickly  rose    Sir  Bedivere,  and 

ran, 
And,   leaping    down   the    ridges  lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and    clutch'd 

the  sword. 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.    The 

great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendour  of  the 

moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd 

in  an  arch, 


MORTE  n ARTHUR. 


69 


Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where   the   moving  isles  of  winter 

shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 

mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 
Then    spoke    King    Arthur,    drawing 
thicker  breath: 
*  Now  see  I   by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 

done. 
Speak  out:  what  is  it  thou  hast  he.ard,  or 
seen?  ' 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere: 
'  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the 

gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheel- 
ing him; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mvstic,  wonder- 
ful, 
That   caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 
mere.' 
And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breath- 
ing hard: 
'  My    end   draws   nigh ;    'tis   time  that  I 

were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my 

weight. 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin ;   yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 
die.' 
So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half 
rose. 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm. 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bevidere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 
not  words; 


Then    took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 

one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid 

hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 

tombs. 
But,  as  he  walk'd,  King  Arthur  panted 

hard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.      So  sigh'd 

the  King, 
Muttering   and   murmuring   at    his   ear, 

'  Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die.' 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to 

ridge. 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as 

he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His    own   thought    drove    him, 

like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His  feet   on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten  with    the    dint    of  armed 

heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !  the  level  lake. 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 
Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 

barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern. 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were 

ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream 

—  by  these 
Three   Queens  with    crowns   of  gold  — 

and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

world. 
Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  '  Place  me  in 

the  barge,' 


70 


MORTE   D' ARTHUR. 


And    to    the    barge   they    came.     There 

those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King, 

and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And   loosed    the    shatter'd    casque,   and 

chafed  his  hands. 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining 

loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood  :   for  all  his  face 

was  white 
And   colourless,    and   like    the    wither'd 

moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east ; 
And  all  his  greaves   and  cuisses  dash'd 

with  drops 
Of   onset ;     and   the    light    and  lustrous 

curls  — ^ 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High      from      the      dais-throne  —  were 

parch'd  with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd    with    the    knightly   growth    that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King  ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 

rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
'  Ah !   my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I 

go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

eyes? 
For    now  I   see   the   true   old  times  are 

dead. 
When  every  morning  brought   a    noble 

chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light 

that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But   now   the   whole    round    table   is 

dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the 

years, 


Among   new  men,   strange    faces,  other 

minds.' 
And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the 

barge : 
'  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new. 
And  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 

world. 
Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 

have  done 
May  He  within  Himself  make  pure  I  but 

thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray   for    my   soul.       More   things    are 

wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore, 

let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 

day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or 

goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain. 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 

prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call 

them  friend? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 

God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest —  if  indeed  I  go  — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow. 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;   but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard- 
lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  sum- 
mer sea. 
Where  I  will  heal    me    of  my  grievous 

wound.' 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and 

sail 
Moved  from  the    brink,  like    some  full- 
breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 

the  flood. 
With   swarthy   webs.       Long   stood    Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR 


^HE    GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


71 


Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 

of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light, 
that  long 

Had  wink'd  and  threaten'd  darkness, 
flared  and  fell : 

At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with 
sound, 

And  waked  with  silence,  grunted  '  Good  I  ' 
but  we 

Sat  rapt :  it  was  the  tone  with  which  he 
read  — 

Perhaps  some  modern  touches  here  and 
there 

Redeem'd  it  from  the  charge  of  nothing- 
ness— 

Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized  his 
work  ; 

I  know  not:   but  we  sitting,  as  I  said. 

The  cock  crew  loud ;  as  at  that  time  of 
year 

The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for  dawn  : 

Then  Prancis,  muttering,  like  a  man  ill- 
used, 

'There  now  —  that's  nothing  I '  drew  a 
little  back. 

And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoulder'd 

log, 
That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the  flue  : 
And  so  to  bed ;  where  yet  in  sleep  I  seem'd 
To  sail  with  Arthur  under  looming  shores, 
Point  after  point  ;    till  on  to  dawn,  when 

dreams 
Begin  to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of  day. 
To  me,  methought,  who  waited  with    a 

crowd. 
There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  forward, 

bore 
King  Arthur,  like  a  modern  gentleman 
Of  stateliest   port ;    and   all  the   people 

cried, 
'  Arthur  is  come  again  :   he  cannot  die.' 
Then    those    that   stood   upon    the    hills 

behind 
Repeated  —  'Come  again,  and  thrice  as 

fair  ;  ' 
And,    further    inland,    voices    echo'd  — 

*  Come 
With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall  be 

no  more.' 


At  this  a  hundred  bells  began  to  peal. 
That  with  the  sound  I  woke,  and  heard 

indeed 
The    clear     church-bells     ring     in     the 

Christmas-morn. 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER; 

OR,    THE   PICTURES. 

This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day. 
When  I  and  Eustace  from  the  city  went 
To  see  the  gardener's  daughter;  I  and  he. 
Brothers  in  Art ;  a  friendship  so  complete 
Portion'd  in  halves  between  us,  that  we 

grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 
My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for  Her- 
cules ; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of  breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love,  and 

draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summ'd  up  and  closed  in  little;  — Juliet, 

she 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit  —  oh,  she 
To   me  myself,  for  some   three   careless 

moons, 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing  !  Know  you  not 
Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of  love, 
To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he  found 
Empire  for  life?  but  Eustace  painted  her, 
And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us  then, 
•  When  will  jc«  paint  like  this?'  and  I 

replied, 
(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half  in 

jest,) 
'  'Tis  not  your  work,  but  Love's.     Love, 

unperceived, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all, 
Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you,  made 

those  eyes 
Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that  hair 
More  black  than  ashbuds  in  the  front  of 

March.' 
And  Juliet  answer'd  laughing, '  Go  and  see 
The  gardener's  daughter  :   trust  me,  after 

that, 
You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  master- 
piece.' 


72 


THE    GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER; 


And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we  went. 
Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I  love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  bells; 
And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you 

hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock ; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  slow  broad 

stream, 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar. 
Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 
Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a  bridge 
Crown'd  with  the  minster-towers. 

The  fields  between 
Are  dewy-fresh,  browsed  by  deep-udder'd 

kine. 
And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers  low, 
The  lime  a  summer  home  of  murmurous 

wings. 
In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in  herself. 
Grew,  seldom  seen;    not  less  among  us 

lived 
Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.     Who  had  not 

heard 
Of  Rose,  the  gardener's  daughter  ?  Where 

was  he. 
So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart. 
At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth  in  grief. 
That,  having  seen,  forgot  ?     The  common 

mouth, 
So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise  of 

her 
Grew  oratory.     Such  a  lord  is  Love, 
And  Beauty  such  a  mistress  of  the  world. 
And  if  I  said  that  Fancy,  led  by  Love, 
Would  play  with  flying  forms  and  images, 
Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 
I  look'd  upon  her,  when  I  heard  her  name 
My  heart  was  like  a  prophet  to  my  heart. 
And  told  me  I  should  love.     A  crowd  of 

hopes. 
That    sought    to    sow    themselves    like 

winged  seeds, 
Born  out  of  everything  I  heard  and  saw, 
riutter'd  about  my  senses  and  my  soul; 
And  vague   desires,  like   fitful  blasts   of 

balm 
To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the  air 
Of  Life  delicious,  and  all  kinds  of  thought. 
That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than  the 

dream 


Dream' d  by  a  happy  man,  when  the  dark 

East, 
Unseen,  is  brightening  to  his  bridal  morn. 
And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory  folds 
For  ever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 
To  see   her.     All   the   land   in   flowery 

squares. 
Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing  wind. 
Smelt    of  the    coming   summer,  as   one 

large  cloud 
Drew  downward :  but  all  else  of  heaven 

was  pure 
Up  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge  to 

verge. 
And  May  with  me   from  head  to  heel. 

And  now. 
As  tho'  'twere  yesterday,  as  tho'  it  were 
The  hour  just  flown,  that  morn  with  all 

its  sound, 
(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the  life 

of  these,) 
Rings  in  mine  ears.     The  steer  forgot  to 

graze. 
And,    where    the    hedge-row   cuts    the 

pathway,  stood. 
Leaning   his    horns   into  the  neighbour 

field. 
And  lowing  to  his  fellows.     From    the 

woods 
Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves. 
The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes 

for  joy, 
But  shook  his  song  together  as  he  near'd 
His   happy  home,  the  ground.     To  left 

and  right, 
The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the  hills; 
The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm; 
The  redcap  whistled;  and  the  nightingale 
Sang  loud,  as  tho'  he  were  the  bird  of 

day. 
And  Eustace  turn'd,  and  smiling  said 

to  me, 
'  Hear  how  the  bushes  echo !  by  my  life. 
These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts.    Think 

you  they  sing 
Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they  sing? 
And  would  they  praise  the  heavens  for 

what  they  have? ' 
And  I  made  answer, '  Were  there  nothing 

else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but  only 

love. 


OR,   THE  PICTURES. 


73 


That    only  love  were  cause  enough  for 

praise.' 
Lightly  he  laugh'd,  as  one  that  read 

my  thought, 
And  on  we  went;   but  ere  an  hour  had 

pass'd, 
We    reach'd   a  meadow  slanting  to  the 

North ; 
Down  which  a  well-worn  pathway  courted 

us 
To  one  green  wicket  in  a  privet  hedge; 
This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  grassy  walk 
Thro'      crowded      lilac-ambush      trimly 

pruned; 
And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  per- 
fume, blew 
Beyond  us,  as  we  enter'd  in  the  cool. 
The  garden  stretches  southward.     In  the 

midst 
A  cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers  of 

shade. 
The    garden-glasses    glanced,    and    mo- 
mently 
The  twinkling  laurel  scatter'd  silver  lights. 
'  Eustace,'  I  said,  '  this  wonder  keeps 

the  house.' 
He  nodded,  but  a  moment  afterwards' 
He   cried,    '  Look  !    look  ! '     Before    he 

ceased  I  turn'd, 
And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her  there. 
For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an  Eastern 

rose, 
That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night's  gale 

had  caught. 
And  blown  across  the  walk.     One   arm 

aloft  — 
Gown'd  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to  the 

shape  — 
Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she  stood, 
A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 
Pour'd  on  one  side :  the  shadow  of  the 

flowers 
Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wavering 
Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist  — 
Ah,  happy  shade  —  and  still  went  waver- 
ing down, 
But,  ere  it  touch'd  a  foot,  that  might  have 

danced 
The  greensward  into  greener  circles,  dipt. 
And  mix'd  with  shadows  of  the  common 

ground  ! 
But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and 

sunn'd 


Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe  bloom, 
And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  her 

lips. 
And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a 

breast 
As  never  pencil  drew.     Half  light,  half 

shade, 
She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man 

young. 
So   rapt,  we   near'd    the  house  ;    but 

she,  a  Rose 
In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant  toil, 
Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  ten- 
dance turn'd 
Into  the  world  without;  till  close  at  hand, 
And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  intent, 
This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  that 

air 
Which  brooded  round  about  her : 

'  Ah,  one  rose, 
One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers 

cull'd, 
Were  worth  a  hundred  kisses  press'd  on 

lips 
Less  exquisite  than  thine.' 

She  look'd :  but  all 
Suffused  with  blushes  —  neither  self-pos- 

sess'd 
Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood  and 

that. 
Divided  in  a  graceful  quiet  —  paused, 
And  dropt  the  branch  she  held,  and  turn- 
ing, wound 
Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr'd  her 

lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  tho'  no  answer 

came. 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it, 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue-like, 
In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 
Saw  her  no  more,  altho'  I  linger'd  there 
Till  every  daisy  slept,  and  Love's  white 

star 
Beam'd  thro'  the  thicken'd  cedar  in  the 

dusk. 
So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  livelong 

way 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter  me. 
'  Now,'  said  he,  *  will  you  climb  the  top 

of  Art. 
You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to  dim 
The  Titianic  Flora.     Will  you  match 


74 


THE    GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


My  Juliet  ?  you,  not  you,  —  the  Master, 

Love, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all.' 

So  home  I  went,  but  could  not  sleep 

for  joy, 
Reading  her  perfect  features  in  the  gloom, 
Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the  glance 
That  graced  the  giving  —  such  a  noise  of 

life 
Swarm'd  in  the  golden  present,  such  a 

voice 
Call'd  to  me  from  the  years  to  come,  and 

such 
A  length  of  bright  horizon  rimm'd  the 

dark. 
And  all  that  night  I  heard  the  watchman 

peal 
The  sliding  season  :  all  that  night  I  heard 
The  heavy  clocks   knolling  the  drowsy 

hours. 
The  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all  good, 
O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded  wings, 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 
Love  at  first  sight,  first-born,  and  heir 

to  all. 
Made   this   night   thus.      Henceforward 

squall  nor  storm 
Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where  she 

dwelt. 
Light  pretexts  drew  me;    sometimes  a 

Dutch  love 
For  tulips  :  then  for  roses,  moss  or  musk, 
To  grace  my  city  rooms;   or  fruits  and 

cream 
Served  in  the  weeping  elm;    and  more 

and  more 
A  word  could   bring  the  colour  to  my 

cheek; 
A  thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with  happy 

dew; 
Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with 

each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year. 
One    after    one,   thro'   that    still    garden 

pass'd; 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower 
Danced    into   light,   and    died    into    the 

shade; 
And  each  in  passing  touch'd  with  some 

new  grace 


Or  seem'd  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by 

day. 
Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly  known, 
Her  beauty  grew;    till  Autumn  brought 

an  hour 
For  Eustace,  when  I  heard  his  deep  '  I 

will,' 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a  God,  to 

hold 
From  thence  thro'  all  the  worlds :  but  I 

rose  up 
Full  of  his  bliss',  and  following  her  dark 

eyes 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I  reach'd 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  standing 

there. 
There   sat  we   down  upon   a   garden 

mound. 
Two  mutually  enfolded;   Love,  the  third. 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 
Enwound  us  both ;  and  over  many  a  range 
Of  waning  lime  the  gray  cathedral  towers. 
Across  a  hazy  glimmer  of  the  west, 
Reveal'd   their  shining  windows:    from 

them  clash'd 
The  bells;    we  listen'd;    with  the  time 

we  play'd, 
We  spoke  of  other  things;   we  coursed 

about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near  and 

near. 
Like  doves  about  a  dovecote,  wheeling 

round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 
Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I  spoke 

to  her, 
Requiring,  tho'  I  knew  it  was  mine  own, 
Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  I  took  to  hear. 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 
A  woman's  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I  loved ; 
And  in  that  time  and  place  she  answer'd 

me. 
And  in  the  compass  of  three  little  words, 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one. 
The  silver  fragments  of  a  broken  voice. 
Made  me  most  happy,  faltering,  '  I  am 

thine.' 
Shall  I  cease  here  ?     Is  this  enough  to 

say 
That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest  hopes, 
By  its  own  energy  fulfill'd  itself. 
Merged  in  completion  ?    Would  you  learn 

at  full 


THE    GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER  — DORA. 


75 


How    passion    rose    thro'   circumstantial 
grades 

Beyond  all  grades  develop'd  ?  and  indeed 

I  had  not  staid  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 

But  while  I  mused  came  Memory  with 
sad  eyes, 

Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth; 

And  while  I  mused,  Love  with  knit  brows 
went  by, 

And  with  a  flying  finger  swept  my  lips. 

And  spake,  '  Be  wise  :  not  easily  forgiven 

Are  those  who,  setting  wide  the  doors 
that  bar 

The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the  heart. 

Let  in  the  day,'     Here,  then,  my  words 
have  end. 
Yet  might  I  tell  of  meetings,  of  fare- 
wells — 

Of  that  which  came  between,  more  sweet 
than  each. 

In  whispers,   like    the   whispers    of  the 
leaves 

That  tremble  round  a  nightingale  —  in 
sighs 

Which  perfect  Joy,  perplex'd  for  utter- 
ance, 

Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.     Might  I 
not  tell 

Of    difference,    reconcilement,    pledges 
given, 

And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need 
of  vows. 

And  kisses,  where  the  heart  on  one  wild 
leap 

Hung  tranced  from  all  pulsation,  as  above 

The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces 
pale 

Sow'd  all  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleeting 
stars; 

Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent-lit, 

Spread   the  light  haze  along  the  river- 
shores, 

And  in  the  hollows;   or  as  once  we  met 

Unheedful,    tho'   beneath    a   whispering 
rain 

Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of  sigh- 
ing wind. 

And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby.  Sleep. 
But   this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have 
been  intent 

On  that  veil'd  picture  — veil'd,  for  what  it 
holds 

May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common  day. 


This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.     Raise 

thy  soul; 
Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine  eyes: 

the  time 
Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there. 
As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart, 
My  first,  last  love;  the  idol  of  my  youth. 
The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas  ! 
Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine 

age. 

DORA. 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.    William  was  his  son. 
And  she  his  niece.     He  often  look'd  at 

them, 
And  often  thought,  '  I'll  make  them  man 

and  wife.' 
Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And   yearn'd   toward  William;    but  the 

youth,  because 
He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house. 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When    Allan    call'd    his   son,  and    said, 

'  My  son  : 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die  : 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora ;  she  is  well 
To  look  to;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter:  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and 

he  died 
In  foreign  lands;   but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora :    take  her  for  your 

wife ; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night 

and  day, 
For  many  years.'     But  William  answer'd 

short : 
'  I  cannot  marry  Dora;  by  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora.'    Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands, 

and  said  : 
*  You  will  not,  boy  !  you  dare  to  answer 

thus! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law. 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look  to  it ; 
Consider,    William :    take    a   month    to 

think. 


76 


DORA. 


And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish ; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall 

pack, 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again.' 
But    William   answer'd   madly;    bit    his 

lips, 
And  broke  away.     The  more  he  look'd 

at  her 
The  less  he  liked  her;  and  his  ways  were 

harsh ; 
But    Dora    bore    them    meekly.     Then 

before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's 

house, 
And  hired   himself  to  work  within  the 

fields; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd  and 

wed 
A  labourer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 
Then,  when   the    bells   were   ringing, 

Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said  :  '  My  girl,  I  love  you 

well ; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my 

son. 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his 

wife. 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is 

law.' 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She 

thought, 
'  It   cannot    be  :    my    uncle's   mind   will 

change ! ' 
And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born 

a  boy 
To   William;    then    distresses    came    on 

him; 
And  day  by  day  he  pass'd   his  father's 

gate, 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help'd  him 

not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little    she  could 

save. 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they 

know 
Who  sent  it;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat 
And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and 

thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and 

said  : 
'  I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now, 


And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  thro'  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the    sake  of  him    that's 

gone. 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he 

chose. 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you : 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these 

five  years 
So  full  a  harvest :  let  me  take  the  boy, 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat;  that  when  his  heart 

is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy. 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's 

gone.' 
And    Dora  took  the  child,  and  went 

her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies 

grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not;   for  none  of  all  his 

men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to 

him, 
But  her  heart  fail'd  her;  and  the  reapers 

reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was 

dark. 
But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose 

and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the 

mound; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  pass'd  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work. 
And  came  and  said:  'Where  were  you 

yesterday? 
Whose  child  is  that?  What  are  you  doing 

here?' 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
And  answer'd  softly,  'This  is  William's 

child  !  ' 
'  And  did  I  not,'  said  Allan,  '  did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora? '     Dora  said  again  : 
'  Do  with  me    as  you  will,  but  take  the 

child. 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's 

gone  !  ' 


DORA. 


77 


And  Allan  said,  '  I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  ! 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you 

dared 
To  slight  it.     Well  — for  I  will  take  the 

boy; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more.' 
So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried 

aloud 
And   struggled    hard.      The   wreath   of 

flowers  fell 
At   Dora's   feet.     She  bowed   upon  her 

hands, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the 

field, 
More    and    more    distant.     She    bow'd 

down  her  head. 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She 

bow'd  down 
And   wept  in   secret;    and    the   reapers 

reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was 

dark. 
Then  Dura  went  to  Mary's  house,  and 

stood 
Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in 

praise 
To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widow- 
hood. 
And  Dora  said,  *  My  uncle  took  the  boy; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you  : 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more.' 
Then  answer'd  Mary, '  This  shall  never  be, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on 

thyself: 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the 

boy, 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to 

slight 
His  mother;  therefore  thou  and  I  will  go. 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him 

home; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back  : 
But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then    thou  and   I  will  live   within  one 

house, 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he 

grows 
Of  age  to  help  us.' 

So  the  women  kiss'd 


Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach'd  the 

farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch:  they  peep'd, 

and  saw 
The  boy    set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's 

knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the 

cheeks, 
Like  one   that  loved  him:  and  the  lad 

stretch'd  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,   that 

hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the 

fire. 
Then  they  came  in  :  but  when  the  boy 

beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her : 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said  : 
'O   Father!  —  if  you  let  me  call  you 

so  — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 
Or    William,  or    this  child;   but   now   I 

come 
For  Dora  :   take  her  back;   she  loves  you 

well. 

0  Sir,   when   William  died,  he   died  at 

peace 
With  all  men;   for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he 

said 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me  — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife :  but,  Sir,  he 

said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father 

thus: 
"  God  bless  him  !  "  he  said,  "  and  may  he 

never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro' !  "     Then 

he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd  —  unhappy  that  I  am  ! 
But  now,  Sir,  let  me   have  my  boy,  for 

you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn 

to  slight 
His    father's  memory;    and    take    Dora 

back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before.' 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.   There  was  silence  in  the  room ; 
And  all   at  once  the  old  man  burst  in 

sobs : — 
'  I  have  been  to  blame  —  to  blame.     I 

have  kill'd  my  son. 


AUDLEY  COURT. 


I  have  kill'd  him  —  but  I  loved  him  — 
my  dear  son. 

May  God  forgive  me  !  — I  have  been  to 
blame. 

Kiss  me,  my  children.' 

Then  they  clung  about 

The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many 
times. 

And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  re- 
morse; 

And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred- 
fold; 

And  for  three  hours  he  sobb'd  o'er  Will- 
iam's child 

Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 

Within  one  house  together;  and  as  years 

Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate; 

But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


AIJDLEY   COURT. 

*The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd,  and 

not  a  room 
For  love  or  money.     Let  us  picnic  there 
At  Audley  Court.' 

I  spoke,  while  Audley  feast 
Humm'd  like  a  hive  all  round  the  narrow 

quay, 
To  Francis,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm, 
To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat. 
And  breathing  of  the  sea.     '  With  all  my 

heart,' 
Said  Francis.     Then  we  shoulder'd  thro' 

the  swarm, 
And  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the  beach 
To    where   the    bay    runs   up    its    latest 

horn. 
We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly  lipp'd 
The  flat  red  granite;  so  by  many  a  sweep 
Of  meadow   smooth  from  aftermath  we 

reach'd 
The  griffin-guarded  gates,  and  pass'd  thro' 

all 
The  pillar'd  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores, 
And  cross'd  the  garden  to  the  gardener's 

lodge. 
With  all  its  casements   bedded,  and  its 

walls 
And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy  vine. 
There,  on  a  slope  of  orchard,  Francis 

laid 


A    damask  napkin  wrought  with    horse 

and  hound. 
Brought  out  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of 

home. 
And,  half-cut-down,  a  pasty  costly-made, 
W^here  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  leveret 

lay, 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden  yolks 
Imbedded  and  injellied;  last,  with  these, 
A  flask  of  cider  from  his  father's  vats, 
Prime,  which  I  knew;   and  so  we  sat  and 

eat 
And  talk'd   old  matters  over;  who  was 

dead, 
Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and 

how 
The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent  the 

hall: 
Then  touch'd  upon  the  game,  how  scarce 

it  was 
This  season;   glancing  thence,  discuss'd 

the  farm. 
The  four-field  system,  and  the  price  of 

grain; 
And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where 

we  split, 
And  came  again  together  on  the  king 
With  heated  faces;  till  he  laugh'd  aloud; 
And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin 

hung 
To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine  and 

sang  — 
'  Oh  !  who  would  fight  and  march  and 

countermarch. 
Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a  battle-field. 
And  shovell'd  up  into  some  bloody  trench 
Where  no  one  knows?  but  let  me  live 

my  life. 

*  Oh !  who  would  cast  and  balance  at 

a  desk, 
Perch'd  like  a  crow  upon  a  three-legg'd 

stool, 
Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his  joints 
Are  full  of  chalk?  but  let  me   live    my 

hfe. 

*  Who'd  serve  the  state  ?    for  if  I  carved 

my  name 
Upon  the  cliffs  that  guard  my  native  land, 
I  might  as  well  have  traced  it  in  the  sands; 
The  sea  wastes  all :  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

*  Oh !     who    would    love?    I  woo'd   a 

woman  once, 
But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern  wind, 


AUDLEY   COURT— WALKING    TO    THE  MAIL. 


79 


And  all  my  heart  turn'd  from  her,  as  a 

thorn 
Turns  from  the  sea;   but  let  me  live  mv 

life.' 
He  sang  his  song,  and  I  replied  with 

mine: 
I  found  it  in  a  volume,  all  of  songs, 
Knock'd    down    to    me,   when    old    Sir 

Robert's  pride. 
His  books  —  the  more  the  pity,  so  I  said — 
Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March  — 

and  this  — 
I  set  the  words,  and  added  names  I  knew. 
'  Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  sleep,  and  dream 

of  me : 
Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister's  arm. 
And  sleeping,  haply  dream  her  arm  is 

mine. 
'Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  Emilia's  arm; 
EmiUa,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thou, 
For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 
'  Sleep,   breathing   health   and    peace 

upon  her  breast : 
Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust   against 

her  lip: 
I  go  to-night:   I  come  to-morrow  morn. 

'  I  go,  but  I  return  :   I  would  I  were 
The  pilot  of  the  darkness  and  the  dream. 
Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream  of 

me.' 
So  sang  we    each    to   either,    Francis 

Hale, 
The  farmer's  son,  who  lived  across  the  bay. 
My    friend;   and  I,  that   having   where- 
withal. 
And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life 
A  rolling  stone  of  here  and  everywhere. 
Did  what  I  would;   but  ere  the  night  we 

rose 
And    saunter'd    home    beneath  a  moon, 

that,  just 
In  crescent,  dimly  rain'd  about  the  leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reach'd 
The  limit  of  the  hills;   and  as  we  sank 
From   rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming 

quay, 
The  town  was  hush'd  beneath  us :  lower 

down 
The    bay  was    oily  calm;    the    harbour- 
buoy. 
Sole  star  of  phosphorescence  in  the  calm, 
With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at  heart. 


WALKING  TO  THE   MAIL. 

John.     I'm  glad  I  walk'd.     How  fresh 
the  meadows  look 
Above  the  river,  and,  but  a  month  ago, 
The  whole  hill-side  was  redder  than  a  fox. 
Is  yon  plantation  where  this  byway  joins 
The  turnpike? 
James.  Yes, 

John.     And  when  does  this  come  by? 
James.     The  mail?     At  one  o'clock. 
John.  What  is  it  now? 

James.     A  quarter  to. 
John.  Whose  house  is  that  I  see? 

No,  not  the  County  Member's  with  the 

vane  : 
Up  higher  with  the  yew-tree  by  it,  and 

half 
A  score  of  gables, 

James.     That?     Sir  Edward    Head's: 

But  he's  abroad  :  the  place  is  to  be  sold, 

John.     Oh,  his.     He  was  not  broken, 

James.  No,  sir,  he, 

Vex'd  with  a  morbid  devil  in  his  blood 

That  veil'd  the  world  with  jaundice,  hid 

his  face 
From    all    men,    and    commercing   with 

himself. 
He   lost   the    sense   that    handles   daily 

life  — 
That  keeps  us  all  in  order  more  or  less  — 
And   sick    of    home    went    overseas   for 
change. 
John.     And  whither? 
James.     Nay,  who  knows?    He's  here 
and  there. 
But  let  him  go;   his  devil  goes  with  him, 
As  well  as  with  his  tenant,  Jocky  Dawes, 
John.     What's  that? 
James.     You  saw  the  man  —  on  Mon- 
day, was  it?  — 
There  by  the  humpback'd  willow;    half 

stands  up 
And  bristles;   half  has  fall'n  and  made  a 

bridge; 
And  there  he  caught  the  younker  tickling 

trout  — 
Caught  in  Jlagrante — what's  the  Latin 

word  ?  — 
Delicto :  but  his  house,  for  so  they  say, 
Was   haunted  with    a  jolly   ghost,    that 
shook 


I 


8o 


WALKING    TO    THE  MAIL, 


The  curtains,  whined  in  lobbies,  tapt  at 

doors. 
And  rummaged   like  a  rat :    no  servant 

stay'd : 
The  farmer  vext  packs  up  his  beds  and 

chairs, 
And  all  his  household  stuff;   and  with  his 

boy 
Betwixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the  tilt, 
Sets  out,  and  meets  a  friend  who  hails 

him,  •  What ! 
You're   flitting  ! '      '  Yes,   we're   flitting,' 

says  the  ghost 
(For  they  had  pack'd  the  thing  among 

the  beds). 
*Oh  well,'  says  he,  'you  flitting  with  us 

too  — 
Jack,  turn  the  horses'  heads  and  home 

again.' 
John.     iYif  left /;zj  wife  behind;   for  so 

I  heard. 
James.     He  left  her,  yes.     I  met  my 

lady  once : 
A  woman  like  a  butt,  and  harsh  as  crabs. 
John.     Oh   yet   but  I  remember,    ten 

years  back  — 
'Tis  now  at  least  ten   years  —  and  then 

she  was  — 
You  could  not  light  upon  a  sweeter  thing : 
A  body  slight  and  round,  and  like  a  pear 
In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a  hand,  a  foot 
Lessening  in  perfect  cadence,  and  a  skin 
As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when   it 

flowers. 
James.     Ay,  ay,  the  blossom  fades,  and 

they  that  loved 
At  first  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat  and 

dog. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  cottager. 
Out  of  her  sphere.     What  betwixt  shame 

and  pride, 
New  things  and  old,  himself  and  her,  she 

sour'd 
To  what  she  is  :  a  nature  never  kind  ! 
Like  men,  like  manners :  like  breeds  like, 

they  say  : 
Kind  nature  is  the  best :  those  manners 

next 
That  fit  us  like  a  nature  second-hand; 
Which    are  indeed  the  manners  of  the 

great. 
John.     But  I  had  heard  it  was  this  bill 

that  past, 


And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that  drove 

him  hence. 
James.     That  was  the  last  drop  in  the 

cup  of  gall. 
I  once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailiff 

brought 
A  Chartist  pike.  '  You  should  have  seen 

him  wince 
As  from  a  venomous  thing :  he  thought 

himself 
A  mark  for  all,  and  shudder'd,  lest  a  cry 
Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and  his 

nice  eyes 
Should  see  the  raw  mechanic's   bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat    on   his  blazon'd  chairs;   but,  sir, 

you  know 
That  these  two    parties   still    divide  the 

world  — 
Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that  have  : 

and  still 
The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from  age 

to  age 
With   much   the   same   result.      Now   I 

myself, 
A  Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a  boy 
Destructive,  when  I  had  not  what  I  would. 
I  was  at  school  —  a  college  in  the  South  : 
There  lived  a  flayflint  near;   we  stole  his 

fruit. 
His  hens,  his  eggs;    but  there  was  law 

for  tis  ; 
We  paid  in  person.     He  had  a  sow,  sir. 

She, 
With  meditative  grunts  of  much  content, 
Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun  and 

mud. 
By  night  we  dragg'd  her  to  the  college 

tower 
From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  cork- 
screw stair 
With  hand  and  rope  we  haled  the  groan- 
ing sow. 
And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she 

Large  range  of  prospect  had  the  mother 

sow. 
And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loved 
As  one  by  one  we  took  them  —  but  for 

this  — 
As  never  sow  was  higher  in  this  world  — 
Might  have  been  happy :  but  what  lot  is 

pure? 


EDWIN  MORRIS;    OR,   THE  lAKE. 


8i 


We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left  alone 
Upon  her  tower,  the  Niobe  of  swine, 
And  so  return'd  unfarrow'd  to  her  sty. 
John.     They  found  you  out? 
James.  Not  they. 

John.  Well  —  after  all  — 

What  know  we  of  the  secret  of  a  man? 
His  nerves  were  wrong.     What  ails  us, 

who  are  sound, 
That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool  the 

world, 
Which  charts  us  all  in  its  coarse  blacks 

or  whites, 
As  ruthless  as  a  baby  with  a  worm, 
As  cruel  as  a  schoolboy  ere  he  grows 
To  Pity  —  more  from  ignorance  than  will. 
But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or  I 
fear 
That  we  shall  miss  the  mail :  and  here  it 

comes 
With  five  at  top  :  as  quaint  a  four-in-hand 
As  you  shall  see  —  three  pyebalds  and  a 
roan. 


EDWIN   MORRIS; 

OR,   THE    LAKE. 

O  ME,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake, 
My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three  quarters  of  a 

year, 
My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 
Of  city  life  !     I  was  a  sketcher  then  : 
See  here,  my  doing  :   curves  of  mountain, 

bridge, 
Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a  castle,  built 
When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a 

rock 
With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a  rock  : 
And    here,    new-comers    in    an    ancient 

hold. 
New-comers   from   the   Mersey,   million- 
aires. 
Here  lived  the  Hills  —  a  Tudor-chimnied 

bulk 
Of  mellow  brickwork  on  an  isle  of  bowers. 
O  me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake 
With  Edwin    Morris   and  with   Edward 

Bull 
The  curate;   he  was  fatter  than  his  cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the 
names. 


Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss  and 

fern, 
Who  forged  a  thousand  theories  of  the 

rocks, 
Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row,  to 

swim. 
Who  read  me  rhymes  elaborately  good, 
His  own  —  I  call'd  him  Crichton,  for  he 

seem'd 
All-perfect,  finish'd  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  once  I  ask'd  him  of  his  early  life, 
And  his  first  passion;   and  he  answer'd 

me; 
And  well  his  words  became  him  :  was  he 

not 
A  fuU-cell'd  honeycomb  of  eloquence 
Stored  from  all  flowers?      Poet-like  he 

spoke. 

'  My  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I ; 
But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to  that. 
And  three  rich  sennights  more,  my  love 

for  her. 
My  love  for  Nature  and  my  love  for  her, 
Of  different  ages,  like  twin-sisters  grew, 
Twin-sisters  differently  beautiful. 
To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the  sun, 
And  some  full  music  seem'd  to  move  and 

change 
With  all  the  varied  changes  of  the  dark. 
And  either  twilight  and  the  day  between; 
For  daily  hope  fulfiU'd,  to  rise  again 
Revolving    toward    fulfilment,    made    it 

sweet 
To    walk,  to   sit,  to   sleep,   to    wake,   to 

breathe.' 

Or   this  or  something  like  to  this  he 
spoke. 
Then  said   the  fat-faced  curate  Edward 
Bull, 
'  I  take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for 
the  man. 
And  for  the  good  and  increase   of  the 

world. 
A  pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well, 
To  have  a  dame  indoors,  that  trims  us  up, 
And  keeps  us  tight ;  but  these  unreal  ways 
Seem  but  the  theme  of  writers,  and  in- 
deed 
W^orn  threadbare.     Man  is  made  of  solid 
stuff. 


82 


EDWIN  MORRIS;    OR,    THE  LAKE. 


I  say,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man, 
And  for  the  good  and   increase  of  the 
world.' 

'Parson,'  said  I,  'you  pitch  the  pipe 

too  low  : 
But  I  have  sudden  touches,  and  can  run 
My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his : 
Tho'  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 
I  do  not  hear  the  bells  upon  my  cap, 
I  scarce  have  other  music :  yet  say  on. 
What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such  a 

dream?  ' 
I  ask'd  him  half-sardonically. 

'Give? 
Give  all  thou  art,'  he   answer'd,  and   a 

light 
Of  laughter  dimpled  in  his  swarthy  cheek ; 
'  I  would   have    hid   her    needle    in   my 

heart, 
To  save  her  little  finger  from  a  scratch 
No  deeper  than  the  skin  :  my  ears  could 

hear 
Her  lightest  breath;    her  least  remark 

was  worth 
The  experience  of  the  wise.     I  went  and 

came; 
Her  voice  fled  always  thro'  the  summer 

land ; 
I  spoke  her  name  alone.     Thrice-happy 

days! 
The  flower  of  each,  those  moments  when 

we  met, 
The    crown  of  all,   we  met  to  part  no 

more.' 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I  a  beast 
To  take  them  as  I  did?  but  something 

jarr'd; 
Whether  he  spoke  too  largely;   that  there 

seem'd 
A  touch  of  something  false,  some   self- 
conceit. 
Or  over-smoothness :  howsoe'er  it  was. 
He  scarcely  hit  my  humour,  and  I  said : 

'  Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  yourself 

alone 
Of  all  men  happy.      Shall  not  Love  to 

me. 
As  in  the  Latin  song  I  learnt  at  school, 
Sneeze  out  a  full  God-bless-you  right  and 

left? 


But  you  can  talk:  yours  is  a  kindly  vein  : 
I  have,    I   think,  —  Heaven  knows,  —  as 

much  within; 
Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a  thought 

or  two. 
That  like  a  purple  beech  among  the  greens 
Looks  out  of  place  :  'tis  from  no  want  in 

her : 
It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distrust, 
Or  something  of  a  M'ayward  modern  mind 
Dissecting  passion.      Time   will   set  me 

right.' 

So    spoke   I  knowing  not  the  things 

that  were. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 

Bull: 
'  God  made  the  w^oman  for  the   use  of 

man. 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world.' 
And  I  and  Edwin  laughed;   and  now  we 

paused 
About  the  windings  of  the  marge  to  hear 
The  soft  wind   blowing   over  meadowy 

'  holms 
And  alders,  garden-isles;   and  now  we  left 
The  clerk  behind  us,  I  and  he,  and  ran 
By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake. 
Delighted   with    the    freshness   and    the 

sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on  their 

crags, 
My  suit  had  wither'd,  nipt  to  death  by 

him 
That  was  a  God,  and  is  a  lawyer's  clerk. 
The  rentroll  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 
'Tis  true,  we  met;   one  hour  I  had,  no 

more  : 
She  sent  a  note,  the  seal  an  Elle  voiis 

suit. 
The  close, '  Your  Letty,  only  yours  ;  '  and 

this 
Thrice   underscored.     The  friendly  mist 

of  morn 
Clung  to  the  lake.     I  boated  over,  ran 
My  craft  aground,  and  heard  with  beat- 
ing heart 
The  Sweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelving 

keel; 
And   out   I   stept,  and   up   I  crept :  she 

moved, 


ST.   SIMEON  S XYLITES. 


^3 


Like      Proserpine     in     Enna,     gathering 

flowers : 
Then  low  and  sweet  I  whistled  thrice; 

and  she, 
She  turn'd,  we  closed,  we  kiss'd,  swore 

faith,  I  breathed 
In  some  new  planet :  a  silent  cousin  stole 
Upon    us    and    departed :    '  Leave,'    she 

cried, 
*  O  leave  me  !  '     *  Never,  dearest,  never  : 

here 
I  brave  the  worst :  '  and  while  we  stood 

like  fools 
Embracing,  all  at  once  a  score  of  pugs 
And  poodles  yell'd  within,  and  out  they 

came 
Trustees  and  Aunts  and  Uncles,     '  What, 

with  him  ! 
Go  '  (shrill'd  the  cotton-spinning  chorus)  ; 

'  him ! ' 
I    choked.      Again    they    shriek'd    the 

burthen  — '  Him  !  ' 
Again  with  hands  of  wild  rejection  *  Go  !  — 
Girl,  get   you  in  ! '     She  went  —  and  in 

one  month 
They  wedded  her  to  sixty  thousand  pounds. 
To  lands  in  Kent  and  messuages  in  York, 
And  slight  Sir   Robert  with  his  watery 

smile 
And  educated  whisker.     But  for  me. 
They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to  work  : 
It  seems  I  broke  a  close  with  force  and 

arms : 
There  came  a  mystic  token  from  the  king 
To  greet  the  sheriff,  needless  courtesy ! 
I    read,   and    fled  by   night,    and   flying 

turn'd  : 
Her  taper  glimmer'd  in  the  lake  below : 
I  turn'd  once  more,  close-button'd  to  the 

storm ; 
So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have  seen 
Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared  to 

hear. 

Nor  cared  to  hear?  perhaps:  yet  long 

ago 
I  have  pardon'd  little  Letty;  not  indeed, 
It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but  this. 
She  seems  apart  of  those  fresh  days  to  me; 
For  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  London  life 
She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the  lake. 
While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his  wing, 

or  then 


While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  overhead 
The  light  cloud  smoulders  on  the  summer 
crag. 


ST.   SIMEON   STYLITES. 

Altho'  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind, 
From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and  crust 

of  sin. 
Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven,  scarce 

meet 
For  troops  of  devils,  mad  with  blasphemy, 
I  will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  I  hold 
Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamour,  mourn  and 

sob, 
Battering  the  gates  of  heaven  with  storms 

of  prayer, 
Have  mercy,  Lord,  and  take  away  my 

sin. 
Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty 

God, 
This  not  be  all  in  vain,  that  thrice  ten 

years, 
Thrice  multiplied  by  superhuman  pangs, 
In  hungers  and  in  thirsts,  fevers  and  cold, 
In  coughs,  aches,  stitches,  ulcerous  throes 

and  cramps, 
A  sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the  cloud, 
Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I  have  borne 
Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and 

sleet,  and  snow; 
And  I  had  hoped  that  ere  this  period  closed 
Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into  thy 

rest, 
Denying  not  these  weather-beaten  limbs 
The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe  and 

the  palm. 
O  take  the  meaning.  Lord :   I  do  not 

breathe. 
Not  whisper,  any  murmur  of  complaint. 
Pain  heap'd  ten-hundred-fold  to  this,  were 

still 
Less  burthen,  by  ten-hundred-fold,  to  bear, 
Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin, 

that  crush'd 
My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

O  Lord,  Lord, 
Thou  knowest  I  bore  this  better  at  the 

first. 
For  I  was  strong  and  hale  of  body  then; 
And  tho'  my  teeth,  which  now  are  dropt 

away. 


84 


ST.    SIMEON  S XYLITES. 


Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all  my 

beard 
Was  tagg'd  with  icy  fringes  in  the  moon, 
I  drown'd  the  whoopings  of  the  owl  with 

sound 
Of  pious  hymns  and  psalms,  and  some- 
times saw 
An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  as  I  sang. 
Now  am  I  feeble  grown;   my  end  draws 

nigh; 
I  hope  my  end  draws  nigh :  half  deaf  I 

am. 
So  that  I  scarce  can  hear  the  people  hum 
About  the  column's  base,  and  almost  blind, 
And   scarce    can  recognise  the  fields  I 

know; 
And  both  my  thighs  are  rotted  with  the 

dew; 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  clamour  and  to  cry, 
While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  my  w-eary 

head, 
Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from  the 

stone, 
Have  mercy,  mercy :   take  away  my  sin. 

O  Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my  soul. 
Who  may  be  saved?  who  is  it  may  be 

saved? 
Who  may  be  made  a  saint,  if  I  fail  here? 
Show  me  the  man   hath  suffer'd   more 

than  I. 
For  did  not  all  thy  martyrs  die  one  death  ? 
For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  crucified. 
Or  burn'd  in  fire,  or  boil'd  in  oil,  or  sawn 
In  twain  beneath  the  ribs;  but  I  die  here 
To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a  life  of 

death. 
Bear  witness,  if  I  could  have  found  a  way 
(And  heedfully  I  sifted  all  my  thought) 
More  slowly-painful  to  subdue  this  home 
Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I  despise  and  hate, 
I  had  not  stinted  practice,  O  my  God. 

For  not  alone  this  pillar-punishment, 
Not  this  alone  I  bore  :  but  while  I  lived 
In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley  there, 
For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I  wore 
The  rope  that  haled  the  buckets  from  the 

well. 
Twisted  as  tight  as  I  could  knot  the  noose; 
And  spake  not  of  it  to  a  single  soul. 
Until  the  ulcer,  eating  thro'  my  skin, 
Betray'd  my  secret  penance,  so  that  all 
My   brethren    marvell'd   greatly.      More 

than  this 


I  bore,  whereof,  O  God,  thou  knowest  all. 
Three    winters,    that    my    soul    might 

grow  to  thee, 
I  lived   up    there    on   yonder   mountain 

side. 
My  right  leg  chain'd  into  the  crag,  I  lay 
Pent  in  a  roofless  close  of  ragged  stones; 
Inswathed  sometimes  in  wandering  mist, 

and  twice 
Black'd  with  thy  branding  thunder,  and 

sometimes 
Sucking  the  damps  for  drink,  and  eating 

not. 
Except   the   spare   chance-gift   of  those 

that  came 
To  touch  my  body  and  be  heal'd,  and  live  : 
And  they  say  then  that  I  work'd  miracles, 
Whereof  my  fame  is  loud  amongst  man- 
kind, 
Cured  lameness,  palsies,  cancers.     Thou, 

OGod, 
Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 
Have  mercy,  mercy  !  cover  all  my  sin. 
Then,   that    I    might   be   more    alone 

with  thee. 
Three  years  I  lived  upon  a  pillar,  high 
Six  cubits,  and   three  years  on  one  of 

twelve; 
And  twice  three  years  I  crouch'd  on  one 

that  rose 
Twenty  by  measure;   last  of  all,  I  grew 
Twice  ten  long  weary  weary  years  to  this, 
That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the  soil. 
I  think  that  I  have  borne  as  much  as 

this  — 
Or  else  I  dream  —  and  for  so  long  a  time. 
If  I  may  measure  time  by  yon  slow  light. 
And    this    high    dial,  which    my  sorrow 

crowns  — 
So  much —  even  so. 

And  yet  I  know  not  well. 
For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and  say, 
'  Fall  down,  O  Simeon  :  thou  hast  suffer'd 

long 
For  ages  and  for  ages ! '  then  they  prate 
Of  penances  I  cannot  have  gone  thro'. 
Perplexing  me  with  lies;   and  oft  I  fall. 
Maybe  for  months,  in  such  blind  lethargies 
That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time  are 

choked. 

But  yet 
Bethink  thee,  Lord,  while  thou  and  all 

the  saints 


ST.   SIMEON  STYLITES. 


85 


Enjoy  themselves  in  heaven,  and  men  on 
earth 

House  in  the  shade  of  comfortable  roofs, 

Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  whole- 
some food, 

And  wear  warm  clothes,  and  even  beasts 
have  stalls, 

I,  'tween  the  spring  and  downfall  of  the 
light, 

Bow  down  one  thousand  and  two  hundred 
times. 

To  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the 
saints; 

Or  in  the  night,  after  a  little  sleep, 

I  wake  :  the  chill  stars  sparkle;    I  am  wet 

With  drenching  dews,  or  stiff  with  crack- 
ling frost. 

I  wear  an  undress'd  goatskin  on  my 
back; 

A  grazing  iron  collar  grinds  my  neck; 

And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I  lift  the 
cross, 

And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till  I 
die  : 

0  mercy,  mercy  !  wash  away  my  sin. 

O  Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a  man  I 

am; 
A  sinful  man,  conceived  and  born  in  sin  : 
'Tis   their   own   doing;    this  is  none  of 

mine; 
Lay  it  not  to  me.     Am  I  to  blame  for 

this. 
That  here  come  those  that  worship  me? 

Ha!   ha! 
They  think  that  I  am  somewhat.     What 

am  I  ? 
The  silly  people  take  me  for  a  saint. 
And    bring   me    offerings   of    fruit    and 

flowers : 
And  I,  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  witness 

here) 
Have  all  in  all  endured    as    much,  and 

more 
Than    many  just    and    holy  men,  whose 

names 
Are  register'd  and  calendar'd  for  saints. 

Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to  me. 
What  is  it  I  can  have  done  to  merit  this? 

1  am  a  sinner  viler  than  you  all. 

It  may  be  I  have  wrought  some  miracles, 
And  cured  some  halt  and  maim'd;    but 

what  of  that? 
It  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the  saints, 


May  match    his   pains  with   mine;    but 

what  of  that? 
Yet  do  not  rise;   for  you  may  look  on  me, 
And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel  to 

God. 
Speak  !  is  there  any  of  you  halt  or  maim'd  ? 
I  think   you  know  I  have   some  power 

with  Heaven 
From  my  long  penance  :  let  him  speak 

his  wish. 
Yes,    I    can    heal   him.      Power    goes 

forth  from  me. 
They   say   that    they    are    heal'd.      Ah, 

hark  !  they  shout 
'  St.  Simeon  Stylites.'     Why,  if  so, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  me.     O  my  soul, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  thee.     If  this  be, 
Can  I  work  miracles  and  not  be  saved? 
This  is  not  told  of  any.     They  were  saints. 
It  cannot  be  but  that  I  shall  be  saved; 
Yea,    crown'd    a    saint.       They    shout, 

'  Behold  a  saint ! ' 
And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 
Courage,  St.  Simeon  !  This  dull  chrysalis 
Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope  ere 

death 
Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that 

God  hath  now 
Sponged    and    made   blank    of   crimeful 

record  all 
My  mortal  archives. 

O  my  sons,  my  sons, 
I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 
Stylites,  among  men  ;  I,  Simeon, 
The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end; 
I,    Simeon,    whose    brain    the    sunshine 

bakes; 
I,    whose   bald   brows    in    silent    hours 

become 
Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 
From  my  high  nest  of  penance  here  pro- 
claim 
That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 
Show'd  like  fair  seraphs.     On  the  coals 

I  lay, 
A  vessel  full  of  sin  :  all  hell  beneath 
Made  me  boil  over.     Devils  pluck'd  my 

sleeve, 
Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 
I     smote    them    with     the     cross;     they 

swarm'd  again. 
In  bed  like  monstrous  apes  they  crush'd 

mv  chest : 


86 


ST.    SIMEON  S XYLITES—  THE    TALKING    OAK. 


They  flapp'd  my  light  out  as  I  read  :   I 
saw 

Their  faces  grow  between   me   and    my 
book; 

With  colt-like  whinny  and  with  hoggish 
whine 

They  burst   my   prayer.      Yet   this  way 
was  left, 

And  by  this  way  I  'scaped  them.     Mortify 

Your  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges   and 
with  thorns; 

Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not.     If  it  may 
be,  fast 

Whole  Lents,  and  pray.     I  hardly,  with 
slow  steps. 

With  slow,  faint  steps,  and  much  exceed- 
ing pain. 

Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  fire, 
that  still 

Sing  in  mine  ears.     But  yield  not  me  the 
praise  : 

God  only  thro'  his  bounty  hath  thought  fit. 

Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this 
world, 

To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind. 

Which  few  can  reach  to.     Yet  I  do  not 
say 

But  that  a  time  may  come  —  yea,  even 
now, 

Now,  now,  his  footsteps  smite  the  thresh- 
old stairs 

Of  life  —  I  say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 

When  you  may  worship  me  without  re- 
proach; 

For  I  will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land, 

And   you  may  carve  a  shrine  about  my 
dust, 

And   burn    a   fragrant   lamp    before   my 
bones, 

When    I    am    gather'd    to    the   glorious 
saints. 
While  I  spake  then,  a  sting  of  shrewd- 
est pain 

Ran  shrivelling  thro'  me,  and  a  cloudlike 
change. 

In  passing,  with  a  grosser  film  made  thick 

These  heavy,  horny  eyes.     The  end  !  the 
end  ! 

Surely  the  end  !     What's  here?  a  shape, 
a  shade, 

A  flash  of  light.     Is  that  the  angel  there 

That    holds    a    crown?       Come,    blessed 
l)rother,  come. 


I   know  thy  glittering   face.       I   waited 

long; 
My  brows    are   ready.       What !    deny  it 

now? 
Nay,    draw,    draw,    draw    nigh.       So    I 

clutch  it.     Christ ! 
'Tis  gone:    'tis  here  again;   the  crown! 

the  crown ! 
So  now  'tis  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me, 
And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 
Sweet !   sweet !  spikenard,  and  balm,  and 

frankincense. 
Ah  !  let  me  not  be  fool'd,  sweet  saints : 

I  trust 
That  I  am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet 

for  Heaven. 
Speak,  if  there  be  a  priest,  a  man  of 

God, 
Among  you  there,  and  let  him  presently 
Approach,    and    lean   a   ladder   on    the 

shaft. 
And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home. 
Deliver  me  the  blessed  sacrament; 
For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
I  prophesy  that  I  shall  die  to-night, 
A  quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  O  Lord, 
Aid  all  this  foolish  people;  let  them  take 
Example,    pattern :     lead    them    to    thy 

light. 


THE  TALKING   OAK. 

Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulder'd  Abbey-walls, 

That  stand  within  the  chace. 

Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies, 
Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke; 

And  ah  !  with  what  delighted  eyes 
I  turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began, 
Ere  that,  which  in  me  burn'd, 

The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a  man, 
Could  hope  itself  return'd; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 

1  spoke  without  restraint, 
And  with  a  larger  faith  appeal'd 

Than  Papist  unto  Saint. 


THE   TALKING    OAK. 


S7 


For  oft  I  talk'd  with  him  apart, 

And  told  him  of  my  choice, 
Until  he  plagiarised  a  heart, 

And  answer'd  with  a  voice. 

Tho'  what  he  whisper'd  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand; 

I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I  heard  him  make  reply 

Is  many  a  weary  hour; 
'Tvvere  well  to  question  him,  and  try 

If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern, 
Broad  Oak  of  Sumner-chace, 

Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

If  ever  maid  or  spouse, 
As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs. — 

'  O  Walter,  I  have  shelter'd  here 

Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  year 

Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace  : 

'  Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was  fat. 
And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek. 

Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 
The  girls  upon  the  cheek, 

'Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  Peter's-pence, 
And  number'd  bead,  and  shrift, 

Bluff  Harry  broke  into  the  spence 
And  turn'd  the  cowls  adrift : 

'And  I  have  seen  some  score  of  those 
Fresh  faces,  that  would  thrive 

When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 
To  chase  the  deer  at  five; 

'And    all    that    from    the    town    would 
stroll, 

Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 
In  which  the  gloomy  brewer's  soul 

Went  by  me,  like  a  stork  : 

'The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood, 
And  others,  passing  praise. 


Strait-laced,  but  all-too-full  in  bud 
For  puritanic  stays : 

*  And  I  have  shadow'd  many  a  group 

Of  beauties,  that  were  born 
In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop, 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn; 

'  And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay, 
Abuut  me  leap'd  and  laugh'd 

The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day, 
And  shrill'd  his  tinsel  shaft. 

'  I  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 

Each  leaf  into  a  gall) 
This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick. 

Is  three  times  worth  them  all; 

'  For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature's  law, 

Have  faded  long  ago; 
But  in  these  latter  springs  I  saw 

Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

'  From     when     she    gamboll'd     on    the 
greens 

A  baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 

Could  number  five  from  ten. 

'  I  swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 

That,  tho'  I  circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years  — 

'Yet,  since  I  first  could  cast  a  shade, 

Did  never  creature  pass 
So  slightly,  musically  made. 

So  light  upon  the  grass: 

'  P'or  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh, 

I  hold  them  exquisitely  knit, 
But  far  too  spare  of  flesh.' 

O  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern. 

And  overlook  the  chace; 
And  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place. 

« 
But  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

That  oft  hast  heard  my  vows. 
Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 

To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs. 


88 


THE    TALKING    OAK. 


'  0  yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 

That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each, 

Was  holden  at  the  town; 

She  might  have  lock'd  her  hands. 

Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair, 

And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

'  Yet  seem'd  the  pressure  thrice  as  sweet 

As  woodbine's  fragile  hold. 

'  And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his. 

Or  when  I  feel  about  my  feet 

I  look'd  at  him  with  joy : 

The  berried  briony  fold.' 

As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is, 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

O  mufile  round  thy  knees  with  fern. 

And  shadow  Sumner-chace  ! 

'  An  hour  had  past  —  and,  sitting  straight 

Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

Within  the  low-wheel'd  chaise. 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

Her  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 

Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 

I  carved  with  many  vows 

*  But  as  for  her,  she  stay'd  at  home, 

When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I  came 

And  on  the  roof  she  went. 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs? 

And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come, 

She  look'd  with  discontent. 

'  O  yes,  she  wander'd  round  and  round 

These  knotted  knees  of  mine. 

*  She  left  the  novel  half-uncut 

And   found,    and   kiss'd    the    name   she 

Upon  the  rosewood  shelf  ; 

found. 

She  left  the  new  piano  shut : 

And  sweetly  murmur'd  thine. 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

'A  teardrop  trembled  from  its  source, 

*  Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt. 

And  down  my  surface  crept. 

And  livelier  than  a  lark 

My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse, 

She  sent  her  voice  thro'  all  the  holt 

But  I  believe  she  wept. 

Before  her,  and  the  park. 

*  Then  flush'd  her  cheek  with  rosy  light. 

'  A  light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing, 

She  glanced  across  the  plain; 

And  in  the  chase  grew  wild. 

But  not  a  creature  was  in  sight: 

As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 

She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

About  the  darling  child : 

'  Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind. 

'  But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 

That,  trust  me  on  my  word. 

So  fleetly  did  she  stir. 

Hard  wood  I  am,  and  wrinkled  rind. 

The  flower,  she  touch'd  on,  dipt  and  rose. 

But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr'd  : 

And  turn'd  to  look  at  her. 

*  And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 

*  And    here    she    came,    and    round    me 

A  pleasure  I  discern'd, 

play'd, 

Like  those  blind  motions  of  the  Spring, 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 

That  show  the  year  is  turn'd. 

Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 

About  my  "  giant  bole;  " 

'Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 

The  ringlet's  waving  balm  — 

'  And  in  a  fit  of  frolic  mirth 

The  cushions  of  whose  touch  may  press 

She  strove  to  span  my  waist : 

The  maiden's  tender  palm. 

Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 

I  could  not  be  embraced. 

'  I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves 

But  languidly  adjust 

*  I  wish'd  myself  the  fair  young  beech 

My  vapid  vegetable  loves 

That  here  beside  me  stands, 

With  anthers  and  with  dust : 

THE    TALKING    OAK. 


89 


'  For  ah  !  my  friend,  the  days  were  brief 

Whereof  the  poets  talk, 
When  that,  which   breathes  within    the 
leaf, 

Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

'  But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone, 
From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem. 

Have  suck'd  and  gather'd  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 

*  She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro', 
I  would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss. 
With  usury  thereto.' 

O  flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers, 

And  overlook  the  lea, 
Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bovvers 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

O  flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern. 

Old  oak,  I  love  thee  well; 
A  thousand  thanks  for  what  I  learn 

And  what  remains  to  tell. 

'  'Tis  little  more  :  the  day  was  warm; 

At  last,  tired  out  with  play. 
She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm 

And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

'  Her  eyelids  dropp'd  their  silken  eaves. 

I  breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Thro'  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 

A  welcome  mix'd  with  sighs. 

*  I  took  the  swarming  sound  of  life  — 

The  music  from  the  town  — 
The  murmurs  of  the  drum  and  fife 
And  lull'd  them  in  my  own. 

'  Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip. 

To  light  her  shaded  eye; 
A  second  flutter'd  round  her  lip 

Like  a  golden  butterfly; 

'  A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine; 

Another  slid,  a  sunny  fleck, 
From  head  to  ankle  fine. 

'Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I  spread. 
And  shadow'd  all  her  rest  — 


Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head, 
An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

'  But  in  a  pet  she  started  up. 
And  pluck'd  it  out,  and  drew 

My  little  oakling  from  the  cup, 
And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

'  And  yet  it  was  a  graceful  gift  — 

I  felt  a  pang  within 
As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 

His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

'  I  shook  him  down  because  he  was 

The  finest  on  the  tree. 
He  lies  beside  thee  on  the  grass. 

O  kiss  him  once  for  me. 

'  O  kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me, 

That  have  no  lips  to  kiss. 
For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 

Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this.' 

Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern, 
Look  further  thro'  the  chace, 

Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discern 
The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest. 

That  but  a  moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 

Some  happy  future  day. 

I  kiss  it  twice,  I  kiss  it  thrice, 
The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 

To  riper  life  may  magnetise 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset. 
Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand. 

Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee, 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint, 
Thou  art  the  fairest-spoken  tree 

From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

O  rock  upon  thy  towery-top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet ! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet! 


90 


THE'  TALKING    OAK— LOVE  AND  DUTY. 


All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow  — 
And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 

The  full  south-breeze  around  thee  blow 
The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 

That  under  deeply  strikes  1 
The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot, 

High  up,  in  silver  spikes  1 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain, 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleep. 
Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain. 

That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep  ! 

And  hear  me  swear  a  solemn  oath, 

That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I  to  Olive  plight  my  troth, 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 

And  when  my  marriage  morn  may  fall, 
She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 

Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 
In  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I  will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 

Than  bard  has  honour'd  beech  or  lime. 
Or  that  Thessalian  growth. 

In  which  the  swarthy  ringdove  sat, 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke; 

And  more  than  England  honours  that, 
Thy  famous  brother-oak, 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode. 
And  humm'd  a  surly  hymn. 


LOVE   AND   DUTY. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close. 
What     sequel  ?        Streaming    eyes    and 

breaking  hearts  ? 
Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been? 
Not  so.     Shall  Error  in  the  round  of 

time 
Still  father  Truth?     O  shall  the  braggart 

shout 
For  some  blind  glimpse  of  freedom  work 

itself 


Thro'  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to  law, 
System  and  empire  ?  Sin  itself  be  found 
The   cloudy   porch    oft   opening  on   the 

Sun? 
And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  become 
Mere   highway   dust?   or   year    by   year 

alone 
Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a  life, 
Nightmare  of  youth,  the  spectre  of  him- 
self? 
If  this  were  thus,  if  this,  indeed,  were 

all. 
Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony  heart. 
The  staring  eye  glazed  o'er  with  sapless 

days, 
The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro. 
The  set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 
But  am  I  not  the  nobler  thro'  thy  love? 
O  three  times   less  unworthy  !    likewise 

thou 
Art  more  thro'  Love,  and   greater  than 

thy  years, 
The  Sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the  Moon 
Her  circle.     Wait,  and  Love  himself  will 

bring 
The     drooping     flower     of    knowledge 

changed   to   fruit 
Of  wisdom.     Wait :  my  faith  is  large  in 

Time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  perfect 

end. 
Will  some  one  say.  Then  why  not  ill 

for  good? 
Why  took  ye  not  your  Pastime?     To  that 

man 
My  work  shall  answer,  since  I  knew  the 

right 
And  did  it;   for  a  man  is  not  as  God, 
But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a  man. 
—  So  let  me  think  'tis  well  for  thee  and 

me  — 
Ill-fated  that  I  am,  what  lot  is  mine 
Whose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my  heart 

so  slow 
To  feel  it !    For  how  hard  it  seem'd  to 

me, 
When  eyes,  love-languid  thro'  half  tears 

would  dwell 
One  earnest,  earnest  moment  upon  mine, 
Then  not  to  dare  to  see  !   when  thy  low 

voice, 
I'altering.  would    break  its  syllables,    to 

keep 


LOVE  AND  DUTY— THE    GOLDEN  YEAR. 


91 


My  own  full-tuned,  —  hold  passion  in  a 

leash, 
And    not  leap  forth    and  fall  about  thy 

neck. 
And  on  thy  bosom  (deep  desired  relief!) 
Rain   out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that 

weigh'd 
Upon  my  brain,  my  senses  and  my  soul ! 
For    Love    himself   took    part  against 

himself 
To  warn  us  off,  and  Duty  loved  of  Love  — 
O  this  world's  curse  —  beloved  but  hated 

—  came 
Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrace  and 

mine, 
And   crying,  '  Who   is   this?  behold  thy 

bride,' 
She  push'd  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 
To  alien  ears,  I  did  not  speak  to  these  — 
No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  thyself  in  me  : 
Hard    is    my    doom    and    thine :     thou 

knowest  it  all. 
Could  Love  part  thus?  was  it  not  well 

to  speak, 
To  have  spoken  once?     It  could  not  but 

be  well. 
The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all 

things  good. 
The   slow   sad    hours    that   bring   us  all 

things  ill, 
And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought 

the  night 
In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone, 
And  to  the  want,  that   hollow'd  all  the 

heart. 
Gave  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an  eye. 
That  burn'd  upon  its  object   thro'  such 

tears 
As  flow  but  once  a  life. 

The  trance  gave  way 
To  those  caresses,  when  a  hundred  times 
In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the  last, 
Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived  and 

died. 
Then  foUow'd  counsel,  comfort,  and  the 

words 
That  make  a  man  feel  strong  in  speaking 

truth ; 
Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  overhead 
The  lights  of  sunset  and  of  sunrise  mix'd 
In  that  brief  night;   the  summer  night, 

that  paused 


Among  her  stars  to  hear  us;   stars  that 

hung 
Love-charm'd  to  listen  :  all  the  wheels  of 

Time 
Spun  round  in  station,  but  the  end  had 

come. 
O    then  like  those,  who  clench   their 

nerves  to  rush 
Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose. 
There  —  closing  like  an  individual  life  — 
In  one  blind  cry  of  passion  and  of  pain. 
Like  bitter  accusation  ev'n  to  death. 
Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  and  utter'd 

it, 
And  bade  adieu  for  ever. 

Live  —  yet  live  — 
Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  knowing 

all 
Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to  will  — 
Live  happy;   tend  thy  flowers;   be  tended 

by 
My  blessing !     Should  my  Shadow  cross 

thy  thoughts 
Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it  thou 
For  calmer  hours   to  Memory's   darkest 

hold. 
If  not  to  be  forgotten  — not  at  once  — 
Not   all  forgotten.     Should  it  cross   thy 

dreams, 
O  might  it  come  like  one  that  looks  con- 
tent, 
With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the  truth. 
And  point  thee  forward  to  a  distant  light. 
Or  seem  to  lift  a  burthen  from  thy  heart 
And   leave    thee    freer,    till    thou   wake 

refresh'd 
Then  when  the  first  low  matin-chirp  hath 

grown 
Full  quire,  and  morning  driv'n  her  plow 

of  pearl 
Far  furrowing   into    light    the  mounded 

rack, 
Beyond  the  fair  green  Held  and  eastern 

sea. 


THE   GOLDEN   YEAR. 

Well,  you  shall  have  that  song  which 

Leonard  wrote  : 
It  was  last  summer  on  a  tour  in  Wales: 
Old  James  was  with    me ;    we  that  day 

had  been 


92 


THE   GOLDEN   YEAR. 


Up  Snowdon;   and  I  wish'd  for  Leonard 

there, 
And  found   him  in  Llanberis :   then  we 

crost 
Between  the   lakes,  and   clamber'd  half 

way  up 
The  counter  side;   and  that  same  song  of 

his 
He   told   me;    for  I  banter'd   him,  and 

swore 
They  said  he  lived  shut  up  within  himself, 
A  tongue-tied  Poet  in  the  feverous  days, 
That,  setting   the  how  much  before  the 

how, 
Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horseleech, 

'  Give, 
Cram  us  with  all,'  but  count  not  me  the 

herd! 
To  which  'They  call   me   what   they 

will,'  he  said  : 
'  But  I  was  born  too  late  :  the  fair  new 

forms, 
That  float  about  the  threshold  of  an  age, 
Like    truths   of  Science   waiting    to    be 

caught  — 
Catch  me  who  can,  and  make  the  catcher 

crown'd  — 
Are  taken  by  the  forelock.      Let  it  be. 
But  if  you  care  indeed  to  listen,  hear 
These    measured    words,    my   work    of 

yestermorn. 
'  We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but  all 

things  move; 
The  Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother  Sun; 
The  dark  Earth  follows  wheel'd   in  her 

ellipse; 
And   human   things  returning  on  them- 
selves 
Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 
*  Ah,  tho'  the  times,  when  some  new 

thought  can  bud. 
Are    but    as   poets'    seasons   when    they 

flower. 
Yet  oceans  daily  gaining  on  the  land. 
Have    ebb    and  flow  conditioning   their 

march. 
And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the  golden 

year. 
'  When  wealth  no  more  shall    rest  in 

mounded  heaps, 
But   smit   with  freer   light   shall   slowly 

melt 
In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 


And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be  liker 

man 
Thro'  all  the  season  of  the  golden  year. 
'Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles?  wrens  be 

wrens? 
If  all   the  world  were  falcons,  what   of 

that? 
The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less. 
But  he  not  less  the  eagle.     Happy  days 
Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 
'  Fly,  happy  happy  sails,  and  bear  the 

Press; 
Fly  happy  with  the  mission  of  the  Cross; 
Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  haven- 
ward 
With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear 

of  toll, 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 
'  But  we  grow  old.     Ah !    when  shall 

all  men's  good 
Be  each  man's  rule,  and  universal  Peace 
Lie  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  land, 
And   like  a  lane  of  beams  athwart  the 

sea. 
Thro'  all  the  circle  of  the  golden  year?' 
Thus  far  he  flow'd,  and  ended;  where- 
upon 
'Ah,  folly!'  in  mimic  cadence  answer'd 

James  — 
*  Ah,  folly !  for  it  lies  so  far  away, 
Not  in  our  time,  nor  in  our   children's 

time, 
'Tis   like   the   second  world  to   us  that 

live; 
'Twere   all  as  one   to  fix  our    hopes  on 

Heaven 
As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year.' 
With  that  he  struck  his  staff  against 

the  rocks 
And  broke  it,  — James,  —  you  know  him, 

—  old,  but  full 
Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his 

feet. 
And  like  an  oaken  stock  in  winter  woods, 
O'erflourish'd  with  the  hoary  clematis : 
Then  added,  all  in  heat : 

'  What  stuff  is  this  ! 
Old    writers   push'd    the    happy   season 

back,  — 
The    more    fools    they,  —  we    forward : 

dreamers  both : 
You  most,  that  in   an  age,  when  every 

hour 


UL  YSSES. 


93 


Must   sweat   her   sixty   minutes    to    the 

death, 
Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seedsman, 

rapt 
Upon    the   teeming  harvest,  should  not 

plunge 
His  hand  into  the  bag:  but  well  I  know- 
That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels  he 

works. 
This   same   grand   year   is   ever   at    the 

doors.' 
He  spoke;    and,  high  above,  I  heard 

them  blast 
The   steep    slate-quarry,    and   the   great 

echo  flap 
And  buffet  round  the  hills,  from  bluff  to 

bluff. 

ULYSSES. 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king. 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren 

crags, 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and 

dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That   hoard,   and   sleep,  and  feed,  and 

know  not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel :  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees :  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  sufTer'd  greatly,  both  with 

those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore,  and 

when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades    s 
Vext  the  dim  sea :  ^I  am  become  a  name;) 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known :  cities  of 

men, 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  govern- 
ments. 
Myself  not  least,  but  honour'd  of  them 

all; 
And   drunk    delight    of  battle  with    my 

peers, 
Far    on    the    ringing    plains    of    windy 

Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams    that    untravell'd   world,   whose 

margin  fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 


To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use  ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled 

on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains :  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From    that    eternal    silence,    something 

more, 
A   bringer    of  new  things;    and  vile   it 

were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 

myself. 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star. 
Beyond    the    utmosT    bound    of    human 

thought. 
This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make 

mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most   blameless    is   he,    centred    in    the 

sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.     He  w-orks  his  work, 

I  mine. 
There  lies  the  port;    the  vessel   puffs 

her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My 

mariners. 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and 

thought  with  me  — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  w^elcome  took 
The    thunder    and    the    sunshine,    and 

opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  —  you  and  I 

are  old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil; 
Death  closes  all :   but  something  ere  the 

end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be 

done, 
Not    unbecoming   men  that  strove  with 

Gods. 
The    lights    begin    to    twinkle  from    the 

rocks: 
The   long   day   wanes :    the   slow  moon 

climbs :   the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come, 

my  friends, 


94 


TITHONUS. 


'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows;    for  my  purpose 

holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the   gulfs  will  wash  us 

down : 
It  maybe  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And   see    the   great  Achilles,  whom  we 

knew. 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides;   and 

tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in 

old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven;  that  which  we 

are,  we  are; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong 

in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


TITHONUS. 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and 

fall, 
The  vapours  weep  their  burthen  to  the 

ground, 
Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies 

beneath, 
And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 
Me  only  cruel  immortality 
Consumes  :  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms. 
Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 
A  white-hair'd   shadow  roaming   like    a 

dream 
The  ever-silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of 

morn. 

Alas !    for   this   gray  shadow,   once   a 

man  — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice. 
Who  madest   him    thy  chosen,   that   he 

seem'd 
To  his  great   heart  none   other    than  a 

God! 
I  ask'd  thee,  *  Give  me  immortality.' 
Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  with 

a  smile. 
Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they 

give. 


But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd 

their  wills. 
And    beat    me    down    and    marr'd    and 

wasted   me. 
And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me 

maim'd 
To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth, 
Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 
And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.     Can  thy  love, 
Thy    beauty,    make    amends,    tho'    even 

now. 
Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide, 
Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill 

with  tears 
To  hear  me  ?    Let  me  go  :  take  back  thy 

gift: 
Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men. 
Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 
Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet 

for  all  ? 

A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart;   there 

comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I 

was  born. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer 

steals 
From   thy   pure    brows,    and    from   thy 

shoulders  pure. 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renew'd. 
Thy  cheek   begins   to  redden  thro'  the 

gloom. 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to 

mine. 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild 

team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke, 

arise, 
And    shake    the    darkness    from    their 

loosen'd  manes, 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo  !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In    silence,    then    before    thine    answer 

given 
Departest,    and    thy    tears    are    on    my 
cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy 
tears. 
And    make    me    tremble    lest    a    saying 
learnt, 


TITHONUS  —  LOCKSLE Y  HALL. 


95 


In  days  far-off,  on   that  dark   earth,  be 

true  ? 
'  The     Gods    themselves    cannot    recall 

their  gifts.' 

Ay  me  !    ay  me  !    with  what   another 

heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other  eyes 
I  used  to  watch  —  if  I  behe  thatwatch'd — 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee; 

saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings; 
Changed  with    thy  mystic   change,  and 

felt  my  blood 
Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowlv  crimson'd 

all 
Thy  presence   and   thy  portals,  while   I 

lay. 
Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy- 
warm 
With    kisses  balmier  than  half-opening 

buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that 

kiss'd 
Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and 

sweet, 


Like  that  strange  song  I   heard  Apollo 

sing. 
While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine  East : 
How  can   my   nature    longer    mix   with 

thine  ? 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled 

feet 
Upon   thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when 

the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about  the 

homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to 

die, 
And    grassy    barrows    of    the     happier 

dead. 
Release    me,    and    restore    me    to    the 

ground; 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my 

grave : 
Thou  wilt   renew  thy   beauty  morn   by 

morn; 
I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty  courts, 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels. 


LOCKSLEY   HALL. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis  early  morn : 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the  bugle-horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a  youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  Time; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land  reposed ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed  : 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see; 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be.  — 


96  LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish'd  dove; 

In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  for  one  so  young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  *My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee.' 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  color  and  a  hght. 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  turn'd  —  her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes  — 

Saying,  '  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong  ;  ' 
Saying,  'Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ?'  weeping,  '  I  have  loved  thee  long.' 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in  his  glowing  hands; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  fullness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted  !     O  my  Amy,  mine  no  more  ! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  !     O  the  barren,  barren  shore  ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongue  1 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy?  —  having  known  me  —  to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart  than  mine  ! 

Yet  it  shall  be :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day, 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathise  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  :  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown, 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy:  think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him:   it  is  thy  duty  :  kiss  him  :   take  his  hand  in  thine. 


LOCKS  LEY  HALL.  97 


It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought : 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  understand  — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee  with  my  hand ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart's  disgrace, 
Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth ! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature's  rule  ! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd  forehead  of  the  fool ! 

Well  —  'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster  !  —  Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved- 
Would  to  God  —  for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears  but  bitter  fruit? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the  clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort?  in  division  of  the  records  of  the  mind? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I  knew  her,  kind? 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd  :  sweetly  did  she  speak  and  move  : 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  she  bore? 
No  —  she  never  loved  me  truly:   love  is  love  for  evermore. 

Comfort?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils  !  this  is  truth  the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead*  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art  staring  at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken  sleep. 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  '  Never,  never,'  whisper'd  by  the  phantom  years, 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of  thine  ears; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow :  get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace ;   for  a  tender  voice  will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine;   a  lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 
H 


98  LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down :  my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dearness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his :  it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part, 

With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a  daughter's  heart. 

'They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings  —  she  herself  was  not  exempt 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd  '  —  Perish  in  thy  self-contempt  I 

Overlive  it  —  lower  yet  —  be  happy!  wherefore  should  I  care? 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy:   what  is  that  which  I  should  do? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapour,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honour  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness?     I  will  turn  that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous  Mother-Age  ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  life; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  would  yield. 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father's  field. 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a  dreary  dawn; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then, 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men : 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something  new : 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they  shall  do  : 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see. 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue; 


LOCKSLEY  HALL.  99 


Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  rushing  warm, 
"With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the  thunder-storm; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  furl'd 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe, 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left  me  dry. 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced  eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  joint: 
Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point : 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion  creeping  nigher. 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for  ever  like  a  boy's? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger  on  the  shore. 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a  laden  breast, 
Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-horn. 
They  to  Avhom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for  their  scorn : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  moulder'd  string? 
I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness  1   woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a  shallower  brain : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match'd  with  mine. 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine  — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.     Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evil-starr'd;  — 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit  —  there  to  wander  far  away. 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 


loo  LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag, 

Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree  — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and  breathing  space; 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run, 
Catch  the  vv^ild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the  brooks, 
Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books  — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy !  but  I  knoiv  my  words  are  wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with  lower  pains! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage  —  what  to  me  were  sun  or  clime? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  tiles  of  time  — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one, 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.     Forward,  forward  let  us  range, 
Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 

Mother-Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  me  as  when  life  begun : 
Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  Hghtnings,  weigh  the  Sun. 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall ! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapour  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I  go. 


GODIVA. 


lOI 


GODIVA. 

/  ivaited for  the  train  at  Coventry; 

I  hung  tvith  grooms  and  porters  on  the 

bridge, 
To  watch  the  three  tall  spires;  and  there 

I  shaped 
The  citys  ancient  legend  into  this  :  — 

Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 
Cry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that  prate 
Of  rights  and   wrongs,  have    loved    the 

people  well, 
And  loathed  to  see  them  overtax'd;   but 

she 
Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  overcame, 
The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers  back, 
Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl,  who  ruled 
In  Coventry:  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 
Upon   his    town,    and    all    the    mothers 

brought 
Their  children,  clamouring,  '  If  we  pay, 

we  starve  ! ' 
She   sought   her   lord,   and   found   him, 

where  he  strode 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone. 
His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  his  hair 
A  yard  behind.     She  told  him  of  their 

tears. 
And  pray'd  him,  '  If  they  pay  this  tax, 

they  starve.' 
Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half-amazed, 
*  You  would  not  let  your  little  finger  ache 
For  such  as  these  ?''  —  '  But  I  would  die,' 

said  she. 
He  laugh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by 

Paul: 
Then  fiUip'd  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear; 
'  Oh  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk  ! '  —  'Alas  ! '  she 

said, 
'But  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not  do.' 
And    from   a   heart    as  rough  as   Esau's 

hand. 
He  answer'd,  '  Ride  you  naked  thro'  the 

town. 
And  I   repeal   it;  '   and  nodding,  as  in 

scorn, 
He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  his 

dogs. 
So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind, 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and 

blow. 


Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour. 

Till  pity  won.     She  sent  a  herald  forth, 

And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trumpet, 
all 

The  hard  condition;   but  that  she  would 
loose 

The  people :  therefore,  as  they  loved  her 
well, 

From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace 
the  street, 

No  eye  look  down,  she  passing;   but  that 
all 

Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  win- 
dow barr'd. 
Then  fled  she  to   her  inmost    bower, 
and  there 

Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt. 

The  grim  Earl's  gift;   but  ever  at  a  breath 

She    linger'd,    looking    like    a    summer 
moon 

Half-dipt  in  cloud :  anon  she  shook  her 
head. 

And  shower'd  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her 
knee; 

Unclad  herself  in  haste;   adown  the  stair 

Stole  on;   and,  like  a  creeping  sunbeam, 
slid 

From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reach'd 

The  gateway;   there  she  found  her  pal- 
frey trapt 

In  purple  blazon'd  with  armorial  gold. 
Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with 
chastity : 

The  deep  air  listen'd  round  her  as  she 
rode, 

And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for 
fear. 

The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon  the 
spout 

Had  cunning  eyes  to  see :  the  barking 
cur 

Made  her  cheek  flame :  her  palfrey's  foot- 
fall shot 

Light  horrors  thro'  her  pulses :  the  blind 
walls 

Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes;  and  over- 
head 

Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared :  but 
she 

Not  less  thro'  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she 
saw 

The  white-flower'd  elder-thicket  from  the 
field 


I02 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


Gleam  thro'  the  Gothic  archway  in  the 
wall. 
Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with 
chastity : 

And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless 
earth, 

The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come, 

Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear, 

Peep'd  —  but  his  eyes,  before  they   had 
their  will, 

Were    shrivell'd    into    darkness    in    his 
head, 

And  dropt  before  him.     So  the  Powers, 
who  wait 

On  noble  deeds,  cancell'd  a  sense  mis- 
used; 

And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd :   and  all 
at  once, 

With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the 
shameless  noon 

W'as  clash'd  and  hammer'd  from  a  hun- 
dred towers, 

One  after  one :  but  even  then  she  gain'd 

Her  bower;   whence  reissuing,  robed  and 
crown'd. 

To    meet    her    lord,    she    took    the    tax 
away 

And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 

THE   DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O  Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak  : 

A  pleasant  hour  has  pass'd  away 
While,  dreaming  on  your  damask  cheek. 

The  dewy  sister-eyelids  lay. 
As  by  the  lattice  you  reclined, 

I  went  thro'  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  you  dreaming —  and,  behind, 

A  summer  crisp  with  shining  woods. 
And  I  too  dream'd,  until  at  last 

Across  my  fancy,  brooding  warm, 
The  reflex  of  a  legend  past, 

And  loosely  settled  into  form. 
And  would  you  have  the  thought  I  had, 

And  see  the  vision  that  I  saw. 
Then  take  the  broidery-frame,  and  add 

A  crimson  to  the  (juaint  Macaw, 
And  I  will  tell  it.     Turn  your  face, 

Nor  look  with  that  too-earnest  eye  — 
The  rhymes  are  dazzled  from  their  place 

And  urder'd  words  asunder  fly. 


THE  SLEEPING   PALACE. 


The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 

Clothes  and  reclothes  the  happy  plains. 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf. 

Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 
Faint  shadows,  vapours  lightly  curl'd, 

Faint    murmurs    from    the    meadows 
come. 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 

To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 

II. 

Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 

On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn. 
The  fountain  to  his  place  returns 

Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower. 

On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires, 
The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower. 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 

III. 

Roof-haunting  martins  warm  their  eggs: 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay'd. 
The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 

Droop  sleepily :  no  sound  is  made, 
Not  even  of  a  gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a  picture  seemeth  all 
Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings. 

That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the  wall. 

IV. 

Here  sits  the  Butler  with  a  flask 

Between  his  knees,  half-drain'd;   and 
there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task, 

The  maid-of-honour  blooming  fair; 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his: 

Her  lips  are  sever'd  as  to  speak  : 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss : 

The  blush  is  Hx'd  upon  her  cheek. 


Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass, 
The  beams,  that  thro'  the  Oriel  shine. 

Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 
And  beaker  brimm'd  with  noble  wine. 

Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps. 
Grave  faces  gather'd  in  a  ring. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


103 


His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 
He  must  have  been  a  jovial  king. 

VI. 

All  round  a  hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 

At  distance  like  a  little  wood; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes, 

And  grapes  with  bunches  red  as  blood; 
All  creeping  plants,  a  wall  of  green 

Close-matted,  bur  and  brake  and  briar. 
And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen. 

High  up,  the  topmost  palace  spire. 

VII. 

When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 

And  thought  and  time  be  born  again, 
And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh, 

Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of  men? 
Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain. 

As  all  were  order'd,  ages  since. 
Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and  Pain, 

And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 

THE  SLEEPING   BEAUTY. 


Year  after  year  unto  her  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 
Across  the  purple  coverlet, 

The  maiden's  jet-black  hair  has  grown, 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of  pearl : 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm, 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 

II. 

The  silk  star-broider'd  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 
Languidly  ever  ;   and,  amid 

Her     full    black     ringlets    downward 
roll'd, 
Glows  forth  each  softly-shadow'd  arm 

With  bracelets  of  the  diamond  bright : 
Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 

Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 

III. 

She  sleeps  :  her  breathings  are  not  heard 
In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 

The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr'd 
That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 


She  sleeps :  on  either  hand  upswells 
The  gold-fringed  pillow  lightly  prest : 

She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 
A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 


THE  ARRIVAL. 


All  precious  things,  discovered  late. 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth; 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 

And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden  worth. 
He  travels  far  from  other  skies  — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks  — 
A  fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 


The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass. 
Are  wither'd  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scatter'd  blanching  on  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead : 

'They  perish'd  in  their  daring  deeds.' 
This  proverb  flashes  thro'  his  head, 

'  The  many  fail :  the  one  succeeds.' 

III. 

He    comes,    scarce    knowing    what    he 
seeks : 

He    breaks    the    hedge :     he    enters 
there : 
The  colour  flies  into  his  cheeks  : 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair  ; 
For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 

About  his  path,  and  hover  near 
With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk. 

And  whisper'd  voices  at  his  ear. 

IV. 

More     close    and    close    his    footsteps 
wind : 
The  Magic  Music  in  his  heart 
Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 

The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 
His  spirit  flutters  like  a  lark, 

He    stoops  —  to    kiss    her  —  on    his 
knee. 
'  Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark. 

How    dark    those    hidden   eyes    must 
be!' 


I04 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


THE  REVIVAL. 


A  TOUCH,  a  kiss !  the  charm  was  snapt. 

There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks, 
And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt, 

And  barking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A  breeze  thro'  all  the  garden  swept, 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall, 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

II. 

The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew. 

The  butler  drank,  the  steward  scrawl'd. 
The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 

The     parrot     scream'd,    the     peacock 
squall'd. 
The  maid  and  page  renew'd  their  strife. 

The   palace    bang'd,  and   buzz'd   and 
clackt. 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 

Dash'd  downward  in  a  cataract. 

III. 

And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke, 

And  in  his  chair  himself  uprear'd. 
And  yawn'd,  and  rubb'd  his  face,  and 
spoke, 

*  By  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard  ! 
How  say  you?  we  have  slept,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap.' 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'Twas  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 

IV. 

*  Pardy,'  return'd  the  king,  '  but  still 

My  joints  are  somewhat  stiff  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 

I  mention'd  half  an  hour  ago?  ' 
The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain. 

In  courteous  words  return'd  reply: 
But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 

THE   DEPARTURE. 

I. 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant. 
And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 


And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old : 

Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 

And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  follow'd  him. 

II. 

*  I'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

O  love,  for  such  another  kiss;  ' 
'  O  wake  for  ever,  love,'  she  hears, 

'  O  love,  'twas  such  as  this  and  this.' 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star. 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne. 
And,  stream'd  thro'  many  a  golden  bar, 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

III. 

'O  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep  ! ' 

'  O  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  ! ' 
'  O  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  ! ' 

*  O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead  ! ' 
And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 

Of  vapour  buoy'd  the  crescent-bark, 
And,  rapt  thro'  many  a  rosy  change. 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

IV. 

'  A  hundred  summers  !  can  it  be? 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where  ? ' 
'  O  seek  my  father's  court  with  me. 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there.' 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day. 

Thro'  all  the  world  she  follow'd  him. 


MORAL. 


So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay. 

And  if  you  find  no  moral  there, 
Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say. 

What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 
Oh,  to  what  uses  shall  we  put 

The  wild  weed- flower  that  simply  blows? 
And  is  there  any  moral  shut 

Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose? 

II. 

But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead, 
In  bud,  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 


THE  DA  Y-DREAM—  AMPHION 


105 


According  as  his  humours  lead, 
A  meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 

And  liberal  applications  lie 

In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend; 

So  'twere  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 

Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 

L'ENVOI. 


You  shake  your  head.     A  random  string 

Your  finer  female  sense  offends. 
Well  —  were  it  not  a  pleasant  thing 

To  fall  asleep  with  all  one's  friends; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  ties 

To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men; 
And  every  hundred  years  to  rise 

And  learn  the  world,  and  sleep  again; 
To  sleep  thro'  terms  of  mighty  wars. 

And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more. 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars. 

As  wild  as  aught  of  fairy  lore; 
And  all  that  else  the  years  will  show. 

The  Poet-forms  of  stronger  hours. 
The  vast  Republics  that  may  grow. 

The  Federations  and  the  Powers; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 

In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes; 
For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth. 

And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 

II. 

So  sleeping,  so  aroused  from  sleep 
Thro'  sunny  decads  new  and  strange. 

Or  gay  quinquenniads  would  we  reap 
The  flower  and  quintessence  of  change. 

III. 

Ah,  yet  would  I  —  and  would  I  might ! 

So  much  your  eyes  my  fancy  take  — 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 

That  I  might  kiss  those  eyes  awake  ! 
For,  am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong, 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not  care; 
You'd  have  77iy  moral  from  the  song, 

And  I  will  take  my  pleasure  there  : 
And,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

My  fancy,  ranging  thro'  and  thro', 
To  search  a  meaning  for  the  song. 

Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you; 
Nor  finds  a  closer  truth  than  this 

All-graceful  head,  so  richly  curl'd. 


And  evermore  a  costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 

IV. 

For  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 

Embraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour, 
And  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 

In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower. 
What    eyes,    like    thine,    have   waken'd 
hopes, 

What     lips,     like     thine,     so    sweetly 
join'd? 
Where  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 

The  fullness  of  the  pensive  mind; 
Which  all  too  dearly  self-involved, 

Yet  sleeps  a  dreamless  sleep  to  me; 
A  sleep  by  kisses  undissolved, 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see : 
But  break  it.      In  the  name  of  wife, 

And    in   the   rights    that    name   may 
give. 
Are  clasp'd  the  moral  of  thy  life, 

And  that  for  which  I  care  to  live. 

EPILOGUE. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And,  if  you  find  a  meaning  there, 
O  whisper  to  your  glass,  and  say, 

'  What  wonder,  if  he  thinks  me  fair?  ' 
What  wonder  I  was  all  unwise, 

To  shape  the  song  for  your  delight 
Like  long-tail'd  birds  of  Paradise 

That  float  thro'  Heaven,  and    cannot 
light? 
Or  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 

By  Cupid-boys  of  blooming  hue  — 
But  take  it  —  earnest  wed  with  sport, 

And  either  sacred  unto  you. 

AMPHION. 

My  father  left  a  park  to  me, 

But  it  is  wild  and  barren, 
A  garden  too  with  scarce  a  tree, 

And  waster  than  a  warren  : 
Yet  say  the  neighbours  when  they  call, 

It  is  not  bad  but  good  land. 
And  in  it  is  the  germ  of  all 

That  grows  within  the  woodland. 

O  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great 
In  days  of  old  Amphion, 


io6 


AMPHIOiV. 


And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion  ! 
And  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great, 

And  legs  of  trees  wete  limber, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate. 

And  fiddled  in  the  timber  ! 

'Tis  said  he  had  a  tuneful  tongue. 

Such  happy  intonation, 
Wherever  he  sat  down  and  sung 

He  left  a  small  plantation; 
Wherever  in  a  lonely  grove 

He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes, 
The  gouty  oak  began  to  move, 

And  flounder  into  hornpipes. 

The  mountain  stirr'd  its  bushy  crown, 

And,  as  tradition  teaches, 
Young  ashes  pirouetted  down 

Coquetting  with  young  beeches; 
And  briony-vine  and  ivy-wreath 

Ran  forward  to  his  rhyming. 
And  from  the  valleys  underneath 

Came  little  copses  climbing. 

The  linden  broke  her  ranks  and  rent 

The  woodbine  wreaths  that  bind  her. 
And  down  the  middle,  buzz  !  she  went 

With  all  her  bees  behind  her : 
The  poplars,  in  long  order  due, 

With  cypress  promenaded, 
The  shock-head  willows  two  and  two 

By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wet-shod  alder  from  the  wave, 

Came  yews,  a  dismal  coterie; 
Each    pluck'd    his    one    foot    from    the 
grave 

Poussetting  with  a  sloe-tree  : 
Old  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine. 

The  vine  stream'd  out  to  follow, 
And,  sweating  rosin,  plump'd  the  pine 

From  many  a  cloudy  hollow. 

And  wasn't  it  a  sight  to  see. 

When,  ere  his  song  was  ended. 
Like  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree. 

The  country-side  descended; 
And  shepherds  from  the  mountain-eaves 

Look'd  down,  half-pleased,  half-fright- 
en'd. 
As  dash'd  about  the  drunken  leaves 

The  random  sunshine  lighten'd  ! 


Oh,  nature  first  was  fresh  to  men. 

And  wanton  without  measure; 
So  youthful  and  so  flexile  then, 

You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure. 
Twang  out,  my  fiddle  !  shake  the  twigs  ! 

And  make  her  dance  attendance; 
Blow,  flute,  and  stir  the  stiff-set  sprigs. 

And  scirrhous  roots  and  tendons. 

'Tis  vain  !  in  such  a  brassy  age 

I  could  not  move  a  thistle; 
The  very  sparrows  in  the  hedge 

Scarce  answer  to  my  whistle; 
Or  at  the  most,  when  three-parts-sick 

With  strumming  and  with  scraping, 
A  jackass  heehaws  from  the  rick, 

The  passive  oxen  gaping. 

But  what  is  that  I  hear?  a  sound 

Like  sleepy  counsel  pleading; 
O  Lord  !  —  'tis  in  my  neighbour's  ground. 

The  modern  Muses  reading. 
They  read  Botanic  Treatises, 

And  Works  on  Gardening  thro'  there, 
And  Methods  of  transplanting  trees 

To  look  as  if  they  grew  there. 

The  wither'd  Misses  !  how  they  prose 

O'er  books  of  travell'd  seamen, 
And  show  you  slips  of  all  that  grows 

From  England  to  Van  Diemen. 
They  read  in  arbours  dipt  and  cut. 

And  alleys,  faded  places, 
By  squares  of  tropic  summer  shut 

And  warm'd  in  crystal  cases. 

But  these,  tho'  fed  with  careful  dirt, 

Are  neither  green  nor  sappy; 
Half-conscious  of  the  garden-squirt, 

The  spindlings  look  unhappy. 
Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 

That  blows  upon  its  mountain. 
The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 

Beside  its  native  fountain. 

And  I  must  work  thro'  months  of  toil, 

And  years  of  cultivation, 
Upon  my  proper  patch  of  soil 

To  grow  my  own  plantation. 
I'll  take  the  showers  as  they  fall, 

I  will  not  vex  my  bosom  : 
Enough  if  at  the  end  of  all 

A  little  garden  blossom. 


ST.   AGNES'   EVE— SIR    GALAHAD. 


107 


ST.   AGNES'    EVE. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapour  goes : 

May  my  soul  follow  soon  I 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord : 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am. 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord  I  and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen. 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors; 

The  flashes  come  and  go; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strows  her  lights  below. 
And  deepens  on  and  up  I  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  I 


SIR   GALAHAD. 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly. 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 


They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists. 
And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 

Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 
That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favours  fall  1 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end. 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above. 

My    knees   are    bow'd    in    crypt    and 
shrine  : 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me    mightier    transports    move    and 
thrill; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims. 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride ; 

I  hear  a  voice  but  none  are  there; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chaunts  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark; 
I  leap  on  board  :   no  helmsman  steers : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God  ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn. 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow.  . 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and 
mail ; 


io8 


EDWARD    GRAY. 


But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven  . 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams. 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odours  haunt  my  dreams; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armour  that  I  wear, 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky. 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod. 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear  : 
'  O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  !   the  prize  is  near.' 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
AU-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


EDWARD   GRAY. 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town 
Met  me  walking  on  yonder  way, 

*  And   have    you   lost   your  heart  ? '    she 

said; 
'And    are   you   married   yet,    Edward 
Gray?' 

vSweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away  : 

'  Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no  more 
Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray. 

*  Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well, 

Against    her    father's     and    mother's 
will : 
To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept, 
By  Ellen's  grave,  on  the  windy  hill. 


'  Shy  she  was,  and  I  thought  her  cold ; 

Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over  the 
sea; 
Fill'd  I  was  with  folly  and  spite. 

When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me. 

'  Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I  said  ! 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day  : 
"You're  too  slight  and  fickle,"  I  said, 

"To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray." 

'There  I  put  my  face  in  the  grass  — 
Whisper'd,  "  Listen  to  my  despair : 

I  repent  me  of  all  I  did  : 

Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair  !  " 

'  Then  I  took  a  pencil,  and  wrote 
On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 

"  Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair; 
And  here  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  !  " 

'  Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  fly,  like  a  bird,  from  tree  to  tree; 

But  I  will  love  no  more,  no  more, 
Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

'  Bitterly  wept  I  over  the  stone : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away : 

There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  ! 
And  there  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  ! ' 

WILL    WATERPROOF'S    LYRICAL 
MONOLOGUE. 

MADE  AT   THE   COCK. 

O  PLUMP  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 

To  which  I  most  resort. 
How  goes  the  time?     'Tis  five  o'clock. 

Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port : 
But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 

You  set  before  chance-comers, 
But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 

On  Lusitanian  summers. 

No  vain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind. 
And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 

Her  influence  on  the  mind, 
To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes. 

Ere  they  be  half-forgotten ; 
Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times, 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 


WILL    WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL   MONOLOGUE. 


109 


I  pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 

Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 
And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lips, 

These  favour'd  lips  of  mine; 
Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 

New  lifeblood  warm  the  bosom, 
And  barren  commonplaces  break 

In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

I  pledge  her  silent  at  the  board; 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 
And  touch  upon  the  master-chord 

Of  all  I  felt  and  feel. 
Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans, 

And  phantom  hopes  assemble; 
And  that  child's  heart  within  the  man's 

Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 

Thro'  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns, 

By  many  pleasant  ways,  ^ 

Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 

The  current  of  my  days  : 
I  kiss  the  lips  I  once  have  kiss'd; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer; 
And  softly,  thro'  a  vinous  mist, 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

I  grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 

Unboding  critic-pen, 
Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 

Which  vexes  public  men. 
Who  hold  their  hands  to  all,  and  cry 

For  that  which  all  deny  them  — 
Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dry, 

And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho'  all  the  world  forsake, 

Tho'  fortune  clip  my  wings, 
I  will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 

Half-views  of  men  and  things. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood; 

There  must  be  stormy  weather; 
But  for  some  true  result  of  good 

All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes; 

If  old  things,  there  are  new; 
Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and  shapes, 

Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 
Let  rafts  be  rife  in  prose  and  rhyme, 

We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons. 
As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 

We  circle  with  the  seasons. 


This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid; 

W' ith  fair  horizons  bound  : 
This    whole    wide    earth    of    light    and 
shade 

Comes  out  a  perfect  round. 
High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And  set  in  Heaven's  third  story, 
I  look  at  all  things  as  they  are, 

But  thro'  a  kind  of  glory. 


Head-waiter,  honour'd  by  the  guest 

Half-mused,  or  reeling  ripe. 
The  pint,  you  brought  me,  was  the  best 

That  ever  came  from  pipe. 
But  tho'  the  port  surpasses  praise, 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiffer. 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place? 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ? 

For  since  I  came  to  live  and  learn, 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 

This  wheel  within  my  he^d, 
Which  bears  a  season'd  brain  about, 

Unsubject  to  confusion, 
Tho'  soak'd  and  saturate,  out  and  out. 

Thro'  every  convolution. 

For  I  am  of  a  numerous  house, 

With  many  kinsmen  gay. 
Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay : 
Each  month,  a  birth-day  coming  on, 

We  drink  defying  trouble, 
Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one, 

And  then  we  drank  it  double; 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept. 

Had  relish  fiery-new, 
Or  elbow-deep  in  sawdust,  slept. 

As  old  as  Waterloo; 
Or  stow'd,  when  classic  Canning  died. 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers, 
Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 

The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is  ! 

She  answer'd  to  my  call, 
She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this. 

Is  all-in-all  to  all : 
She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat. 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker, 


TIO 


WILL    WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL   MONOLOGUE. 


Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 
Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 

The  waiter's  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout. 

His  proper  chop  to  each, 
fie  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 

That  with  the  napkin  dally; 
I  think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a  larger  egg 

Than  modern  poultry  drop, 
Stept  forward  on  a  firmer  leg. 

And  cramm'd  a  plumper  crop; 
Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow'd  lustier  late  and  early, 
Sipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 

And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A  private  life  was  all  his  joy, 

Till  in  a  court  he  saw 
A  something-pottle-bodied  boy 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw  : 
He  stoop'd  and   clutch'd  him,  fair  and 
good. 

Flew  over  roof  and  casement : 
His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 

Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe  and  spire. 

And  follow'd  with  acclaims, 
A  sign  to  many  a  staring  shire 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 
Right  down  by  smoky  Paul's  they  bore, 

Till,  where  the  street  grows  straiter. 
One  fix'd  for  ever  at  the  door, 

And  one  became  head-waiter. 


But  whither  would  my  fancy  go? 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a  legend  blow 

Among  the  chops  and  steaks ! 
'Tis  but  a  steward  of  the  can, 

One  shade  more  plump  than  common; 
As  just  and  mere  a  serving-man 

As  any  born  of  woman. 

I    ranged    too    high :     what    draws    me 
down 
Into  the  common  day  ? 


Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown. 

Which  I  shall  have  to  pay? 
For,  something  duller  than  at  first, 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 
I  sit,  my  empty  glass  reversed. 

And  thrumming  on  the  table  : 

Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife, 

I  take  myself  to  task ; 
Lest  of  the  fullness  of  my  life 

I  leave  an  empty  flask  : 
For  I  hadjiope,  by  something  rare 

To  prove  myself  a  poet : 
But,  while  I  plan  and  plan,  my  hair 

Is  gray  before  I  know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began, 

Till  they  be  gather'd  up; 
The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can, 

Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup : 
And  others'  follies  teach  us  not, 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches; 
And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  what 

Our  own  experience  preaches. 

Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 
But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  'tis  gone; 

'Tis  gone,  and  let  it  go. 
'Tis  gone :  a  thousand  such  have  slipt 

Away  from  my  embraces. 
And  fall'n  into  the  dusty  crypt 

Of  darken'd  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou !  thy  betters  went 

Long  since,  and  came  no  more; 
With  peals  of  genial  clamour  sent 

From  many  a  tavern-door, 
With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits, 

From  misty  men  of  letters; 
The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wits  — 

Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,  when  the  Poet's  words  and  looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow: 
Nor  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 

Had  made  him  talk  for  show; 
But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm'd, 

He  flash'd  his  random  speeches. 
Ere  (lays,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm'd 

His  literary  leeches. 


LADY   CLARE. 


Ill 


So  mix  for  ever  with  the  past, 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth  ! 
For   should  I    prize   thee,    couldst    thou 
last. 

At  half  thy  real  worth? 
I  hold  it  good,  good  things  should  pass: 

With  time  I  will  not  quarrel : 
It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 

That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 


Head-waiter  of  the  chop-house  here. 

To  which  I  most  resort, 
I  too  must  part :  I  hold  thee  dear 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 
For  this,  thou  shalt  from  all  things  suck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter; 
And  wheresoe'er  thou  move,  good  luck 

Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from  hence, 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots : 
Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pence 

Go  down  among  the  pots  : 
Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  our  skins, 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot; 
Thy  care  is,  under  polish'd  tins. 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot; 
To  come  and  go,  and  come  again. 

Returning  like  the  pewit. 
And  watch'd  by  silent  gentlemen, 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 

The  thick-set  hazel  dies; 
Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 

The  corners  of  thine  eyes  : 
Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 

Our  changeful  equinoxes, 
Till  mellow  Death,  like  some  late  guest, 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt  cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor. 
And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 

Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more ; 
No  carved  cross-bones,  the  types  of  Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven : 


But  carved  cross-pipes,  and,  underneath, 
A  pint-pot  neatly  graven. 


LADY   CLARE. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow. 
And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 

Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin.  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn : 
Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  they  : 

They  two  will  wed  the  morrow  morn : 
God's  blessing  on  the  day  ! 

'  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,'  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 

Said,  *  Who  was  this  that  went  from 
thee?' 

'  It  was  my  cousin,'  said  Lady  Clare, 
'  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me.' 

'  O  God  be  thank'd  !  '  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
'  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair  : 

Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare.' 

'  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my 
nurse? ' 
Said  Lady  Clare,  '  that   ye  speak  so 
wild?' 
'  As  God's  above,'  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
'  I  speak  the  truth :  you  are  my  child. 

'The   old    Earl's   daughter   died   at  my 
breast; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead.' 

'  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

O  mother,'  she  said,  'if  this  be  true, 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due.' 

'  Nay   now,   my   child,'    said    Alice    the 
nurse, 
'  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 


112 


LADY   CLARE— THE    CAPTAIN. 


And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's, 
When  you  are  man  and  wife.' 

'  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,'  she  said, 
'  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off,  the  brooch  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by.' 

'  Nay   now,   my   child,'    said   Alice    the 
nurse, 

*  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can.' 
She  said,  '  Not  so  :  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man.' 

*Nay  now,  what  faith?'  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 
'  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right.' 

*  And  he  shall  have  it,'  the  lady  replied, 

'  Tho'  I  should  die  to-night.' 

*  Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear ! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinn'd  for  thee,' 

*  O  mother,  mother,  mother,'  she  said, 

*  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

'  Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so, 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go.' 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown. 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare : 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down, 
With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The   lily-white    doe    Lord    Ronald    had 
brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand. 

And  foUow'd  her  all  the  way. 

Down  slept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower  : 
'  O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth  ! 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village  maid. 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth? ' 

*  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 

I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are : 
I  am  a  beggar  born,'  she  said, 
'  And  not  the  Lady  Clare.' 

*  Play  me  no  tricks,'  said  Lord  Ronald, 

'  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed. 


Play  me  no  tricks,'  said  Lord  Ronald, 
'Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read.' 

O  and  proudly  stood  she  up  ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes. 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laugh'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn : 
He  turn'd  and    kiss'd  her  where  she 
stood : 

'  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,'  said  he,  *  the  next  in  blood  — 

'  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,'  said  he, '  the  lawful  heir. 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn. 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare.' 


THE   CAPTAIN. 

A   LEGEND    OF  THE   NAVY. 

He  that  only  rules  by  terror 

Doeth  grievous  wrong. 
Deep  as  Hell  I  count  his  error. 

Let  him  hear  my  song. 
Brave  the  Captain  was :  the  seamen 

Made  a  gallant  crew, 
Gallant  sons  of  English  freemen, 

Sailors  bold  and  true. 
But  they  hated  his  oppression, 

Stern  he  was  and  rash; 
So  for  every  light  transgression 

Doom'd  them  to  the  lash. 
Day  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 

Seem'd  the  Captain's  mood. 
Secret  wrath  like  smother'd  fuel 

Burnt  in  each  man's  blood. 
Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory. 

Hoped  to  make  the  name 
Of  his  vessel  great  in  story, 

Wheresoe'er  he  came. 
So  they  past  by  capes  and  islands. 

Many  a  harbour-mouth, 
Sailing  under  palmy  highlands 

Far  within  the  South. 
On  a  day  when  they  were  going 

O'er  the  lone  expanse. 
In  the  north,  her  canvas  flowing. 

Rose  a  ship  of  France. 
Then  the  Captain's  colour  heighten'd. 

Joyful  came  his  speech  : 


THE  LORD    OF  BURLEIGH. 


"3 


But  a  cloudy  gladness  lighten'd 

She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

In  the  eyes  of  each. 

'  There  is  none  I  love  like  thee.' 

*  Chase,'  he  said  :  the  ship  flew  forward, 

He  is  but  a  landscape-painter, 

And  the  wind  did  blow; 

And  a  village  maiden  she. 

Stately,  lightly,  went  she  Norward, 

He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter. 

Till  she  near'd  the  foe. 

Presses  his  without  reproof: 

Then  they  look'd  at  him  they  hated, 

Leads  her  to  the  village  altar, 

Had  what  they  desired  : 

And  they  leave  her  father's  roof. 

Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited  — 

'  I  can  make  no  marriage  present  : 

Not  a  gun  was  fired. 

Little  can  I  give  my  wife. 

But  they  heard  the  foeman's  thunder 

Love  will  make  our  cottage  pleasant, 

Roaring  out  their  doom; 

And  I  love  thee  more  than  life.' 

All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder, 

They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 

Crashing  went  the  boom, 

See  the  lordly  castles  stand: 

Spars  were  splinter'd,  decks  were  shat- 

Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing. 

ter'd, 

Made  a  murmur  in  the  land. 

Bullets  fell  like  rain; 

From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses. 

Over  mast  and  deck  were  scatter'd 

Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well. 

Blood  and  brains  of  men. 

'Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 

Spars     were     splinter'd;       decks     were 

Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell.' 

broken  : 

So  she  goes  by  him  attended, 

Every  mother's  son  — 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse, 

Down     they     dropt  —  no     word     was 

Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 

spoken  — 

Lay  betwixt  his  hom.e  and  hers; 

Each  beside  his  gun. 

Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady, 

On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying, 

Parks  and  order'd  gardens  great, 

Were  their  faces  grim. 

Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady, 

In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying. 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 

Did  they  smile  on  him. 

All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer : 

Those,  in  whom  he  had  reliance 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 

For  his  noble  name, 

On  that  cottage  growing  nearer, 

With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 

Where    they   twain    will    spend    their 

Sold  him  unto  shame. 

days. 

Shame  and  wrath  his  heart  confounded, 

0  but  she  will  love  him  truly  ! 

Pale  he  turn'd  and  red. 

He  shall  have  a  cheerful  home; 

Till  himself  was  deadly  wounded 

She  will  order  all  things  duly. 

Falling  on  the  dead. 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 

Dismal  error  !  fearful  slaughter  ! 

Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly, 

Years  have  wander'd  by. 

Till  a  gateway  she  discerns 

Side  by  side  beneath  the  water 

With  armorial  bearings  stately. 

Crew  and  Captain  lie; 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns; 

There  the  sunlit  ocean  tosses 

Sees  a  mansion  more  majestic 

O'er  them  mouldering. 

Than  all  those  she  saw  before  : 

And  the  lonely  seabird  crosses 

Many  a  gallant  gay  domestic 

With  one  waft  of  the  wing. 

Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 

And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur, 

When  they  answer  to  his  call, 

THE    LORD   OF   BURLEIGH. 

W^hile  he  treads  with  footstep  firmer, 

Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  gaily. 

And,  while  nov.^  she  wonders  blindly, 

'  If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell. 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine, 

Maiden,  I  have  watch'd  thee  daily, 

Proudly  turns  he  round  and  kindly, 

And  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well.' 

'  All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine.' 

114 


THE    VOYAGE. 


Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty, 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free, 
Not  a  lord  in  all  the  county 

Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he. 
All  at  once  the  colour  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin  : 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes, 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 
Then  her  countenance  all  over 

Pale  again  as  death  did  prove : 
But  he  clasp'd  her  like  a  lover, 

And  he  cheer'd  her  soul  with  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Tho'  at  times  her  spirit  sank: 
Shaped  her  heart  with  woman's  meekness 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank  : 
And  a  gentle  consort  made  he, 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a  noble  lady, 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 
But  a  trouble  weigh'd  upon  her, 

And  perplex'd  her,  night  and  morn, 
With  the  burthen  of  an  honour 

Unto  which  she  was  not  born. 
Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter, 

And  she  murmur'd,  '  Oh,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  landscape-painter. 

Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me  ! ' 
So  she  droop'd  and  droop'd  before  him. 

Fading  slowly  from  his  side  : 
Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 

Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early, 

Walking  up  and  pacing  down. 
Deeply  mourn'd  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town. 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her. 

And  he  look'd  at  her  and  said, 
'  Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her, 

That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed.' 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading. 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in. 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 

THE  VOYAGE. 

I. 

We  left  behind  the  painted  buoy 
That  tosses  at  the  harbour-mouth; 

And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy, 
As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  South  : 


How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound 
On  open  main  or  winding  shore  ! 

We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round, 
And  we  might  sail  for  evermore. 


Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the  brow, 

Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail : 
The  Lady's-head  upon  the  prow 

Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer'd  the 
gale. 
The  broad  seas  swell'd  to  meet  the  keel. 

And  swept  behind ;  so  quick  the  run. 
We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel. 

We  seem'd  to  sail  into  the  Sun ! 

III. 

How  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire. 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night, 
Fall  from  his  Ocean-lane  of  fire. 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar'd  light ! 
How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 

Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn, 
As  thro'  the  slumber  of  the  globe 

Again  we  dash'd  into  the  dawn ! 

IV. 

New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 

Of  waters  lighten'd  into  view; 
They  climb'd  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 

Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 
Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 

The  houseless  ocean's  heaving  field. 
Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 

Of  her  own  halo's  dusky  shield; 


The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes, 

High  towns  on  hills  were  dimly  seen. 
We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 

And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 

Across  the  boundless  east  we  drove, 
Where  those  long  swells  of  breaker  sweep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 

VI. 

By  peaks  that  flamed,  or,  all  in  shade, 
Gloom'd  the  low  coast  and  quivering 
brine 

With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 
Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine; 


SIR   LAUNCELOT  AND    QUEEN   GUINEVERE. 


II 


By  sands  and  steaming  flats,  and  floods 
Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast, 

And  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woods 
Glow'd  for  a  moment  as  we  past. 

Vtl. 

O  hundred  shores  of  happy  climes, 

How  swiftly  stream'd  ye  by  the  bark  ! 
At  times  the  whole  sea  burn'd,  at  times 

With  wakes  of  fire  we  tore  the  dark; 
At  times  a  carven  craft  would  shoot 

From  havens  hid  in  fairy  bowers, 
With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and  fruit, 

But  we  nor  paused  for  fruit  nor  flowers, 

VIII. 

For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  the  waste  waters  day  and  night, 
And  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led, 

In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight. 
Her  face  was  evermore  unseen. 

And  fixt  upon  the  far  sea-line ; 
But  each  man  murmur'd,  '  O  my  Queen, 

I  follow  till  I  make  thee  mine.' 

IX. 

And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam'd 

Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air, 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem'd 

Like  Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge  fair. 
Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 

Like  Heavenly  Hope  she  crown' d  the 
sea, 
And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed. 

She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 

X. 

And  only  one  among  us  —  him 

We    pleased     not  —  he     was     seldom 
pleased  : 
He  saw  not  far  :  his  eyes  were  dim  : 

But  ours  he  swore  were  all  diseased. 
'  A  ship  of  fools,'  he  shriek'd  in  spite, 

'A    ship    of    fools,'    he    sneer'd    and 
wept. 
And  overboard  one  stormy  night 

He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 

XI. 

And  never  sail  of  ours  was  furl'd, 
Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  morn; 


We  lov'd  the  glories  of  the  world, 
But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn. 

For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and  cease. 
But  whence  were  those  that  drove  the 
sail 

x\cross  the  whirlwind's  heart  of  peace, 
And  to  and  thro'  the  counter  gale? 

XII. 

Again  to  colder  climes  we  came. 

For  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led : 
Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame. 

And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead; 
But,  blind  or  lame  or  sick  or  sound. 

We  follow  that  which  flies  before  : 
W^e  know  the  merry  world  is  round. 

And  we  mav  sail  for  evermore. 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

Like  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 
The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sun-lit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapour  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between. 
And  far,  in  forest-deeps  unseen. 
The  topmost  elm-tree  gather'd  green 

From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 

Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song : 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong  : 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel'd  along. 
Hush'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wrong  : 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran. 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year. 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer, 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She  seem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring 
A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore. 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before ; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 


ii6        A   FAREWELL— THE  BEGGAR   MALD—THE   EAGLE. 


Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net, 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set : 

And  fleeter  now  she   skimm'd  the 
plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  fast  she  fled  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid : 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this. 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


A   FAREWELL. 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea. 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver  : 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet,  then  a  river  : 
No  where  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee. 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 


THE   BEGGAR   MAID. 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid; 

She  was  more  fair  than  words  can  say  : 
Bare-footed  came  the  beggar  maid 

Before  the  king  Cophetua. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way; 


'  It  is  no  wonder,'  said  the  lords, 
'  She  is  more  beautiful  than  day.' 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies. 

She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen  : 
One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes, 

One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome  mien. 
So  sweet  a  face,  such  angel  grace. 

In  all  that  land  had  never  been  : 
Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath  : 

'This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my  queen  ! ' 

THE   EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring'd  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow  : 

From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 
O,  happy  planet,  eastward  go; 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 

That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  smoothly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


Come  not,  when  I  am  dead. 

To   drop   thy   foolish    tears    upon    my 
grave. 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head. 

And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  wouldst 
not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover 
cry; 

But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,    if   it    were    thine    error    or    thy 
crime 
I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblost : 


THE   LETTERS—  THE    VISION   OF  SIN. 


117 


Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  of 
Time, 
And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where 
Hie: 

Go  by,  go  by. 

THE   LETTERS. 


Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 
A   black    yew   gloom'd    the    stagnant 
air, 

I  peer'd  athwart  the  chancel  pane 
And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 

A  clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 
A  band  of  pain  across  my  brow; 

*  Cold  altar,  Heaven  and  earth  shall  meet 

Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow.' 

II. 

I  turn'd  and  humm'd  a  bitter  song 

That   mock'd   the  wholesome   human 
heart, 
And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 

We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 
Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry; 

She  faintly  smiled,  she  hardly  moved; 
1  saw  with  half-unconscious  eye 

She  wore  the  colours  I  approved. 

III. 

She  took  the  little  ivory  chest, 

With  half  a  sigh  she  turn'd  the  key, 
Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  comprest, 

And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 
And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings, 

My  gifts,  when   gifts   of  mine    could 
please; 
As  looks  a  father  on  the  things 

Of  his  dead  son,  I  look'd  on  these. 

IV. 

She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said; 

I  raged  against  the  public  liar; 
She  talk'd  as  if  her  love  were  dead, 

But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  fire. 

*  No  more  of  love;   your  sex  is  known 

I  never  will  be  twice  deceived. 
Henceforth  I  trust  the  man  alone, 
The  woman  cannot  be  believed. 


V. 

'  Thro'  slander,  meanest  spawn  of  Hell  — 

And  women's  slander  is  the  worst, 
And  you,  whom  once  I  lov'd  so  well. 

Thro'  you,  my  life  will  be  accurst.' 
I  spoke  with  heart,  and  heat  and  force, 

I  shook  her  breast  with  vague  alarms — 
Like  torrents  from  a  mountain  source 

We  rush'd  into  each  other's  arms. 

VI. 

We  parted :  sweetly  gleam'd  the  stars. 

And  sweet  the  vapour-braided  blue. 
Low  breezes  fann'd  the  belfry  bars. 

As  homeward  by  the  church  I  drew. 
The  very  graves  appear'd  to  smile, 

So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadow'd  swells. 
'  Dark  porch,'  I  said,  *  and  silent  aisle. 

There  comes  a  sound  of  marriage  bells.' 


THE  VISION   OF    SIN. 


I  HAD  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late  : 
A  youth  came  riding  toward  a  palace-gate. 
He  rode  a  horse  with  wings,  that  would 

have  flown, 
But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  down. 
And  from  the  palace  came  a  child  of  sin, 
And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led  him  in, 
Where  sat  a  company  with  heated  eyes, 
Expecting  when  a  fountain  should  arise  : 
A  sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and  lips  — 
As  when  the  sun,  a  crescent  of  eclipse, 
Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles  and 

capes  — 
Suffused    them,    sitting,    lying,    languid 

shapes. 
By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine, 

and  piles  of  grapes. 

II. 

Then  methought  I  heard  a  mellow  sound, 
Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground; 
Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assem.bled 
Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trembled, 
W^ov'n  in  circles :  they  that  heard  it  sigh'd. 
Panted  hand-in-hand  with  faces  pale. 
Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones  re- 
plied ; 


ii8 


THE    VISION   OF  SIN. 


Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering  wide 
Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail; 
Then  the  music    touch'd   the  gates  and 

died; 
Rose  again  from  where  it  seem'd  to  fail, 
Storm'd  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing  gale; 
Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they 

waited, 
As  'twere  a  hundred-throated  nightingale, 
The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb'd 

and  palpitated; 
Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound, 
Caught  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles, 
Purple  gauzes,  golden  hazes,  liquid  mazes, 
Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round  : 
Then  they  started  from  their  places, 
Moved  with  violence,  changed  in  hue, 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces, 
Half-invisible  to  the  view. 
Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew. 
Hair,  and  eyes,  and  limbs,  and  faces, 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  embraces. 
Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 
Dash'd  together  in  blinding  dew  : 
Till,  kill'd  with  some  luxurious  agony 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Flutter'd  headlong  from  the  sky. 


III. 


And  then  I  look'd  up  toward  a  mountain- 
tract. 

That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and 
lawn : 

I  saw  that  every  morning,  far  withdrawn 

Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 

God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of 
dawn, 

Unheeded :  and  detaching,  fold  by  fold, 

From  those  still  heights,  and,  slowly 
drawing  near, 

A  vapour  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold. 

Came  floating  on  for  many  a  month  and 
year. 

Unheeded :  and  I  thought  I  would  have 
spoken, 

And  warn'd  that  madman  ere  it  grew  too 
late: 

But,  as  in  dreams,  I  could  not.  Mine 
was  broken, 

When  that  cold  vapour  touch'd  the  pal- 
ace gate. 


And    link'd    again.      I    saw   within    my 

head 
A  gray  and  gap-tooth'd  man  as  lean  as 

death. 
Who  slowly  rode  across  awither'd  heath, 
And  lighted  at  a  ruin'd  inn,  and  said : 

IV. 

'  Wrinkled  ostler,  grim  and  thin ! 

Here  is  custom  come  your  way; 
Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in, 

Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

'  Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast ! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed; 
W^hat !  the  flower  of  life  is  past : 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 

'  Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour. 
At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath ! 

Let  us  have  a  quiet  hour, 

Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 

'  I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink ; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine; 
I  remember,  when  I  think. 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

*  Wine  is  good  for  shrivell'd  lips. 

When  a  blanket  wraps  the  day, 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drips, 

And  the  leaf  is  stamp'd  in  clay. 

'  Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame, 
Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee: 

What  care  I  for  any  name? 
What  for  order  or  degree? 

*  Let  me  screw  thee  up  a  peg : 

Let  me  loose  thy  tongue  with  wine : 
Callest  thou  that  thing  a  leg? 

Which  is  thinnest?  thine  or  mine? 

'  Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  works : 
Thou  hast  been  a  sinner  too : 

Ruin'd  trunks  on  wither'd  forks. 
Empty  scarecrows,  I  and  you ! 

'  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can : 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn  : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man, 
Everv  moment  one  is  born. 


THE    VISION   OF  SIN. 


119 


*  We  are  men  of  ruin'd  blood  ; 

Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 
P'ish  are  we  that  love  the  mud, 
Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

'  Name  and  fame  I   to  fly  sublime 

Thro'     the    courts,    the    camps,    the 
schools, 

Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 

Bandied  by  the  hands  of  fools. 

'  Friendship  I  —  to  be  two  in  one  — 

Let  the  canting  liar  pack ! 
Well  I  know,  when  I  am  gone, 

How  she  mouths  behind  my  back. 

'  Virtue  I  —  to  be  good  and  just  — 
Every  heart,  when  sifted  well. 

Is  a  clot  of  warmer  dust, 

Mix'd  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell. 

*  O !  we  two  as  well  can  look 

Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 
As  the  priest,  above  his  book 
Leering  at  his  neighbour's  wife. 

'Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man, 
Every  moment  one  is  born. 

'  Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave  : 
They  are  fill'd  with  idle  spleen; 

Rising,  falling,  like  a  wave. 

For  they  know  not  what  they  mean. 

'  He  that  roars  for  liberty 

Faster  binds  a  tyrant's  power; 

And  the  tyrant's  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

'  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup : 

All  the'  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up. 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

'Greet  her  with  applausive  breath, 
Freedom,  gaily  doth  she  tread  ; 

In  her  right  a  civic  wreath, 
In  her  left  a  human  head. 

'No,  I  love  not  what  is  new; 
She  is  of  an  ancient  house  : 


And  I  think  we  know  the  hue 
Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

'  Let  her  go !  her  thirst  she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs, 

Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

'  Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool  — 
Visions  of  a  perfect  State  : 

Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool. 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

'Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave, 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise, 

And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

'Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue; 

Set  thy  hoary  fancies  free; 
What  is  loathsome  to  the  young  ' 

Savours  well  to  thee  and  me. 

'Change,  reverting  to  the  years, 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

What  there  is  in  loving  tears. 

And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

'  Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love  — 
April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance; 

Till  the  graves  begin  to  move, 
And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

'  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup : 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 
And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

'  Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads: 

Welcome,  fellow-citizens. 

Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads  ! 

'  You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that  ? 

Every  face,  however  full. 
Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat, 

Is  but  modell'd  on  a  skull. 

'  Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex  ! 

Tread  a  measure  on  the  stones,   • 
Madam  —  if  I  know  your  sex. 

From  the  fashion  of  your  bones. 


I20 


THE    VISION  OF  SIN. 


'  No,  I  cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye  —  nor  yet  your  lip  : 

All  the  more  do  I  admire 

Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

*Lo  !  God's  likeness  —  the  ground-plan  — 
Neither  modell'd,  glazed,  nor  framed  : 

Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man, 
Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed ! 

'  Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  we  keep  a  little  breath  ! 

Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death  ! 

'Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long, 
And  the  longer  night  is  near : 

What !  I  am  not  all  as  wrong 
As  a  bitter  jest  is  dear. 

'  Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all, 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl'd; 

Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 

And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

'  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can : 
Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn  ! 

Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man : 
Yet  we  will  not  die  folorn.' 

V. 

The    voice    grew    faint :     there    came   a 

further  change  : 
Once  more  uprose  the  mystic  mountain- 
range  : 
Below  were  men  and  horses  pierced  with 

worms, 
And  slowly  quickening  into  lower  forms; 
By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum  of 

dross. 
Old   plash  of  rains,  and   refuse  patch'd 

with  moss. 
Then  some  one  spake  :  '  Behold  !   it  was 

a  crime 
Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore  with 

time.' 
Another    said:     'The    crime    of    sense 

became 
The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal  blame.' 
And  one  :  'He  had  not  wholly  quench'd 

his  power; 
A  little  grain  of  conscience  made   him 

sour.' 


At  last  I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  slope 
Cry  to  the  summit,  '  Is  there  any  hope  ? ' 
To  which   an   answer   peal'd   from    that 

high  land. 
But  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  understand; 
And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  with- 
drawn 
God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 


TO 


AFTER    READING   A    LIFE   AND    LETTERS. 

'  Cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones.' 

Shakespeare's  Epitaph. 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name. 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now, 
And  gain'd  a  laurel  for  your  brow 

Of  sounder  leaf  than  I  can  claim; 

But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A  life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Thro'  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 

A  deedful  life,  a  silent  voice : 

And  you  have  miss'd  the  irreverent  doom 
Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet's  crown  : 
Hereafter,  neither  knave  nor  clown 

Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die. 
Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old. 
But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 

Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry : 

'  Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not  show : 
Break  lock  and  seal :  betray  the  trust : 
Keep  nothing  sacred  :   'tis  but  just 

The  many-headed  beast  should  know.' 

Ah  shameless !  for  he  did  but  sing 
A  song  that  pleased  us  from  its  worth; 
No  public  life  was  his  on  earth. 

No  blazon'd  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best: 

His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 
My  Shakespeare's  curse  on  clown  and 
knave 

Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest ! 

Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier. 


TO  E.   L.,    ON  HIS    TRAVELS  IN  GREECE. 


121 


The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 
And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree, 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Glory's  temple-gates, 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 

To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd ! 


TO  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS 
IN  GREECE. 

Illyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 
The  long  divine  Peneian  pass, 

The  vast  Akrokeraunian  walls, 

Tomohrit,  Athos,  all  things  fair. 
With  such  a  pencil,  such  a  pen. 
You  shadow  forth  to  distaiit  men, 

I  read  and  felt  that  I  was  there : 

And  trust  me  while  I  turn'd  the  page. 
And  track'd  you  still  on  classic  ground, 
I  grew  in  gladness  till  I  found 

My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour'd 

And  glisten'd  —  here  and  there  alone 
The    broad-limb'd    Gods    at    random 
thrown 

By  fountain-urns;  —  and  Naiads  oar'd 

A  glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 
Of  cavern  pillars;   on  the  swell 
The  silver  lily  heaved  and  fell; 

And  many  a  slope  was  rich  in  bloom 

From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks. 

And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea ! 


And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still  I 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is 
dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE  POET'S   SONG. 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 
He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the 
street, 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the 
sun, 
And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the 
wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place. 

And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 
That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her 
cloud. 
And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  fly. 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on 
his  beak. 
And    stared,    with    his    foot    on    the 
prey. 
And    the    nightingale    thought,  '  I   have 
sung  many  songs. 
But  never  a  one  so  gay. 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 
When  the  years  have  died  away.' 


122 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


ENOCH    ARDEN 

AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 

Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left  a 

chasm ; 
And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow 

sands; 
Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a  narrow  wharf 
In    cluster;   then    a   moulder'd    church; 

and  higher 
A  long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower'd 

mill; 
And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a  gray  down 
With  Danish  barrows;   and  a  hazelwood, 
By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green  in  a  cuplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years 
ago, 
Three   children   of  three   houses,  Annie 

Lee, 
The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port. 
And  Philip  Ray  the  miller's  only  son. 
And  Enoch  Arden,  a  rough  sailor's  lad 
Made    orphan    by   a   winter   shipwreck, 

play'd 
Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the  shore, 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing- 
nets, 
Anchors  of  rusty  fluke,   and  boats  up- 
drawn  ; 
And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving  sand 
To  watch  them  overflow'd,  or  following  up 
And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 
The  little  footprint  daily  wash'd  away. 

A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the  cliff: 
In  this  the  children  play'd   at  keeping 

house. 
Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the  next, 
While  Annie  still  was  mistress;    but  at 

times 
Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a  week  : 
'  This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little  wife.' 
'Mine  too,' said   Philip,  'turn  and  turn 

about :' 


When,  if  they  quarrell'd,  Enoch  stronger- 
made 

Was  master  :  then  would  Philip,  his  blue 
eyes 

All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of 
tears, 

Shriek  out,  '  I  hate  you,  Enoch,'  and  at 
this 

The  little  wife  would  weep  for  company. 

And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her 
sake, 

iVnd  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to  both. 

But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  childhood 
past. 
And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascending 

sun 
Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his  heart 
On  that  one  girl;   and  Enoch  spoke  his 

love. 
But  Philip  loved  in  silence;    and  the  girl 
Seem'd  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to  him; 
But  she  loved  Enoch;    tho'  she  knew  it 

not. 
And  would  if  ask'd  deny  it.     Enoch  set 
A  purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes. 
To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost, 
To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make  a 

home 
For  Annie  :   and  so  prosper'd  that  at  last 
A  luckier  or  a  bolder  fisherman, 
A  carefuller  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 
For  leagues  along  that    breaker-beaten 

coast 
Than  Enoch.     Likewise  had  he  served  a 

year 
On    board    a   merchantman,    and    made 

himself 
F'ull  sailor;   and  he  thrice  had  pluck'd  a 

life 
From    the    dread    sweep    of  the    down- 
streaming  seas : 
And  all  men  look'd  upon  him  favour- 
ably : 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


123 


And  ere  he  touch'd  his  one-and-twentieth 

May 
He  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made  a 

home 
For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  halfway  up 
The  narrow  street  that  clamber'd  toward 

the  mill. 

Then,  on  a  golden  autumn  eventide. 
The  younger  people  making  holiday, 
With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great  and 

small. 
Went  nutting  to  the  hazels.    Philip  stay'd 
(His  father  lying  sick  and  needing  him) 
An  hour  behind;   but  as  he  climb'd  the 

hill, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 

began 
To  feather  toward   the  hollow,  saw   the 

pair, 
Enoch  and  Annie,  sitting  hand-in-hand, 
His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather-beaten 

face 
All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  fire, 
That  burn'd  as  on  an  altar.   Philip  look'd. 
And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his  doom ; 
Then,    as    their    faces    drew    together, 

groan'd, 
And  slipt  aside,  and  like  a  wounded  life 
Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the  wood ; 
There,  while  the  rest  were  loud  in  merry- 
making. 
Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose  and 

past 
Bearing  a  lifelong  hunger  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily  rang 
the  bells, 

And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy 
years. 

Seven  happy  years  of  health  and  com- 
petence. 

And  mutual  love  and  honourable  toil; 

With  children;  first  a  daughter.  In  him 
woke. 

With  his  first  babe's  first  cry,  the  noble 
wish 

To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost, 

And  give  his  child  a  better  bringing-up 

Than  his  had  been,  or  hers;  a  wish  re- 
new'd, 

When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to  be 

The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes, 


While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful  seas, 
Or  often  journeying  landward;  for  in  truth 
Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's  ocean- 
spoil 
In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 
Rough-redden'd  with  a  thousand  winter 

gales. 
Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were  known, 
But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down, 
Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp. 
And  peacock-yewtree  of  the  lonely  Hall, 
Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  minister- 
ing. 

Then    came    a   change,   as    all   things 

human  change. 
Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow  port 
Open'd  a  larger  haven  :  thither  used 
Enoch  at  times  to  go  by  land  or  sea; 
And  once  when  there,  and  clambering  on 

a  mast 
In   harbour,  bv  mischance  he  slipt   and 

fell : 
A  limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted  him ; 
And  while  he  lay  recovering  there,  his  wife 
Bore  him  another  son,  a  sickly  one  : 
Another  hand  crept  too  across  his  trade 
Taking  her  bread  and  theirs  :  and  on  him 

fell, 
Altho'  a  grave  and  staid  God-fearing  man, 
Yet  lying  thus  inactive,  doubt  and  gloom. 
He  seem'd,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the  night, 
To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth. 
And   her,  he  loved,  a  beggar :  then  he 

pray'd 
*  Save  them  from  this,  whatever  comes  to 

me.' 
And  while  he  pray'd,  the  master  of  that 

ship 
Enoch  had   served  in,  hearing  his  mis- 
chance, 
Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued 

him, 
Reporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 
And   wanting  yet  a  boatswain.      Would 

he  go? 
There  yet  were  many  weeks   before  she 

sail'd, 
Sail'd   from   this    port.       Would    Enoch 

have  the  place? 
And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it, 
Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 


124 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


So 


now    that    shadow    of   mischance 

appear'd 
No  graver  than  as  when  some  little  cloud 
Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun, 
And  isles  a  light  in  the   offing :  yet   the 

wife  — 
"When    he   was   gone  —  the    children  — 

what  to  do? 
Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his 

plans; 
To  sell  the  boat  —  and  yet  he  loved  her 

well  — 
How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weather'd 

in  her ! 
He  knew  her,  as  a  horseman  knows  his 

horse  — 
And  yet  to   sell   her  —  then  with  what 

she  brought 
Buy  goods  and  stores  —  set  Annie  forth 

in  trade 
"With  all  that  seamen   needed    or   their 

wives  — 
So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he 

was  gone. 
Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yonder? 

go 
This  voyage  more  than  once?   yea  twice 

or  thrice  — 
As  oft  as  needed  —  last,  returning  rich, 
Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft, 
"With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life. 
Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  educated. 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his 

own. 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined 
all: 

Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie 
pale, 

Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest-born. 

Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry, 

And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms; 

"Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his 
limbs, 

Appraised  his  weight  and  fondled  father- 
like. 

But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 

To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he 
spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring 
had  girt 
Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his  will : 


Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she, 
But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear. 
Many  a  sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  renew'd 
(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of  it) 
Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 
For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  go. 
He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her, 
Her  and  her  children,  let  her   plead  in 

vain; 
So  grieving   held  his  will,  and   bore   it 

thro'. 

For  Enoch   parted  with   his  old  sea- 
friend, 
Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and  set 

his  hand 
To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting-room 
With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods  and 

stores. 
So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at  home, 
Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer  and 

axe. 
Auger  and  saw,  while  Annie  seem'd  to 

hear 
Her  own   death-scaffold  raising,  shrill'd 

and  rang. 
Till   this   was    ended,    and    his    careful 

hand, — 
The  space  was  narrow,  —  having  order'd 

all 
Almost    as   neat    and    close   as    Nature 

packs 
Her   blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused; 

and  he, 
"Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to  the 

last. 
Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn. 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  of  fare- 
well 

Brightly  and  boldly.  All  his  Annie's 
fears, 

Save,  as  his  Annie's,  were  a  laughter  to 
him. 

Yet  Enoch  as  a  brave  God-fearing  man 

Bow'd  himself  down,  and  in  that  mystery 

Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man-in- 
God, 

Pray'd  for  a  blessing  on  his  wife  and 
babes 

Whatever  came  to  him :  and  then  he 
said  : 

'Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of  God 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


125 


Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 
Keep  a  clean  hearth  and  a  clear  fire  for 

me, 
For  I'll   be   back,  my    girl,    before    you 

know  it.' 
Then  lightly  rocking  baby's  cradle,  '  and 

he, 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one,  — 
Nay  —  for  I  love  him  all  the  better  for 

it  — 
God   bless   him,  he    shall    sit    upon   my 

knees 
And  I  will  tell  him  tales  of  foreign  parts. 
And  make  him  merry,  when  I  come  home 

again. 
Come,  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I  go.' 

Him   running   on   thus  hopefully  she 

heard, 
And  almost  hoped  herself;   but  when  he 

turn'd 
The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  things 
In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 
On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven,  she 

heard, 
Heard  and  not  heard  him;   as  the  village 

girl 
\Yho    sets   her   pitcher   underneath    the 

spring, 
Musing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for  her, 
Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  overflow. 

At  length  she  spoke :  '  O  Enoch,  you 

are  wise; 
And  yet  for  all  your  wisdom  well  know  I 
That  I    shall   look    upon   your    face    no 

more.' 

*  Well  then,'  said  Enoch,  '  I  shall  look 

on  yours. 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 
(He  named  the  day);  get  you  a  seaman's 

glass, 
Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your 

fears.' 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  moments 

came, 

'Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  up,  be  comforted. 

Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I  come  again 

Keep  everything   shipshape,  for  I  must 

go/ 
And  fear  no  more  for  me;   or  if  you  fear 


Cast  all  your  cares  on  God;    that  anchor 

holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  morning?  if  I  flee  to  these 
Can  I  go  from  Him  ?  and  the  sea  is  His, 
The  sea  is  His:    He  made  it.' 

Enoch  rose, 
Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  drooping 

wife, 
And    kiss'd    his    wonder-stricken    little 

ones; 
But  for  the    third,  the  sickly    one,  who 

slept 
After  a  night  of  feverous  wakefulness, 
When    Annie    would    have    raised    him 

Enoch  said, 
'Wake    him    not;   let   him   sleep;    how 

should  the  child 
Remember  this?  '  and  kiss'd  him  in  his 

cot. 
But  Annie  from  her  baby's  forehead  dipt 
A   tiny  curl,  and   gave  it :  this  he  kept 
Thro'    all   his    future;    but   now    hastily 

caught 
His  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went 

his  way. 

She,  when  the  day,  that  Enoch  men- 

tion'd,  came, 
Borrow'd  a  glass,  but  all  in  vain  :  perhaps 
She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her  eye; 
Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim, hand  tremulous; 
She  saw  him  not :   and  while  he  stood  on 

deck 
Weaving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel  past. 

Ev'n  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishing  sail 
She  watch'd  it,  and  departed  weeping  for 

him ; 
Then,  tho'  she  mourn'd  his  absence   as 

his  grave. 
Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with  his, 
But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being 

bred 
To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 
By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 
Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less. 
And  still  foreboding  '  what  would  Enoch 

say?' 
For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 
And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares  for 

less 


126 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Than  what  she  gave  in  buying  what  she 

sold  : 
She  fail'd  and  sadden'd  knowing  it;   and 

thus, 
Expectant    of    that    news   which    never 

came, 
Gain'd  for  her  own  a  scanty  sustenance, 
And  lived  a  life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly-born 

and  grew 
Yet  sicklier,  tho'  the  mother  cared  for  it 
With  all  a  mother's  care  :   nevertheless. 
Whether   her    business    often  call'd    her 

from  it, 
Or  thro'  the  want  of  what  it  needed  most, 
Or  means   to  pay   the    voice    who    best 

could  tell 
What  most  it  needed  —  howsoe'er  it  was. 
After  a  lingering, —  ere  she  w^as  aware,  — 
Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly, 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In  that  same  week  when  Annie  buried  it, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  hungerM  for 

her  peace 
(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  look'd  upon 

her), 
Smote  him,  as  having  kept  aloof  so  long. 
*  Surely,'  said  Philip,  '  I  may  see  her  now. 
May  be  some  little  comfort;  '  therefore 

went. 
Past  thro'  the  solitary  room  in  front, 
Paused  for  a  moment  at  an  inner  door, 
Then  struck  it  thrice,  and,  no  one  opening, 
Enter'd;  but  Annie,  seated  with  her  grief, 
Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one, 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 
But  turn'd  her  own  toward  the  wall  and 

wept. 
Then  Philip  standing  up  said  falteringly, 
'  Annie,  I  came  to  ask  a  favour  of  you.' 

He  spoke;   the  passion  in  her  moan'd 
reply, 
'  Favour  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  I  am  ! '  half  abash'd  him;  yet  unask'd, 
His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war, 
He  set  himself  beside  her,  saying  to  her  : 

*  I   came  to  speak  to  you  of  what   he 
wish'd, 
Enoch,  your  husband :   I  have  ever  said 


You  chose  the  best  among  us —  a  strong 

man : 
For  where   he  fixt  his   heart   he  set  his 

hand 
To   do   the  thing  he  will'd,  and  bore  it 

thro'. 
And  wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary  way, 
And    leave  you  lonely?  not   to  see   the 

world  — 
For  pleasure?  —  nay,  but  for  the  where- 
withal 
To  give  his  babes  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  yours :   that  was 

his  wish. 
And  if  he  come  again,  vext  will  he  be 
To  find  the  precious  morning  hours  were 

lost. 
And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his  grave, 
If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  running 

wild 
Like  colts  about  the  waste.     So,  Annie, 

now  — 
Have  we  not  known  each  other  all  our 

lives? 
I  do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you  bear 
Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me  nay  — 
For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  comes  again 
Why  then  he  shall  repay  me  —  if  you  will, 
Annie  —  for  I  am  rich  and  well-to-do. 
Now   let   me   put    the  boy   and  girl   to 

school : 
This  is  the  favour  that  I  came  to  ask.' 

Then  Annie  with   her   brows  against 

the  wall 
Answer'd, '  I  cannot  look  you  in  the  face; 
I  seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down. 
When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke  me 

down; 
And  now  I  think  your  kindness  breaks 

me  down; 
But  Enoch  lives;  that  is  borne  in  on  me : 
He  will  repay  you  :  money  can  be  repaid  ; 
Not  kindness  such  as  yours.' 

And  Philip  ask'd 
*  Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie?' 

There  she  turn'd, 
.She   rose,   and   fixt   her   swimming   eyes 

upon  him. 
And  dwelt  a  moment  on  his  kindly  face, 
Then  calling  <lown  a  blessing  on  his  head 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


127 


Caught   at  his  hand,  and  wrung  it  pas- 
sionately, 
And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  put  the   boy  and  girl  to 

school, 
And    bought    them    needful    books,  and 

every  way, 
Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own, 
Made  himself  theirs;  and  tho'  for  Annie's 

sake, 
Blearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port, 
He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest  wish, 
And  seldom  crost  her  threshold,  yet  he 

sent 
Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and 

fruit, 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall, 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and 

then, 
With    some  pretext    of   fineness    in    the 

meal 
To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 
From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the 

waste. 

But    Philip    did    not    fathom    Annie's 

mind  : 
Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came 

upon  her, 
Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  gratitude 
Light  on  a  broken  word  to  thank  him 

with. 
But  Philip  was  her  children's  all-in-all; 
From  distant  corners  of  the  street  they  ran 
To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily; 
Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were 

Worried  his  passive  ear  with  petty  wrongs 
Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  play'd  with 

him 
And   call'd  him    Father  Phihp.      Philip 

gain'd 
As  Enoch  lost;  for  Enoch  seem'd  to  them 
Uncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream. 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 
Going  we  know  not  where :   and  so  ten 

years, 
Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native 

land, 
I'led  forward ,  and  no  news  of  Enoch  came. 


It  chanced  one  evening  Annie's  chil- 
dren long'd 

To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood, 

And  Annie  would  go  with  them ;  then 
they  begg'd 

For  Father  Philip  (as  they  call'd  him) 
too  : 

liim,  like  the  working  bee  in  blossom- 
dust, 

Blanch'd  with  his  mill,  they  found;  and 
saying  to  him, 

'  Come  with  us.  Father  Philip,'  he  de- 
nied; 

But  when  the  children  pluck'd  at  him 
to  go. 

He  laugh'd,  and  yielded  readily  to  their 
wish, 

For  was  not  Annie  with  them?  and  they 
went. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  weary  down, 
Just  w'here  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 

began 
To  feather    toward  the    hollow,  all   her 

force 
Fail'd  her;   and  sighing,  '  Let  me   rest' 

she  said  : 
vSo  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content; 
While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubilant 

cries 
Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumultuously 
Down  thro'  the  whitening  hazels  made  a 

plunge 
To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  bent 

or  broke 
The  lithe  reluctant  boughs  to  tear  away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each  other 
And   calling,  here  and  there,  about  the 

wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Her  presence,  and  remember'd  one  dark 

hour 
Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded 

life 
He   crept  into  the  shadow :    at  last  he 

said. 
Lifting    his    honest    forehead,    *  Listen, 

Annie, 
How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in  the 

wood. 
Tired,  Annie?'  for  she  did  not  speak  a 

word. 


128 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


'Tired?'    but  her  face  had  fall'n   upon 

her  hands; 
At  which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  in  him, 
'The  ship  was  lost,'  he   said,  'the  ship 

was  lost ! 
No  more  of  that!   why  should  you  kill 

yourself 
And  make  them  orphans  quite?'     And 

Annie  said, 
'  I  thought  not  of  it :  but  —  I  know  not 

why  — 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary.' 

Then  Philip*  coming  somewhat  closer 

spoke : 
'  Annie,  there  is  a  thing  upon  my  mind. 
And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long. 
That  tho'  I  know  not  when  it  first  came 

there, 
I  know  that  it  will  out  at  last.    O  Annie, 
It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all  chance, 
That  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years  ago 
Should  still  be   living;    well    then  —  let 

me  speak : 
I  grieve  to  see   you  poor  and  wanting 

help : 
I  cannot  help  you  as  I  wish  to  do 
Unless  —  they   say    that   women    are  so 

quick  — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I  would  have 

you  know  — 
I  wish  you  for  my  wife.     I  fain  would 

prove 
A  father  to  your  children :  I  do  think 
They  love  me  as  a  father :   I  am  sure 
That  I  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine 

own; 
And  I  believe,  if  you  were  fast  my  wife, 
That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain  years. 
We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God  grants 
To  any  of  his  creatures.  Think  upon  it : 
For  I  am  well-to-do  —  no  kin,  no  care. 
No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and 

yours : 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our 

lives, 
And  I  have  loved  you  longer  than  you 

know.' 

Then   answer'd   Annie;    tenderly  she 
spoke : 
'  You  have  been  as  God's  good  angel  in 
our  house. 


God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  you  for 

Philip,  with  something  happier  than  my- 
self. 
Can  one  love  twice?   can  you   be   ever 

loved 
As  Enoch  was?  what  is  it  that  you  ask?' 
'  I  am  content,'  he  answer'd, '  to  be  loved 
A  little  after  Enoch.'     '  O,'  she  cried. 
Scared  as  it  were,  '  dear  Philip,  wait  a 

while : 
If  Enoch  comes  —  but   Enoch  will   not 

come  — 
Yet  wait  a  year,  a  year  is  not  so  long : 
Surely  I  shall  be  wiser  in  a  year : 

0  wait  a  little  !  '     Philip  sadly  said, 

'  Annie,  as  I  have  waited  all  my  life 

1  well   may  wait    a   little.'     '  Nay,'  she 

cried, 
'I  am  bound:  you  have  my  promise  — 

in  a  year : 
Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide 

mine? ' 
And  Philip   answer'd,   '  I  will  bide  my 

year.' 

Here  both  were  mute,  till  Philip  glan- 
cing up 
Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen  day 
Pass  from  the  Danish  barrow  overhead; 
Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for  Annie, 

rose 
And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  thro'  the 

wood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their 

spoil ; 
Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and  there 
At  Annie's  door  he  paused  and  gave  his 

hand. 
Saying  gently,  '  Annie,  when  I  spoke  to 

you, 
That  was  your  hour  of  weakness.     I  was 

wrong, 
I  am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you  are 

free.' 
Then    Annie  weeping  answer'd,  *  I   am 

bound.' 

She  spoke;   and  in  one  moment  as  it 

were. 
While  yet  she  went  about  her  household 

ways, 
Ev'n  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest  words, 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


129 


That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she 

knew, 
That  autumn  into  autumn  flash'd  again, 
And  there  he  stood  once  more  before  her 

face, 
Claiming  her  promise.     *  Is  it  a  year?' 

she  ask'd. 
'  Yes,  if  the  nuts,'  he  said, '  be  ripe  again  : 
Come  out  and  see.'     But  she  —  she  put 

him  off — 
So  much  to  look  to  —  such  a  change  — 

a  month  — 
Give  her  a  month — she  knew  that  she 

was  bound  — 
A  monttf —  no  more.     Then  Philip  with 

his  eyes 
Full    of  that   lifelong    hunger,    and    his 

voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand, 
'  Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  take  your 

own  time.' 
And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity  of 

him; 
And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a  scarce-believable  excuse, 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long-sufferance, 
Till  half-another  year  had  slipt  away. 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port, 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost, 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  personal  wrong. 
Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but  trifle 

with  her; 
Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw  him 

on ; 
And  others  laugh'd    at   her   and   Philip 

too, 
As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their  own 

minds, 
And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like    serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.    Her  own 

son- 
Was    silent,    tho'    he    often    look'd    his 

wish ; 
But  evermore  the   daughter  prest  upon 

her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  poverty; 
And  Philip's  rosy  face  contracting  grew 
Careworn  and  wan;    and  all  these  things 

fell  on  her 
Sharp  as  reproach. 
K 


At  last  one  night  it  chanced 
That   Annie   could    not   sleep,  but    ear- 
nestly 
Pray'd  for  a  sign,  '  my  Enoch,  is  he  gone  ?  ' 
Then  compass'd  round  by  the  blind  wall 

of  night 
Brook'd  not  the  expectant  terror  of  her 

heart, 
Started   from  bed,  and  struck  herself  a 

light, 
Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a  sign, 
Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 
'  Under  the  palm-tree.'     That  was  noth- 
ing to  her: 
No  meaning  there :  she  closed  the  Book 

and  slept  : 
When  lo  !  her  Enoch  sitting  on  a  height, 
Under  a  palm-tree,  over  him  the  Sun : 
'  He  is  gone,'  she  thought,  '  he  is  happy, 

he  is  singing 
Hosanna  in  the  highest :  yonder  shines 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these  be 

palms 
Whereof  the  happy  people  strowing  cried 
"  Hosanna  in  the  highest !  "  '     Here  she 

woke. 
Resolved,  sent   for  him  and  said  wildly 

to  him, 
'There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not 

wed.' 
'  Then  for  God's  sake,'  he  answer'd,  '  both 

our  sakes. 
So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once.' 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang 

the  bells. 
Merrily  rang   the    bells   and    they  were 

wed. 
But  never  merrily  beat  Annie's  heart. 
A  footstep  seem'd  to  fall  beside  her  path, 
She    knew  not   whence;    a  whisper    on 

her  ear, 
She  knew  not  what;   nor   loved  she  to 

be  left 
Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out  alone. 
What  ail'd  her  then,  that  ere  she  enter'd, 

often 
Her  hand  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the  latch, 
Fearing   to    enter :     Philip    thought    he 

knew  : 
Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common  to 

her  state. 


no 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Being  with    child  :    but  when    her  child 

was  born, 
Then  her  new  child  was  as  herself   re- 

new'd, 
Then  the  new  mother  came  about    her 

heart, 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all, 
And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly  died. 

And  where  was  Enoch?  prosperously 

sail'd 
The  ship  '  Good  Fortune,'  tho'  at  setting 

forth 
The    Biscay,    roughly  ridging    eastward, 

shook 
And  almost  overwhelm'd  her,  yet  unvext 
She  slipt  across  the  summer  of  the  world. 
Then  after  a  long  tumble  about  the  Cape 
And  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and  fair, 
She  passing  thro'  the  summer  world  again. 
The  breath  of  heaven  came  continually 
And  sent  her  sweetly  by  the  golden  isles, 
Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and 

bought 
Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of  those 

times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Less  lucky  her  home-voyage  :  at  first 
indeed 

Thro'  many  a  fair  sea-circle,  day  by  day. 

Scarce-rocking,  her  full-busted  figure- 
head 

Stared  o'er  the  ripple  feathering  from 
her  bows : 

Then  follow'd  calms,  and  then  winds 
variable. 

Then  baffling,  a  long  course  of  them; 
and  last 

Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moon- 
less heavens 

Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  '  breakers ' 
came 

The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 

But  Enoch  and  two  others.  Half  the 
night, 

Buoy'd  upon  floating  tackle  and  broken 
spars. 

These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isle  at 
morn 

Rich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a  lonely  sea. 


No  want  was  there  of  human  suste- 
nance, 

Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,  and  nourish- 
ing roots ; 

Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 

The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was  tame. 

There  in  a  seaward-gazing  mountain- 
gorge 

They  built,  and  thatch'd  with  leaves  of 
palm,  a  hut. 

Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.  So  the 
three, 

Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness, 

Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill-content. 

V 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more 
than  boy, 

Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and 
wreck. 

Lay  lingering  out  a  five-years'  death-in- 
hfe. 

They  could  not  leave  him.  After  he 
was  gone. 

The  two  remaining  found  a  fallen  stem; 

And  Enoch's  comrade,  careless  of  him- 
self, 

Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion,  fell 

Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived  alone. 

In  those  two  deaths  he  read  God's  warn- 
ing '  wait.' 

The  mountain  wooded   to   the   peak, 

the  lawns 
And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways 

to  heaven. 
The   slender  coco's    drooping  crown   of 

plumes. 
The    lightning    flash    of    insect    and    of 

bird. 
The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil'd  around  the  stately  stems,  and 

ran 
Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
And    glories  of  the    ])road    belt   of  the 

world, 
All  these  he  saw;   but  what  he  fain  had 

seen 
He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face. 
Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 
The  mvriad    shriek    of  wheeling  ocean- 
fowl, 
The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the 

reef, 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


131 


I'he  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that 

branch'd 
And    blossom'd    in    the    zenith,    or    the 

sweep 
Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave, 
As    down   the  shore    he   ranged,   or    all 

day  long 
Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 
A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail : 
No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 
Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  preci- 
pices; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east; 
The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west; 
Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  them- 
selves in  heaven, 
The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 
The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise  —  but   no 
sail. 

There  often  as  he  watch'd  or  seem'd 

to  watch, 
So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him  paused, 
A   phantom   made    of    many   phantoms 

moved 
Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  himself 
Moved     haunting    people,    things    and 

places,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isle  beyond  the  line; 
The  babes,  their  babble,  Annie,  the  small 

house, 
The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy 

lanes, 
The  peacock-yewtree  and  the  lonely  Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold,  the 

chill 
November    dawns    and    dewy-glooming 

downs, 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell   of   dying 

leaves. 
And    the   low  moan   of  leaden-colour'd 

seas. 

Once   likewise,  in   the  ringing  of   his 

ears, 
Tho'  faintly,  merrily  —  far  and  far  away  — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish  bells; 
Then,  tho'  he  knew  not  wherefore,  started 

up 
Shuddering,    and    when    the    beauteous 

hateful  isle 


Return'd  upon  him,  had  not  his  pour 
heart 

Spoken  with  That,  which  being  every- 
where 

Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem 
all  alone. 

Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thus  over  Enoch's  early-silvering  head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and 

went 
Year  after  year.     His  hopes  to  see  his 

own. 
And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields, 
Not  yet  had   perish'd,  when  his  lonely 

doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.     Another  ship 
(She  wanted  water)    blown    by  baffling 

winds, 
Like  the  '  Good  Fortune,'  from  her  des- 
tined course, 
Stay'd  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where 

she  lay : 
For   since   the  mate    had    seen  at   early 

dawn 
Across  a  break  on  the  mist-wreathen  isle 
The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills. 
They  sent  a  crew  that  landing  burst  away 
In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and  fill'd 

the  shores 
With    clamour.       Downward    from    his 

mountain  gorge 
Stept  the  long-hair'd  long-bearded  soli- 
tary, 
Brown,  looking  hardly  human,  strangely 

clad, 
Muttering    and    mumbling,    idiotlike    it 

seem'd. 
With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making  signs 
They  knew  not  what :    and   yet   he  led 

the  way 
To  where   the   rivulets   of  sweet  water 

ran; 
And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew. 
And     heard     them    talking,    his    long- 

bounden  tongue 
Was  loosen'd,  till  he  made  them  under- 
stand ; 
Whom,  when  their  casks  were  fill'd  they 

took  aboard : 
And  there  the  tale  he  utter'd  brokenly. 
Scarce-credited    at    first   but    more    and 
more. 


132 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listen'd  to  it : 
And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free  pas- 
sage home; 
But  oft  he  work'd  among  the  rest  and 

shook 
His  isolation  from  him.     None  of  these 
Came  from  his  country,  or  could  answer 

him, 
If  question'd,  aught  of  what  he  cared  to 

know. 
And    dull    the    voyage    was    with    long 

delays. 
The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy;   but  ever- 
more 
His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 
Returning,  till  beneath  a  clouded  moon 
He  like  a  lover  down  thro'  all  his  blood 
Drew   in   the    dewy  meadowy  morning- 
breath 
Of  England,  blown   across   her   ghostly 

wall : 
And    that    same    morning    officers    and 

men 
Levied  a  kindly  tax  upon  themselves, 
Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him  it : 
Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed 

him, 
Ev'n  in  that  harbour  whence  he  sail'd 
before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any 

one, 
But    homeward  —  home  —  what    home? 

had  he  a  home? 
His  home,  he  walk'd.     Bright  was  that 

afternoon, 
Sunny  but  chill;   till  drawn  thro'  either 

chasm, 
Where    either    haven    open'd     on     the 

deeps, 
Roll'd  a  sea-haze  and  whelm'd  the  world 

in  gray; 
Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  before. 
And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and 

right 
Of  wither'd  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 
On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  robin  piped 
Disconsolate,    and     thro'    the    dripping 

haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore  it 

down  : 
Thicker   the    drizzle    grew,    deeper    the 

gloom; 


Last,  as  it  seem'd,  a  great   mist-blotted 

light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the 

place. 

Then    down    the   long   street    having 

slowly  stolen. 
His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity. 
His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reach'd  the 

home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and 

his  babes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were 

born; 
But   finding    neither   light    nor   murmur 

there 
(A  bill  of  sale  gleam'd  thro'  the  drizzle) 

crept 
Still  downward  thinking  *  dead  or  dead 

to  me ! ' 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf 

he  went. 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A  front  of  timber-crost  antiquity. 
So  propt,  worm-eaten,  ruinously  old, 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone;   but  he 

was  gone 
Who    kept   it;    and   his  widow    Miriam 

Lane, 
With    daily-dwindling    profits    held    the 

house; 
Ahaunt  of  brawling  seamen  once,  but  now 
Stiller,    with    yet    a    bed    for   wandering 

men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and  garru- 
lous. 
Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in. 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the  port, 
Not  knowing  —  Enoch  was  so  brown,  so 

bow'd. 
So  broken  —  all  the  story  of  his  house. 
His  baby's  death,  her  growing  poverty, 
How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school. 
And   kept   them  in  it,  his  long  wooing 

her. 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and  the 

birth 
Of  Philip's  child  :    and  o'er  his  counte- 
nance 
No  shadow  past,  nor  motion  :   any  one, 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


^ZZ 


Regarding,  well  had  deeni'd  he  felt  the 

tale 
Less   than    the    teller :     only   when    she 

closed, 
'  Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast   away  and 

lost,' 
He,  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically. 
Repeated  muttering  '  cast  away  and  lost;  ' 
Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers  '  lost  1 ' 

But   Enoch  .yearn'd   to    see   her  face 

again; 
'  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy.'     So  the 

thought 
Haunted   and   harass'd    him,  and  drove 

him  forth. 
At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below; 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll  upon 

him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.     By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 
Far-blazing   from    the    rear   of    Philip's 

house, 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For   Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the 

street, 
The  latest  house  to  landward;    but  be- 
hind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  open'd  on  the 

waste, 
Flourish'd    a    little    garden    square    and 

wall'd  : 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it : 
But  Enoch  shunn'd  the  middle  walk  and 

stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the   yew;    and 

thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  shunn'd, 

if  griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnish'd 
board 
Sparkled  and  shone;   so  genial  was  the 
hearth : 


And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he 

saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stout,    rosy,    with    his    babe   across   his 

knees; 
And    o'er    her    second    father   stoopt   a 

girl 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-hair'd  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted 

hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rear'd  his  creasy 

arms. 
Caught  at  and  ever  miss'd  it,  and  they 

laugh'd; 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he 

saw 
The  mother  glancing   often  toward  her 

babe, 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  wdth 

him, 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and 

strong, 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for 

he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life 

beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the 

babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's  knee. 
And    all    the    warmth,    the    peace,    the 

happiness, 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful, 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place, 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's 

love,  — 
Then  he,  tho'  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him 

all. 
Because   things  seen   are  mightier  than 

things  heard, 
Stagger'd  and  shook,  holding  the  branch, 

and  fear'd 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry, 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of 

doom. 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the 

hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like,  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  under 

foot, 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall. 


134 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and  be 

found, 
Crept   to    the  gate,  and    open'd  it,  and 

closed, 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber-door, 
Behind    him,    and    came    out    upon    the 

waste. 

And   there   he  would  have  knelt,  but 

that  his  knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  dug 
His    lingers    into    the    wet    earth,    and 

pray'd. 

'Too  hard  to  bear !  why  did  they  take 

me  thence? 
O  God  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour,  Thou 
That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle. 
Uphold  me.  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A  little  longer  !  aid  me,  give  me  strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace. 
My  children  too  !    must  I  not  speak  to 

these? 
They  know  me   not.      I   should   betray 

myself. 
Never:  No  father's  kiss  for  me  —  the  girl 
So  like    her   mother,  and    the    boy,  my 

son.' 

There  speech  and  thought  and  nature 

fail'd  a  little, 
And  he  lay  tranced;   but  when  he  rose 

and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again, 
All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street  he 

went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain. 
As  tho'  it  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 
'  Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know.' 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.     His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm    faith,  and    ever- 
more 
Prayer  from  a  living  source   within  the 

will, 
And  beating  up  thro'  all  the  bitter  world, 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea, 
Kept  him  a  living  soul.     '  This  miller's 

wife,' 
He  said  to  Miriam, 'that  you  spoke  about, 
Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband 
lives  ? ' 


'Ay,  ay,  poor  soul,'  said    Miriam,  'fear 

enow  ! 
If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him 

dead, 
Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort;  '  and 

he  thought 
'After  the  Lord  has  call'd  me  she  shall 

know, 
I  wait  His  time,'  and  Enoch  set  himself, 
Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby  to  live. 
Almost  to  all  things  could   he    turn  his 

hand. 
Cooper  he  was  and  carpenter,  and  wrought 
To  make    the    boatmen   fishing-nets,  or 

help'd 
At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks, 
That  brought  the  stinted  commerce   of 

those  days; 
Thus  earn'd  a  scanty  living  for  himself: 
Yet  since  he  did  but  labour  for  himself, 
Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life 

in  it 
Whereby  the  man  could  live;  and  as  the 

year 
Roll'd  itself  round  again  to  meet  the  day 
When    Enoch    had    return'd,  a   languor 

came 
Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do  no 

more. 
But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last  his 

bed. 
And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheerfully. 
For  sure   no  gladlier  does  the  stranded 

wreck 
See  thro'  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting  squall 
The  boat    that   bears    the    hope    of  life 

approach 
To  save  the  life  despair'd  of,  than  he  saw 
Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close  of 

all. 

For  thro'  that  dawning  gleam'd  a  kind- 
lier hope 
On  Enoch  thinking,  '  after  I  am  gone, 
Then  may  she  learn  I  lov'd  her  to  the 

last.' 
He  call'd  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and  said, 
'Woman,  I  have  a  secret  —  only  swear, 
Before  I  tell  you  —  swear  upon  the  book 
Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead.' 
'  Dead,'  clamour'd  the  good  woman, '  hear 
him  talk ! 


ENOCH  ARDEX. 


135 


I  warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring  you 

round.' 
'Swear,'  added  Enoch  sternly,  'on    the 

book.' 
And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  Miriam 

swore. 
Then  Enoch  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon  her, 
'  Did    you   know   Enoch   Arden    of  this 

'town?' 
•Know  him?  '  she  said,  '  I  knew  him  far 

away. 
Ay,  ay,  I  mind   him    coming    down  the 

street; 
Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no  man, 

he.' 
Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answer'd  her : 
'  His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares  for 

him. 
I  think  I  have  not  three  days  more  to  live ; 
I  am  the  man.'     At  which  the  woman  gave 
A  half-incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 
'  You  Arden,  you  I    nay,  —  sure  he  was  a 

foot 
Higher  than  you  be.'     Enoch  said  again, 
'  My  God  has  bow'd  me  down  to  what  I 

am; 
My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken  me; 
Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I  am  he 
Who  married  —  but  that  name  has  twice 

been  changed  — 
I  married  her  who  married  Philip  Ray. 
Sit,   listen.'     Then    he    told    her    of  his 

voyage, 
His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming  back. 
His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve. 
And    how  he    kept    it.     As   the  woman 

heard, 
Fast  flow'd  the  current  of  her  easy  tears, 
While  in  her  heart  she  yearn'd  incessantly 
To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little  haven, 
Proclaiming  Enoch  Arden  and  his  woes; 
But  awed  and  promise-bounden  she  for- 
bore. 
Saying  only, '  See  your  bairns  before  you 

go! 
Eh,  let  me  fetch  "em,  Arden,'  and  arose 
Eager  to  bring  them   down,  for    Enoch 

hung 
A  moment  on  her  words,  but  then  replied  : 

'  Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the 
last. 
But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I  die. 


Sit  down  again ;   mark  me  and  understand, 
While  I  have  power  to  speak.     I  charge 

you  now. 
When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  I  died 
Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving  her; 
Save  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving  her 
As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my  own. 
And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I  saw 
vSo  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest  breath 
Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  praying  for 

her. 
And  tell  my  son  that  I  died  blessing  him. 
And  say  to  Philip  that  I  blest  him  too; 
He  never  meant  us  any  thing  but  good. 
But  if  my  children  care  to  see  me  dead. 
Who    hardly  knew  me  living,  let    them 

come, 
I  am  their  father;  but  she  must  not  come. 
For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after-life. 
And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my  blood 
Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to-be. 
This  hair  is  his  :  she  cut  it  off  and  gave  it. 
And  I  have  borne  it  with  me  all  these 

years, 
And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my 

grave; 
But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I  shall 

see  him. 
My  babe  in  bliss :    wherefore  when  I  am 

gone, 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort  her  ; 
It  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her, 
That  I  am  he.' 

He  ceased;  and  Miriam  Lane 
Made  such  a  voluble  answer  promising  all. 
That  once  again  he  roU'd  his  eyes  upon 

her 
Repeating  all  he  wish'd,  and  once  again 
She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this, 
While  Enoch  slumber'd  motionless  and 

pale. 
And  Miriam  watch'd  and  dozed  at  inter- 
vals. 
There  came  so  loud  a  calling  of  the  sea, 
That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 
He  woke,  he   rose,  he  spread  his  arms 

abroad 
Crying  with  a  loud  voice  '  A  sail !  a  sail  I 
I  am  saved; '  and  so  fell  back  and  spoke 
no  more. 


136 


THE  BROOK. 


So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when    they   buried    him   the    little 

port 
Had  seldom  seen  a  costlier  funeral. 


THE   BROOK. 

Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted;   I  to  the 

East 
And  he  for  Italy  —  too  late  —  too  late  : 
One  whom  the  strong  sons  of  the  world 

despise; 
For  lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip  and 

share, 
And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent  for 

cent; 
Nor   could   he    understand   how  money 

breeds, 
Thought  it  a   dead   thing;    yet   himself 

could  make 
The  thing  that  is  not  as  the  thing  that 

is. 

0  had  he  lived !     In  our  sclioolbooks  we 

say, 
Of  those  that  held  their  heads  above  the 

crowd. 
They  flourished  then  or  then;   but  life  in 

him 
Could   scarce    be   said   to    flourish,  only 

touch'd 
On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf, 
When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a  mist  of 

green, 
And  nothing  perfect :  yet  the  brook  he 

loved, 
For    which,    in    branding    summers    of 

Bengal, 
Or  ev'n  the  sweet  half-English  Neilgherry 

air 

1  panted,  seems,  as  I  re-listen  to  it, 
Prattling  the  primrose  fancies  of  the  boy, 
To  me  that  loved  him;    for  *0  brook,' 

he  says, 
'  O  babbling  brook,'  says  Edmund  in  his 

rhyme, 
*  Whence  come  you? '  and  the  brook,  why 

not?  replies. 

1  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 


By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down. 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

'  Poor   lad,  he    died   at    Florence,  quite 

worn  out. 
Travelling  to  Naples.     There  is  Darnley 

bridge. 
It  has  more  ivy;    there  the  river;    and 

there 
Stands    Philip's   farm  where   brook  and 

river  meet. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

'  But  Philip  chatter'd  more  than  brook 

or  bird; 
Old    Philip ;     all    about   the    fields   you 

caught 
His   weary    daylong    chirping,    like    the 

dry 
High-elbow'd  grigs  that  leap  in  summer 

grass. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


THE  BROOK. 


137 


'  O    darling    Katie    Willows,    his    one 

child ! 
A  maiden  of  our  century,  yet  most  meek; 
A   daughter    of   our    meadows,   yet    not 

coarse; 
Straight,  but  as  lissome  as  a  hazel  wand; 
Her  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  her  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the 

shell 
Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within. 

'  Sweet  Katie,  once  I  did  her  a  good 

turn. 
Her  and  her  far-off  cousin  and  betrothed, 
James  Willows,  of  one  name  and  heart 

with  her. 
For  here  I  came,  twenty  years  back  — 

the  week 
Before  I  parted  with  poor  Edmund;  crost 
By  that  old  bridge  which,  half  in  ruins 

then, 
Still  makes  a  hoary  eyebrow  for  the  gleam 
Beyond  it,  where  the  waters  marry —  crost, 
Whistling  a  random  bar  of  Bonny  Doon, 
And  push'd  at  Philip's  garden-gate.     The 

gate. 
Half-parted    from  a  weak  and  scolding 

hinge, 
Stuck;    and  he  clamour'd    from  a  case- 
ment, "  Run  " 
To  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks  below, 
"  Run,  Katie  !  "     Katie  never  ran  :    she 

moved 
To   meet  me,  winding   under  woodbine 

bowers, 
A  little  fiutter'd,  with  her  eyelids  down, 
Fresh  apple-blossom,  blushing  for  a  boon. 

'What  was  it?  less  of  sentiment  than 
sense 
Had  Katie;    not  illiterate;    nor  of  those 
Who  dabbling  in  the  fount  of  fictive  tears, 
And    nursed    by  mealy-mouth'd    philan- 
thropies, 
Divorce  the  Feeling  from  her  mate  the 
Deed. 

*  She   told  me.     She   and    James  had 

quarrell'd.     W^hy? 
What  cause  of  quarrel?     None,  she  said, 

no  cause; 
James  had  no  cause  :   but  when  I  prest 

the  cause, 


I  learnt  that  James   had    flickering  jeal- 
ousies 
Which  anger'd  her.    Who  anger'd  James? 

I  said. 
But  Katie  snatch'd  her  eyes  at  once  from 

mine. 
And  sketching  with  her  slender  pointed 

foot 
Some  figure  like  a  wizard  pentagram 
On  garden  gravel,  let  my  query  pass 
Unclaim'd,  in  flushing  silence,  till  I  ask'd 
If  James  were  coming.     "Coming  every 

day," 
She  answer'd,  "  ever  longing  to  explain. 
But  evermore  her  father  came  across 
With  some  long-winded  tale,  and  broke 

him  short; 
And  James  departed  vext  with  him  and 

her." 
How  could  I  help  her?  "Would  I  —  was 

it  wrong?" 
(Claspt  hands  and  that  petitionary  grace 
Of  sweet  seventeen  subdued  me  ere  she 

spoke) 
"  O  would  I  take  her  father  for  one  hour, 
For  one  half-hour,  and  let  him  talk  to  me!" 
x-\nd  even  while  she  spoke,  I  saw  where 

James 
Made  toward  us,  like  a  wader  in  the  surf, 
Beyond  the  brook,  waist-deep  in  meadow- 
sweet. 

'  O  Katie,  what  I  suffer'd  for  your  sake  ! 

For  in  I  went,  and  call'd  old  Philip  out 

To  show  the  farm  :   full  willingly  he  rose  : 

He  led  me  thro'  the  short  sweet-smelling 
lanes 

Of  his  wheat-suburb,  babbling  as  he  went. 

He  praised  his  land,  his  horses,  his 
machines; 

He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,  his 
hogs,  his  dogs; 

He  praised  his  hens,  his  geese,  his  guinea- 
hens; 

His  pigeons,  who  in  session  on  their  roofs 

Approved  him,  bowing  at  their  own 
deserts: 

Then  from  the  plaintive  mother's  teat  he 
took 

Her  blind  and  shuddering  puppies,  nam- 
ing each, 

And  naming  those,  his  friends,  for  whom 
they  were : 


138 


THE  BROOK. 


Then   crost   the    common   into    Darnley 

chase 
To  show  Sir   Arthur's   deer.     In  copse 

and  fern 
Twinkled  the  innumerable  ear  and  tail. 
Then,  seated  on  a  serpent-rooted  beech, 
He    pointed    out   a   pasturing    colt,  and 

said : 
"That  was  the  four-year-old  I  sold  the 

Squire." 
And  there  he  told  a  long  long-winded  tale 
Of  how  the  Squire  had  seen  the  colt  at 

grass. 
And  how  it  was  the  thing  his  daughter 

wish'd, 
And  how  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the  farm 
To  learn  the  price,  and  what  the  price  he 

ask'd, 
And  how  the  bailiff  swore  that  he  was 

mad. 
But  he  stood  firm;    and  so   the  matter 

hung; 
He  gave  them  line :  and  five  days  after 

that 
He  met  the  bailiff  at  the  Golden  Fleece, 
Who  then  and  there  had  offer'd  some- 
thing more, 
But   he   stood  firm;    and  so  the  matter 

hung; 
He  knew  the  man;   the  colt  would  fetch 

its  price; 
He  gave  them  line  :  and  how  by  chance 

at  last 
(It  might  be  May  or  April,  he  forgot. 
The  last  of  April  or  the  first  of  May) 
He  found  the  bailiff  riding  by  the  farm, 
And,  talking    from    the    point,  he  drew 

him  in, 
And  there  he  mellow'd  all  his  heart  with 

ale, 
Until  they  closed  a  bargain,  hand  in  hand. 

'Then,  while  I  breathed    in   sight    of 
haven,  he, 
Poor  fellow,   could  he  help   it?    recom- 
menced. 
And  ran  thro'  all  the  coltish  chronicle, 
Wild  Will,  Black  Bess,  Tantivy,  Tallyho, 
Reform,  White    Rose,  Bellerophon,    the 

Jilt, 
Arbaces,  and  Phenomenon,  and  the  rest. 
Till,  not  to  die  a  listener,  I  arose, 
And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still;    and  so 


We  turn'd  our  foreheads  from  the  falling 
sun. 

And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice 
as  long 

As  when  they  foUow'd  us  from  Philip's 
door. 

Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  sweet  con- 
tent 

Re-risen  in  Katie's  eyes,  and  all  things 
well. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 

I  make  the  netted  simbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Yes,  men  may  come  and  go;   and  these 

are  gone, 
All  gone.     My  dearest  brother,  Edmund, 

sleeps. 
Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and  rustic 

spire. 
But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 
Of  Brunelleschi;  sleeps  in  peace  :  and  he. 
Poor  Philip,  of   all   his  lavish  waste  of 

words 
Remains  the  lean  P.  W.  on  his  tomb: 
I  scraped  the  lichen  from  it :   Katie  walks 
By  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 
F"ar   off,   and    holds   her    head    to   other 

stars, 
And  breathes  in  April-autumns.     All  are 

gone.' 

So  Lawrence  Aylmer,  seated  on  a  stile 
In  the   long    hedge,  and    rolling  in   his 

mind 
Old  waifs  of  rhyme,  and  bowing  o'er  the 

brook 
A  tonsured  head  in  middle  age  forlorn, 


AYLMEK'S  FIELD. 


139 


Mused,  and  was  mute.     On  a  sudden  a 

low  breath 
Of    tender    air    made    tremble    in    the 

hedge 
The   fragile    bindweed-bells   and   briony 

rings ; 
And  he  look'd  up.     There  stood  a  maiden 

near, 
Waiting   to   pass.     In  much   amaze    he 

stared 
On  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  on  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the 

shell 
Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within  : 
Then,  wondering,  ask'd   her,   'Are    you 

from  the  farm? ' 
*  Yes,'  answer'd  she.     *  Pray  stay  a  little  : 

pardon  me; 
What  do  they  call  you?'    'Katie.'    'That 

were  strange. 
What    surname?  '      '  Willows.'      '  No  !  ' 

'  That  is  my  name.' 
'Indeed!'    and  here   he   look'd  so  self- 

perplext. 
That  Katie  laugh'd,  and  laughing  blush'd, 

till  he 
Laugh'd    also,    but    as    one    before    he 

wakes. 
Who  feels  a  glimmering  strangeness  in 

his  dream. 
Then  looking  at  her  :  '  Too  happy,  fresh 

and  fair, 
Too  fresh  and  fair  in  our  sad  world's  best 

bloom. 
To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your 

name 
About  these  meadows,  twenty  years  ago.' 

*  Have  you  not  heard  ?  '  said  Katie,  *  we 
came  back. 

We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  be- 
fore. 

Am  I  so  like  her?  so  they  said  on 
board. 

Sir,  if  you  knew  her  in  her  English 
days, 

My  mother,  as  it  seems  you  did,  the  days 

That  most  she  loves  to  talk  of,  come 
with  me. 

My  brother  James  is  in  the  harvest- 
field  : 

But  she  —  vou  will  be  welcome  —  O,  come 
in!'' 


AYLMER'S   FIELD. 

1793- 

Dust  are  our  frames;   and,  gilded  dust, 

our  pride 
Looks   only  for   a   moment   whole   and 

sound ; 
Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king, 
Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  ornaments. 
Which    at   a  touch    of  light,   an   air   of 

heaven, 
Slipt  into  ashes,  and  was  found  no  more. 

Here  is  a  story  which  in  rougher  shape 
Came   from  a  grizzled  cripple,  whom  I 

saw 
Sunning  himself  in  a  waste  field  alone  — 
Old,  and  a  mine  of  memories  —  who  had 

served, 
Long  since,  a  bygone  Rector  of  the  place. 
And  been  himself  a  part  of  what  he  told. 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer,  that   almighty 

man. 
The   county  God  —  in  whose  capacious 

hall, 
Hung  with  a  hundred  shields,  the  family 

tree 
Sprang  from  the  midriff  of  a  prostrate 

king  — 
Whose  blazing  wyvern  weathercock'd  the 

spire. 
Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing'd  his  entry- 
gates 
And   swang   besides  on  many  a  windy 

sign  — 
Whose  eyes  from  under  a  pyramidal  head 
Saw  from  his  windows  nothing  save  his 

own  — 
What  lovelier  of  his  own  had  he  than 

her, 
His  only  child,  his  Edith,  whom  he  loved 
As  heiress  and  not  heir  regretfully? 
But   '  he   that   marries   her   marries   her 

name '  — 
This  fiat  somewhat  soothed  himself  and 

wife. 
His  wife  a  faded  beauty  of  the  Baths, 
Insipid  as  the  Queen  upon  a  card; 
Her  all  of   thought  and  bearing  hardly 

more 
Than  his  own  shadow  in  a  sicklv  sun. 


140 


AYLMER'S   FIELD. 


A   land    of  hops  and    poppy-mingled 

corn, 
Little  about  it  stirring  save  a  brook  ! 
A  sleepy  land,  where    under    the   same 

wheel 
The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year  by 

year; 
Where   almost  all  the  village    had    one 

name; 
Where  Aylmer  followed  Aylmer  at  the 

Hall 
And  Averill  Averill  at  the  Rectory 
Thrice  over;   so  that  Rectory  and  Hall, 
Bound  in  an  immemorial  intimacy. 
Were  open  to  each  other;   tho'  to  dream 
That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well 

had  made 
The  hoar  hair  of  the  Baronet  bristle  up 
With  horror,  worse  than  had   he  heard 

his  priest 
Preach   an   inverted    scripture,    sons    of 

men 
Daughters    of  God;    so  sleepy  was  the 

land. 

And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will'd 
it  so, 
Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range 

of  roofs, 
Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree? 
There  was    an   Aylmer-Averill  marriage 

once, 
When  the  red  rose  was  redder  than  itself. 
And  York's  white  rose  as  red  as  Lancas- 
ter's, 
With  wounded    peace  which    each    had 

prick'd  to  death. 
'  Not  proven,'  Averill  said,  or  laughingly, 
'Some  other  race  of  Averills'  —  prov'n 

or  no. 
What  cared  he?   what,  if   other  or  the 

same? 
He  lean'd  not  on  his  fathers  but  himself. 
But  Leolin,  his  brother,  living  oft 
With  Averill,  and  a  year  or  two  before 
Call'd  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call'd  away 
By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neighbour- 
hood. 
Would  often,  in  his  walks  with    Edith, 

claim 
A  distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 
That  shook  the  heart  of  Edith  hearing 
him. 


Sanguine  he  was:  a  but  less  vivid  hue 
Than  of  that  islet  in  the  chestnut-bloom 
Flamed  in  his  cheek;    and  eager   eyes, 

that  still 
Took   joyful    note    of  all    things  joyful, 

beam'd 
Beneath  a  manelike  mass  of  rolling  gold, 
Their  best  and  brightest,  when  they  dwelt 

on  hers, 
Edith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect  else. 
But  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood, 
Shone  like  a  mystic  star  between  the  less 
And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro. 
We    know  not   wherefore;    bounteously 

made. 
And  yet  so  finely,  that  a  troublous  touch 
Thinn'd,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in  a 

day, 
A  joyous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the 

first. 
Leolin's  first  nurse  was,  five  years  after, 

hers : 
So  much  the  boy  foreran;   but  when  his 

date 
Doubled  her  own,  for  want  of  playmates, 

he 
(Since  iVverill  was  a  decad  and  a  half 
His  elder,  and  their  parents  underground) 
Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite,  and 

roll'd 
His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her  dipt 
Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the  prone 

swing. 
Made    blossom-ball    or    daisy-chain,    ar- 
ranged 
Her  garden,  sow'd  her  name  and  kept 

it  green 
In  living  letters,  told  her  fairy-tales, 
Show'd    her    the    fairy   footings   on    the 

grass. 
The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  palms. 
The  petty  marestail  forest,  fairy  pines. 
Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 
What  look'd  a  flight  of  fairy  arrows  aim'd 
All  at  one  mark,  all   hitting:   make-be- 
lieves 
For  Edith  and  himself:   or  else  he  forged. 
But  that  was  later,  lioyish  histories 
Of    battle,    bold     adventure,     dungeon, 

wreck, 
Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues,  and  true 

love 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


141 


Crown'd   after  trial;    sketches  rude  and 

faint, 
But  where  a  passion  yet  unborn  perhaps 
Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightin- 
gale. 
And  thus  together,  save  for  college-times 
Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a  couple,  fair 
As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang, 
Or    Heaven  in   lavish   bounty  moulded, 

grew. 
And  more  and  more,  the  maiden  woman- 
grown, 
He  wasted   hours   with    Averill;    there, 

when  first 
The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 
Into  that  phalanx  of  the  summer  spears 
That    soon   should   wear    the    garland; 

there  again 
When    burr    and    bine    were   gather'd; 

lastly  there 
At  Christmas;    ever  welcome  at  the  Hall, 
On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide  of 

youth 
Broke  with  a  phosphorescence  charming 

even 
My  lady;   and  the  Baronet  yet  had  laid 
Xo  bar   between  them :    dull    and    self- 
involved. 
Tall    and    erect,  but   bending    from    his 

height 
With    half-allowing   smiles    for    all    the 

world. 
And    mighty  courteous   in    the    main  — 

his  pride 
Lay  deeper  than  to  wear  it  as  his  ring  — 
He,  like  an  Aylmer  in  his  Aylmerism, 
Would  care  no  more  for  Leolin's  walking 

with  her 
Than  for  his  old  Newfoundland's,  when 

they  ran 
To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he  rose 
Twofooted  at  the  limit  of  his  chain, 
Roaring    to    make    a    third :     and    how 

should  Love, 
Whom     the     cross-lightnings     of     four 

chance-met  eyes 
Flash  into  fiery  life  from  nothing,  follow 
Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn? 
Seldom,  but  when  he  does,  Master  of  all. 

So    these  young   hearts  not    knowing 
that  they  loved, 


Not  she  at  least,  nor  conscious  of  a  bar 

Between  them,  nor  by  plight  or  broken 
ring 

Bound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy, 

Wander'd  at  will,  and  oft  accompanied 

By  Averill :  his,  a  brother's  love,  that 
hung 

With  wings  of  brooding  shelter  o'er  her 
peace. 

Might  have  been  other,  save  for  Leo- 
lin's— 

Who  knows?  but  so  they  wander'd,  hour 
by  hour 

Gather'd  the  blossom  that  rebloom'd, 
and  drank 

The  magic  cup  that  fill'd  itself  anew. 

A  whisper  half  reveal'd  her  to  herself. 
For  out  beyond   her  lodges,  where  the 

brook 
Vocal,  with  here  and  there  a  silence,  ran 
By   sallowy   rims,    arose    the    labourers' 

homes, 
A  frequent  haunt  of  Edith,  on  low  knolls 
That  dimpling  died  into  each  other,  huts 
At    random    scatter'd,    each    a    nest    in 

bloom. 
Her  art,  her  hand,  her  counsel  all  had 

wrought 
About    them  :   here  was  one   that,  sum- 

mer-blanch'd. 
Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  traveller's- 
joy 
In  Autumn,  parcel  ivy-clad;   and  here 
The  warm-blue  breathings  of  a  hidden 

hearth 
Broke  from  a  bower  of  vine  and  honey- 
suckle : 
One  look'd  all  rosetree,  and  another  wore 
A  close-set  robe   of  jasmine  sown  with 

stars : 
This  had  a  rosy  sea  of  gillyflowers 
About  it ;  this,  a  milky-way  on  earth, 
Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer's 

heavens, 
A  lily-avenue  climbing  to  the  doors; 
One,  almost  to  the  martin-haunted  eaves 
A  summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhocks; 
Each,  its  own  charm;   and  Edith's  every- 
where ; 
And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him, 
He    but    less   loved  than  Edith,  of  her 
poor : 


142 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


For  she  —  so  lowly-lovely  and  so  loving, 
Queenly  responsive  when  the  loyal  hand 
Rose  from  the  clay  it  work'd  in  as  she 

past, 
Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  passing 

by, 
Nor  dealing  goodly  counsel  from  a  height 
That  makes   the   lowest   hate    it,  but   a 

voice 
Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 
A  splendid  presence  flattering  the  poor 

roofs 
Revered    as    theirs,    but    kindlier    than 

themselves 
To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 
Or  old  bedridden  palsy,  —  was  adored; 
He,  loved   for  her  and  for  himself.     A 

grasp 
Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of  the 

heart, 
A  childly  way  with  children,  and  a  laugh 
Ringing  like  proven  golden  coinage  true, 
Were    no    false    passport    to    that    easy 

realm, 
Where  once  with  Leolin  at  her  side  the 

girl, 
Nursing    a    child,    and    turning   to    the 

warmth 
The  tender  pink  five-beaded  baby-soles, 
Heard  the  good  mother  softly  whisper 

'  Bless, 
God  bless  'em  :    marriages  are  made  in 

Heaven.' 

A  flash  of  semi-jealousy  clear'd  it  to 
her. 
My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  unannounced 
With  half  a  score  of  swarthy  faces  came. 
His  own,  tho'  keen  and  bold  and  sol- 
dierly 
Sear'd  by  the  close  ecliptic,  was  not  fair; 
Fairer  his  talk,  a  tongue  that  ruled  the 

hour, 
Tho'  seeming  boastful :  so  when  first  he 

dash'd 
Into  the  chronicle  of  a  deedful  day. 
Sir  Aylmer  half  forgot  his  lazy  smile 
Of  patron  *(iood!     my  lady's  kinsman! 

good  I  ' 
My  lady  w  ilh  her  fingers  interlock'd. 
And  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 
Call'd  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  ear 
To  listen  :    unawares  they  flitted  off. 


Busying  themselves  about  the  flowerage 
That  stood    from  out  a  stifl"  brocade  in 

which, 
The  meteor  of  a  splendid  season,  she, 
Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago, 
Stept  thro'  the  stately  minuet  of   those 

days  : 
But    Edith's    eager    fancy  hurried    with 

him 
Snatch'd  thro'  the  perilous  passes  of  his 

life: 
Till  Leolin  ever  watchful  of  her  eye. 
Hated  him  with  a  momentary  hate. 
Wife-hunting,    as   the    rumour    ran,  was 

he: 
I    know    not,    for    he    spoke    not,    only 

shower'd 
His  oriental  gifts  on  every  one 
And    most   on   Edith  :    like  a  storm  he 

came. 
And  shook  the  house,  and  like  a  storm 

he  went. 

Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possibly 
He  flow'd  and  ebb'd  uncertain,  to  return 
When  others  had  been  tested)  there  was 

one, 
A    dagger,    in    rich    sheath    with   jewels 

on  it 
Sprinkled  about  in  gold  that   branch'd 

itself 
Fine  as  ice-ferns  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a  breath.     I  know  not  whence 

at  first. 
Nor  of  what  race,  the  work;   but  as  he 

told 
The  story,  storming  a  hill-fort  of  thieves 
He  got  it;    for  their  captain  after  fight, 
His  comrades  having    fought    their  last 

below. 
Was  climbing  up  the  valley;    at  whom 

he  shot : 
Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  which 

he  clung 
Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet, 
This  dagger  with  him,  which  when  now 

admired 
By    Edith    whom    his    pleasure    was    to 

please, 
At  once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded  to  her. 

And  Leolin,  coming  after  he  was  gone, 
Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly : 


AVLMER'S  FIELD. 


143 


And  when  she  show'd  the  wealthy  scab- 
bard, saying 
'  Look  what  a  lovelv  piece  of  workman- 
ship : ' 
Slight   was  his   answer,   •  Well  —  I  care 

not  for  it  : ' 
Then  playing  with  the  blade  he  prick'd 

his  hand, 
'  A  gracious  gift  to  give  a  lady,  this  !  ' 
*  But    would  it  be  more  gracious,'  ask'd 

the  girl, 
'  Were  I  to  give  this  gift  of  his  to  one 
That   is   no    lady  ?  '      '  Gracious  ?    No,' 

said  he. 
'Me  ?  —  but  I  cared  not  for  it.     O  par- 
don me, 
I  seem  to  be  ungraciousness  itself.' 
'  Take  it,'  she  added   sweetlv,  '  tho'  his 

gift; 
For  I  am  more  ungracious  ev'n  than  you, 
I  care  not  for  it  either;  '  and  he  said 
'  Why  then  I  love  it :  '  but  Sir  Aylmer 

past, 
And  neither  loved    nor  liked   the  thing 
he  heard. 

The  next  day  came  a  neighbour. 
Blues  and  reds 

They  talk'd  of :  blues  were  sure  of  it,  he 
thought : 

Then  of  the  latest  fox  —  where  started 
—  kill'd 

In  such  a  bottom  :  '  Peter  had  the  brush, 

My  Peter,  first :  '  and  did  Sir  Aylmer 
know 

That  great  pock-pitten  fellow  had  been 
caught  ? 

Then  made  his  pleasure  echo,  hand  to 
hand, 

And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance  of  it 

Between  his  palms  a  moment  up  and 
down  — 

'  The  birds  were  warm,  the  birds  were 
warm  upon  him; 

We  have  him  now :  '  and  had  Sir  Ayl- 
mer heard  — 

Nay,  but  he  must  —  the  land  was  ring- 
ing of  it  — 

This  blacksmith  border-marriage  —  one 
they  knew  — 

Raw  from  the  nursery  —  who  could  trust 
a  child? 

That  cursed  France  with  her  egalities  I 


And  did  Sir  Aylmer  (deferentially 
With  neariiig  chair  and   lower'd  accent) 

think  — 
Fur  people  talk'd  —  that    it  was  wholly 

wise 
To  let  that  handsome  fellow  Averill  walk 
So    freely   with    his    daughter  ?    people 

talk'd  — 
The  boy  might  get  a  notion  into  him; 
The    girl    might    be    entangled    ere    she 

knew. 
Sir    Aylmer     Aylmer     slowly    stiffening 

spoke : 
'  The  girl  and  boy.  Sir,  know  their  differ- 
ences !  ' 
'  Good,'    said    his    friend,    '  but   watch  !  ' 

and  he,  '  Enough, 
More  than  enough,  Sir  1    I  can  guard  my 

own.' 
They    parted,    and    Sir    Aylmer   Aylmer 

watch'd. 

Pale,  for  on  her  the  thunders  of  the 

house 
Had    fallen    first,  was    Edith  that   same 

night; 
Pale  as  the  Jephtha's  daughter,  a  rough 

piece 
Of  early  rigid  colour,  under  which 
Withdrawing  by  the  counter  door  to  that 
Which  Leolin  open'd,  she  cast  back  upon 

him 
A  piteous  glance,  and  vanish'd.     He,  as 

one 
Caught  in  a  burst  of  unexpected  storm, 
And  pelted  with  outrageous  epithets, 
Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the  House 
On  either  side  the  hearth,  indignant  ;  her. 
Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a  feather  fan, 
Him,   glaring,    by   his    own   stale   devil 

spurr'd, 
And,  like  a  beast  hard-ridden,  breathing 

hard. 
'  Ungenerous,  dishonourable,  base, 
Presumptuous  I  trusted  as  he  was  with  her. 
The  sole  succeeder  to  their  wealth,  their 

lands. 
The  last  remaining  pillar  of  their  house. 
The  one  transmitter  of  their  ancient  name, 
Their  child.'    '  Our  child  ! '  '  Our  heiress  ! ' 

'  Ours  ! '  for  still, 
Like  echoes  from  beyond  a  hollow,  came 
Her  sicklier  iteration.     Last  he  said. 


144 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


'  Boy,  mark  me  !  for  your  fortunes  are  to 

make. 
I  swear  you  shall  not  make  them  out  of 

mine. 
Now  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised  on 

her, 
Perplext  her,  made  her  half  forget  herself. 
Swerve  from  her  duty  to  herself  and  us  — 
Things  in  an  Aylmer  deem'd  impossible, 
Far  as  we  track  ourselves  —  I  say  that 

this  — 
Else  I  withdraw  favour  and  countenance 
From  you  and  yours  for  ever  —  shall  you 

do. 
Sir,  when  you  see  her  —  Init  you  shall  not 

see  her  — 
No,  you  shall  write,  and  not  to  her,  but 

me : 
And  you  shall  say  that   having   spoken 

with  me, 
And  after  look'd  into  yourself,  you  find 
That  you  meant  nothing —  as  indeed  you 

know 
That  you  meant  nothing.      Such  a  match 

as  this ! 
Impossible,    prodigious ! '     These    were 

words. 
As  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself, 
Arguing    boundless    forbearance :    after 

which. 
And  Leolin's  horror-stricken  answer,  *  I 
So  foul  a  traitor  to  myself  and  her. 
Never  oh  never,'  for  about  as  long 
As   the   wind-hover    hangs    in    balance, 

paused 
Sir  Aylmer   reddening    from    the   storm 

within, 
Then  broke  all  bonds  of  courtesy,  and 

crying, 
'  Boy,  should   I   find   you   by  my  doors 

again, 
My  men  shall  lash  you  from  them  like  a 

dog; 
Hence  ! '  with  a  sudden  execration  drove 
The  footstool  from  before  him,  and  arose; 
So,  stammering  '  scoundrel '  out  of  teeth 

that  ground 
As  in  a  dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin  still 
Retreated  half-aghast,  the  fierce  old  man 
FoUow'd,  and  under  his  own  lintel  stood 
Storming  with  lifted  hands,  a  hoary  face 
Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearth,  but 

now, 


Beneath  a  pale  and  unimpassion'd  moon, 
Vext    with    unworthy  madness,  and  de- 
form'd. 

Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  rageful  eye 
That    watch'd    him,    till   he    heard    the 

ponderous  door 
Close,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro'  the 

land, 
Went  Leolin;    then,  his  passions   all  in 

flood 
And  masters  of  his  motion,  furiously 
Down    thro'    the    bright    lawns   to   his 

brother's  ran, 
And  foam'd  away  his  heart  at  Averill's 

ear : 
Whom    Averill    solaced    as    he    might, 

amazed : 
The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  father's, 

friend : 
He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen  it 

long  ; 
He  must  have  known,  himself  had  known  : 

besides. 
He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter  forth 
Here  in  the  woman-markets  of  the  west. 
Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves  be 

sold. 
Some   one,    he   thought,    had    slander'd 

Leolin  to  him. 
'  Brother,  for  I  have  loved  you  more  as 

son 
Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you :   I  myself  — 
What  is  their  pretty  saying  ?  jilted,  is  it  ? 
Jilted  I  was :   I  say  it  for  your  peace. 
Pain'd,   and,   as    bearing   in    myself  the 

shame 
The  woman  should  have  borne,  humili- 
ated, 
I  lived  for  years  a  stunted  sunless  life; 
Till  after  our  good  parents  past  away 
Watching  your  growth,  I  seem'd  again  to 

grow. 
Leolin,  I  almost  sin  in  envying  you: 
The  very  whitest  lamb  in  all  my  fold 
Loves   you :     I    know    her :    the    worst 

thought  she  has 
Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand : 
She  must  prove  true  :  for,  brother,  where 

two  fight 
The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love  are 

strength, 
And  you  are  happy :  let  her  parents  be.' 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


145 


But  Leoliii  cried  out  the  more  upon 
them  — 

Insolent,  brainless,  heartless !  heiress, 
wealth, 

Their  wealth,  their  heiress !  wealth 
enough  was    theirs 

For  twenty  matches.  Were  he  lord  of 
this, 

Why  twenty  boys  and  girls  should  marry 
on  it, 

And  forty  blest  ones  bless  him,  and  him- 
self 

Be  wealthy  still,  ay  wealthier.  He  be- 
lieved 

This  filthy  marriage-hindering  Mammon 
made 

The  harlot  of  the  cities  :   nature  crost 

Was  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 

That  saturate  soul  with  body.  Name, 
too !  name, 

Their  ancient  name !  they  might  be 
proud;    its  worth 

Was  being  Edith's.  Ah  how  pale  she 
had  look'd. 

Darling,  to-night !  they  must  have  rated 
her 

Beyond  all  tolerance.  These  old  pheasant- 
lords, 

These  partridge-breeders  of  a  thousand 
years, 

Who  had  mildew'd  in  their  thousands, 
doing  nothing 

Since  Egbert  —  why,  the  greater  their 
disgrace  I 

Fall  back  upon  a  name  !  rest,  rot  in  that ! 

Not  keep  it  noble,  make  it  nobler?  fools, 

With  such  a  vantage-ground  for  noble- 
ness ! 

He  had  known  a  man,  a  quintessence  of 
man. 

The  life  of  all  —  who  madly  loved  —  and 
he, 

Thwarted  by  one  of  these  old  father-fools. 

Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made  an  end. 

He  would  not  do  it !  her  sweet  face  and 
faith 

Held  him  from  that :  but  he  had  powers, 
he  knew  it : 

Back  would  he  to  his  studies,  make  a  name. 

Name,  fortune  too  :  the  world  should  ring 
of  him 

To  shame  these  mouldy  Aylmers  in  their 
graves : 

L 


Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest  would  he 

be  — 
'  O  brother,  I  am  grieved  to  learn  your 

grief  — 
Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my  say.' 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees   his  own 

excess. 
And  easily  forgives  it  as  his  own. 
He    laugh'd;    and  then  was  mute;    but 

presently 
Wept  like  a  storm :   and  honest  Averill 

seeing 
How  low  his  brother's  mood  had  fallen, 

fetch'd 
His  richest  beeswing  from  a  binn  reserved 
For  banquets,  praised  the  waning  red,  and 

told 
The  vintage  —  when  this  Aylmer  came  of 

age  — 
Then  drank  and  past  it;    till  at  length  the 

two, 
Tho'  Leolin  flamed  and  fell  again,  agreed 
That  much  allowance  must  be  made  for 

men. 
After  an  angry  dream  this  kindlier  glow 
Faded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose  held. 

Yet  once  by  night  again  the  lovers  met, 
A  perilous  meeting  under  the  tall  pines 
That  darken'd  all  the  northward  of  her 

Hall. 
Him,  to  her  meek  and  modest  bosom  prest 
In  agony,  she  promised  that  no  force, 
Persuasion,  no,  nor  death  could  alter  her  : 
He,  passionately  hopefuller,  would  go, 
Labour  for  his  own  Edith,  and  return 
In  such  a  sunlight  of  prosperity 
He  should  not  be    rejected.     *  Write  to 

me  ! 
Thev  loved  me,  and  because  I  love  their 

child 
They  hate  me  :   there  is  war  between  us, 

dear. 
Which  breaks   all   bonds   but    ours;   we 

must  remain 
Sacred  to  one  another.'     So  they  talk'd, 
Poor    children,    for    their   comfort :     the 

wind  blew; 
The  rain  of  heaven,  and  their  own  bitter 

tears, 
Tears,  and  the  careless  rain  of  heaven, 

mixt 


146 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Upon  their  faces,  as  they  kiss'd  each  other 
In  darkness,  and  above  them  roarVi  the 
pine. 

So  LeoHn  went;   and  as  we  task  our- 
selves 
To  learn  a  language  known  but  smatter- 

ingly 
In  phrases  here   and  there  at  random, 

toil'd 
Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our  law, 
That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent, 
That  wilderness  of  single  instances, 
Thro'  which  a  few,  by  wit  or  fortune  led, 
May  beat  a  pathway  out  to  wealth  and 

fame. 
The  jests,  that  flash'd  about  the  pleader's 

room. 
Lightning   of    the    hour,    the    pun,    the 

scurrilous  tale,  — 
Old  scandals  buried   now  seven   decads 

deep 
In   other   scandals    that  have  lived  and 

died, 
And  left   the    living   scandal    that  shall 

die  — 
Were  dead  to  him  already;   bent  as  he 

was 
To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong  in 

hopes. 
And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labour  he, 
Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine,  and  exercise, 
Except  when  for  a  breathing-while  at  eve, 
Some  niggard  fraction  of  an  hour,  he  ran 
Beside  the  river-bank  :   and  then  indeed 
Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  hands  of 

power 
Were  bloodier,  and  the  according  hearts 

of  men 
Seem'd  harder  too;    but    the  soft  river- 
breeze. 
Which  fann'd  the  gardens  of  that  rival 

rose 
Yet  fragrant  in  a  heart  remembering 
His  former   talks   with    Edith,    on    him 

breathed 
Far  purelier  in  his  rushings  to  and  fro, 
After  his  books,  to  flush  his  blood  with 

air. 
Then   to    his   books    again.      My   lady's 

cousin, 
Half-sickening  of  hispension'd  afternoon, 
Drove  in  upon  the  student  once  or  twice, 


Ran  a  Malayan  amuck  against  the  times, 
Had    golden    hopes  for    France  and  all 

mankind, 
Answer'd    all    queries  touching  those  at 

home 
With    a  heaved    shoulder    and    a    saucy 

smile, 
And    fain    had    haled  him    out  into  the 

world, 
And  air'd  him  there :   his  nearer  friend 

would  say, 
'  Screw  not  the  chord  too  sharply  lest  it 

snap,' 
Then  left  alone  he  pluck'd    her  dagger 

forth 
From  where  his  worldless  heart  had  kept 

it  warm. 
Kissing  his  vows  upon  it  like  a  knight. 
And  wrinkled  benchers  often    talk'd  of 

him 
Approvingly,  and  prophesied  his  rise  : 
For  heart,    I   think,   help'd   head :    her 

letters  too, 
Tho'  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 
Like  broken  music,  written  as  she  found 
Or  made  occasion,  being  strictly  watch'd, 
Charm'd  him  thro'  every  labyrinth  till  he 

saw 
An  end,  a  hope,  a  light  breaking  upon 

him. 

But  they  that  cast  her  spirit  into  flesh, 
Her  worldly-wise  begetters,  plagued  them- 
selves 
To  sell  her,  those  good  parents,  for  her 

good. 
Whatever  eldest-born  of  rank  or  wealth 
Might  lie  within  their  compass,  him  they 

lured 
Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the  baits 
Of  gold  and  beauty,  wooing  him  to  woo. 
So  month  by  month  the  noise  about  their 

doors, 
And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  banquets, 

made 
The  nightly  wirer  of  their  innocent  hare 
Falter  before  he  took  it.     All  in  vain. 
Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  return'd 
Leolin's  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 
So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  wings 
Slipt  o'er  those  lazy  limits  down  the  wind 
With  rumour,  and  became  in  other  fields 
A  mockery  to  the  yeomen  over  ale. 


ALYMER'S  FIELD. 


147 


And  laughter  to  tlieir  lords:   ])ut  those  at 

home, 
As  hunters  round  a  hunted  creature  draw 
The  cordon  close  and  closer  toward  the 

death, 
Narrow'd  her  goings  out  and  comings  in; 
Forbade  her  first  the  house  of  Averill, 
Then  closed  her  access  to  the  wealthier 

farms, 
Last  from    her    own   home-circle  of  the 

poor 
They  barr'd  her :    yet   she  bore   it :  yet 

her  cheek 
Kept  colour  :  wondrous  I  but,  O  mystery  ! 
What  amulet  drew  her  down  to  that  old 

oak, 
So  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a  part 
Falling   had    let    appear    the    brand   of 

John  — 
Once  grovelike,   each  huge  arm  a  tree, 

but  now 
The  broken  base  of  a  black  tower,  a  cave 
Of  touchwood,  with  a  single  flourishing 

spray. 
There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 
Raking  in  that  millennial  touchwood-dust 
Found  for  himself  a  bitter  treasure-trove ; 
Burst  his  own  wyvern  on  the  seal,  and  read 
Writhing  a  letter  from  his  child,  for  which 
Came  at  the  moment  Leolin's  emissary, 
A  crippled  lad,  and  coming  turn'd  to  fly, 
But  scared  with  threats  of  jail  and  halter 

gave 
To  him  that  fluster'd  his  poor  parish  wits 
The  letter  which  he  brought,  and  swore 

besides 
To  play  their  go-between  as  heretofore 
Nor  let  them  know  themselves  betray'd; 

and  then, 
Soul-stricken  at  their    kindness  to  him, 

went 
Hating  his  own  lean  heart  and  miserable. 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a  despot 

dream 
The  father  panting  woke,  and  oft,  as  dawn 
Aroused  the  black  republic  on  his  elms, 
Sweeping   the    frothfly  from    the  fescue 

brush'd 
Thro'    the    dim     meadow     toward     his 

treasure-trove, 
Seized  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady, — 

who  made 


A    downward    crescent    of    her    minion 

mouth. 
Listless  in  all  despondence,  —  read ;   and 

tore, 
As  if  the  living  passion  symbol'd  there 
Were  living  nerves  to  feel  the  rent;   and 

burnt, 
Now  chafing  at  his  own  great  self  defied, 
Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks 

of  scorn 
In  babyisms,  and  dear  diminutives 
Scatter'd  all  over  the  vocabulary 
Of  such  a  love  as  like  a  chidden  child, 
After  much  wailing,  hush'd  itself  at  last 
Hopeless   of  answer :    then  tho'  Averill 

wrote 
And  bade  him  with  good  heart  sustain 

himself  — 
All  would  be  well  —  the  lover  heeded  not. 
But  passionately  restless  cam.e  and  went, 
xA.nd  rustling  once  at  night  about  the  place. 
There  by  a  keeper  shot  at,  slightly  hurt, 
Raging  return'd :  nor  was  it  well  for  her 
Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  grove  of 

pines, 
Watch'd  even  there;   and  one  was  set  to 

watch 
The   watcher,   and   Sir  Aylmer  watch'd 

them  all, 
Yet    bitterer    from    his    readings :     once 

indeed, 
Warm'd  with  his  wines,  or  taking  pride 

in  her. 
She  look'd  so  sweet,  he  kiss'd  her  tenderly 
Not  knowing  what  possess'd  him  :   that 

one  kiss 
Was  Leolin's  one  strong  rival  upon  earth; 
Seconded,  for  my  lady  follow'd  suit, 
Seem'd  hope's  returning  rose  :  and  then 

ensued 
A  Martin's  summer  of  his  faded  love, 
Or  ordeal  by  kindness;   after  this 
He  seldom  crost  his  child  without  a  sneer; 
The  mother  flow'd  in  shallower  acrimo- 
nies : 
Never  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly  word  : 
So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from  all 
Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 
With  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly  lost 
Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on  life. 
Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round   to 

spy 
The  weakness  of  a  people  or  a  house, 


148 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Like  flies  that  haunt  a  wound,  or  deer,  or 

men, 
Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the  hurt  — 
Save  Christ  as   we    believe  him  —  found 

the  girl 
And  flung  her   down   upon   a   couch   of 

fire, 
Where  careless  of  the  household   faces 

near, 
And  crying  upon  the  name  of  Leolin, 
She,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Aylmer, 

past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light :   may  soul  to 

soul 
Strike  thro'  a  finer  element  of  her  own? 
So,  —  from  afar,  —  touch  as  at  once?  or 

why 
That  night,  that  moment,  when  she  named 

his  name, 
Did  the  keen  shriek, '  Yes,  love,  yes,  Edith, 

yes,' 
Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  chambers 

woke, 
And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from  sleep. 
With  a  weird  bright   eye,  sweating  and 

trembling, 
His  hair  as  it  were  crackling  into  flames, 
His  body  half  flung  forward  in  pursuit. 
And  his  long  arms  stretch'd  as  to  grasp  a 

flyer : 
Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made  the 

cry; 
And  being  much  befool'd  and  idioted 
By  the  rough  amity  of  the  other,  sank 
As  into  sleep  again.     The  second  day. 
My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in, 
A  breaker  of  the  bitter  news  from  home. 
Found  a  dead  man,  a  letter  edged  with 

death 
Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  himself 
Gave   Edith,  redden'd   with   no  bandit's 

blood : 
*  From  Edith '  was  engraven  on  the  blade. 

Then  Averill  went  and  gazed  upon  his 
death. 

And  when  he  came  again,  his  flock  be- 
lieved — 

Beholding  how  the  years  which  are  not 
Time's 

Had  blasted  him  —  that  many  thousand 
days 


Were   dipt  by  horror   from  his  term  of 

life. 
Yet  the  sad  mother,  for  the  second  death 
Scarce  touch'd  her  thro'  that  nearness  of 

the  first. 
And  being  used  to  find  her  pastor  texts. 
Sent   to  the  harrow'd    brother,    praying 

him 
To  speak  before  the  people  of  her  child. 
And  fixt  the  Sabbath.     Darkly  that  day 

rose  : 
Autumn's    mock    sunshine  of  the   faded 

woods 
Was  all  the  life  of  it;   for  hard  on  these, 
A     breathless     burthen     of     low-folded 

heavens 
Stifled  and  chill'd  at  once;   but  every  roof 
Sent  out  a  listener  :  many  too  had  known 
Edith    among    the    hamlets   round,    and 

since 
The  parents'  harshness  and  the  hapless 

loves 
And  double  death  were  widely  murmur'd, 

left 
Their    own    gray   tower,    or   plain-faced 

tabernacle, 
To  hear  him;   all  in  mourning  these,  and 

those 
With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribbon,  glove 
Or   kerchief;    while    the    church,  —  one 

night,  except 
For  greenish  glimmerings  thro'  the  lancets, 

—  made 
Still  paler  the  pale   head   of  him,  who 

tower'd 
Above   them,   with  his   hopes  in   either 

grave. 

Long    o'er    his    bent    brows   linger'd 

Averill, 
His  face  magnetic  to  the  hand  from  which 
Livid  he  pluck'd  it  forth,   and  labour'd 

thro' 
His  brief  prayer-prelude,  gave  the  verse 

'  Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate  ! ' 
But  lapsed  into  so  long  a  pause  again 
As  half  amazed,  half  frighted  all  his  flock  : 
I'hen  from  his  height  and  loneliness  of 

grief 
Bore  down  in  flood,  and  dash'd  his  angry 

heart 
Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


149 


Never  since  our  bad  earth  became  one 

sea, 
Which    rolHng  o'er  the  palaces    of   the 

proud, 
And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  living 

God  — 
Eight   that  were    left  to  make   a  purer 

world  — 
When  since  had  flood,  fire,  earthquake, 

thunder,  wrought 
Such  waste  and  havock  as  the  idolatries, 
W^hich  from  the  low  light  of  mortality 
Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven  of 

Heavens, 
And  worshipt  their  own  darkness  in  the 

Highest? 
'  Gash    thyself,    priest,    and    honour    thy 

brute  Baal, 
And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself, 
For  with  thy  worst  self  hast  thou  clothed 

thy  God. 
Then  came  a  Lord  in  no    wise   like  to 

Baal. 
The  babe  shall  lead  the  lion.     Surely  now 
The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 
Crown  thyself,  worm,  and  worship  thine 

own  lusts  !  — 
No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 
Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel  to  — 
Thy  God  is  far  diffused  in  noble  groves 
And  princely  halls,  and  farms,  and  flowing 

lawns, 
And  heaps  of  living  gold  that  daily  grow. 
And  title-scrolls  and  gorgeous  heraldries. 
In  such   a  shape   dost   thou  behold   thv 

God. 
Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  hitii ;  for 

thine 
Fares  richly,  in  fine  linen,  not  a  hair 
Ruffled  upon  the  scarfskin,  even  while 
The  deathless  ruler  of  thy  dying  house 
Is  wounded  to  the  death  that  cannot  die; 
And  tho'   thou  numberest  with  the  fol- 
lowers 
Of  One  who  cried,  "  Leave  all  and  follow 

me." 
Thee  therefore  with  His  light  about  thy 

feet. 
Thee  with  His  message  ringing  in  thine 

ears, 
Thee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord  from 

Heaven, 
Born  of  a  village  girl,  carpenter's  son. 


Wonderful,  Prince  of  peace,  the  Mighty 

God, 
Count  the  more  base  idolater  of  the  two; 
Crueller :   as  not  passing  thro'  the  fire 
Bodies,  but  souls  —  thy  children's  —  thro' 

the  smoke, 
The  blight  of  low   desires — darkening 

thine  own 
To    thine    own    likeness;     or   if   one    of 

these, 
Thy  better  born  unhappily  from  thee. 
Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight  and 

fair  — 
Friends,  I  was  bid  to  speak   of  such   a 

one 
By  those  who  most  have  cause  to  sorrow 

for  her  — 
Fairer  than  Rachel  by  the  palmy  well, 
Fairer   than   Ruth    among   the   fields  of 

corn. 
Fair  as  the  Angel  that  said  "  Hail !  "  she 

seem'd, 
Who  entering  fill'd  the  house  with  sudden 

light. 
For  so  mine  own  was  brighten'd :  where 

indeed 
The    roof    so    lowly   but    that   beam    of 

Heaven 
Dawn'd    sometime   thro'    the    doorway? 

whose  the  babe 
Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap, 
Warm'd  at  her  bosom?     The  poor  child 

of  shame, 
The  common  care  whom  no  one  cared 

for,  leapt 
To  greet  her,  wasting  his  forgotten  heart, 
As  with  the  mother  he  had  never  known. 
In  gambols;   for  her  fresh  and  innocent 

eyes 
Had  such  a  star  of  morning  in  their  blue. 
That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 
Broke  into  nature's  music  when  they  saw 

her. 
Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysterious 

\^■ay 
Thro'  the  seal'd   ear  to  which  a  louder 

one 
W^as  all   but  silence  —  free  of  alms  her 

hand  — 
The  hand  that  robed  your  cottage-walls 

with  flowers 
Has    often    toil'd    to    clothe    your    little 

ones; 


I50 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


How  often   placed  upon  the  sick  man's 

brow 
Cool'd   it,    or    laid    his    feverous    pillow 

smooth ! 
Had  you  one  sorrow  and  she  shared  it 

not? 
One  burthen  and  she  would  not  lighten 

it? 
One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe? 
Or  when  some  heat  of  difference  sparkled 

out, 
How  sweetly  would   she   glide  between 

your  wraths, 
And  steal  you  from  each  other  !   for  she 

walk'd 
Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord  of 

love, 
Who  still'd  the  rolling  wave  of  Galilee  I 
And    one  —  of    him    I    was    not   bid   to 

speak  — 
Was  always  with    her,  whom    you   also 

knew. 
Him  too  you  loved,  for  he  was  worthy 

love. 
And  these   had  been  together  from  the 

first; 
They  might  have  been  together  till  the 

last. 
Friends,   this   frail    bark    of  ours,   when 

sorely  tried. 
May   wreck    itself    without    the    pilot's 

guilt, 
Without  the  captain's  knowledge  :   hope 

with  me. 
Whose  shame  is  that,  if  he  went  hence 

with  shame? 
Nor  mine   the   fault,    if  losing    both   of 

these 
I  cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow'd  walls, 
"  My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate."  ' 

While  thus  he  spoke,  his  hearers  wept; 

but  some. 
Sons  of  the  glebe,  with  other  frowns  than 

those 
That  knit  themselves  for  summer  shadow, 

scowl'd 
At  their  great  lord.     He,  when  it  seem'd 

he  saw 
No  pale  sheet-lightnings  from  afar,  but 

fork'd 
'  )f   the   near   storm,   and    aiming    at    his 

head, 


Sat  anger-charm'd  from  sorrow,  soldier- 
like, 

Erect :  but  when  the  preacher's  cadence 
flow'd 

Softening  thro'  all  the  gentle  attributes 

Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch'd 
his  face, 

Paled  at  a  sudden  twitch  of  his  iron 
mouth; 

And,  '  O  pray  God  that  he  hold  up,'  she 
thought, 

'  Or  surely  I  shall  shame  myself  and  him.' 

'  Nor  yours  the  blame  —  for  who  beside 

your  hearths 
Can  take  her  place  —  if  echoing  me  you 

cry 
"  Our  house  is  left  unto  us  desolate  "? 
But  thou,  O  thou  that  killest,  hadst  thou 

known, 

0  thou  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  under- 

stood 
The  things  belonging  to  thy  peace  and 

ours! 
Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  that 

calls 
Doom  upon  kings,  or  in  the  waste  "  Re- 
pent "  ? 
Is  not  our  own  child  on  the  narrow  way. 
Who  down  to  those  that  saunter  in  the 

broad 
Cries  "Come  up  hither,"  as  a  prophet  to 

us? 
Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint  and 

rock  ? 
Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify  — 
No  desolation  but  by  sword  and  fire? 
Yes,  as  your  moanings  witness,  and  mv- 

self 
Am  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  for  my  loss. 
Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past  your 

prayers. 
Not    past    the    living    fount    of    pity    in 

Heaven. 
But  I  that  thought  myself  long-suffering, 

meek. 
Exceeding  "  poor  in  spirit  "  —  how  the 

words 

1  lave  twisted  back  upon  themselves,  and 

mean 
Vileness,    we    are   grown    so    proud  —  I 

wish'd  my  voice 
A  rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


151 


To  blow  these  sacrifices  thro'  the  world  — 
Sent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 
To  inflame  the  tribes :    but  there  —  out 

yonder  —  earth 
Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell  — 

O  there 
The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry  — 
The  heads  of  chiefs  and  princes  fall  so 

fast, 
They  cling  together  in  the  ghastly  sack  — 
The  land  all  shambles —  naked  marriages 
Flash  from  the  bridge,  and  ever-murder'd 

France, 
By  shores  that  darken  with  the  gathering 

wolf. 
Runs    in   a   river   of  blood    to    the   sick 

sea. 
Is  this  a  time  to  madden  madness  then? 
Was  this  a  time  for  these  to  flaunt  their 

pride? 
May  Pharaoh's  darkness,  folds  as  dense 

as  those 
Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  people's 

eyes 
Ere    the  great  death,  shroud  this  great 

sin  from  all ! 
Doubtless  our  narrow  world  must  canvass 

it.: 
O  rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them, 
Who,    thro'    their    own    desire    accom- 

pHsh'd,  bring 
Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the 

grave  — 
Who  broke  the  bond  which  they  desired 

to  break, 
Which   else   had  link'd   their   race  with 

times  to  come  — 
Who    wove    coarse    webs    to    snare    her 

purity, 
Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daughter's 

good  — 
Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they  did, 

but  sat 
Ignorant,  devising  their  own  daughter's 

death  ! 
May  not  that  earthly  chastisement  sufiice? 
Have  not  our  love    and    reverence    left 

them  bare? 
Will  not  another  take  their  heritage? 
Will  there  be  children's  laughter  in  their 

hall 
P^or  ever  and  for  ever,  or  one  stone 
Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a  light  thing 


That    I,    their    guest,    their    host,    their 

ancient  friend, 
I  made  by  these  the  last  of  all  my  race, 
Must  cry  to  these  the  last  of  theirs,  as 

cried 
Christ  ere  His  agony  to  those  that  swore 
Not  by  the  temple  but  the  gold,  and  made 
Their  own  traditions  God,  and  slew  the 

Lord, 
And  left  their  memories  a  world's  curse  — 

"Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate"?' 

Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook'd  no 

more : 
Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorse- 
lessly. 
Her  crampt-up  sorrow  pain'd  her,  and  a 

sense 
Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 
Then  their  eyes  vext  her;  for  on  entering 
He  had   cast  the   curtains  of  their  seat 

aside  — 
Black  velvet  of  the  costliest  —  she  herself 
Had  seen  to  that  :  fain  had  she  closed 

them  now, 
Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  near'd 
Her  husband  inch  by  inch,  but  when  she 

laid, 
Wifelike,  her  hand  in  one  of  his,  he  veil'd 
His   face  with  the  other,  and  at  once,  as 

falls 
A  creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken,  fell 
The  woman    shrieking  at    his  feet,  and 

swoon'd. 
Then   her   own   people    bore   along  the 

nave 
Her  pendent  hands,  and  narrow  meagre 

face 
Seam'd   with   the  shallow  cares    of  fifty 

years : 
And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape 

round 
Ev'n  to  its  last  horizon,  and  of  all 
Who  peer'd  at  him  so  keenly,  follow'd 

out 
Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 
Reel'd,    as    a    footsore    ox    in    crowded 

ways 
Stumbling  across  the  market  to  his  death, 
Unpitied;   for  he    groped  as  blind,  and 

seem'd 
Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the  pews 


152 


SEA   DREAMS. 


And    oaken    finials   till    he    touch'd   the 

door; 
Yet  to  the   lychgate,  where  his  chariot 

stood, 
Strode   from   the   porch,  tall   and   erect 

again. 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the  gate 
Save   under   pall  with  bearers.     In  one 

month, 
Thro'  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier  hours, 
The  childless  mother  went  to  seek   her 

child; 
And   when    he   felt    the    silence    of  his 

house 
About  him,  and  the  change  and  not  the 

change, 
And  those  fixt  eyes  of  painted  ancestors 
Staring  for  ever  from  their  gilded  walls 
On  him  their  last   descendant,  his  own 

head 
Began  to  droop,  to  fall;  the  man  became 
Imbecile ;  his  one  word  was  '  desolate ;  ' 
Dead  for  two  years  before  his  death  was 

he; 
But  when   the   second  Christmas  came, 

escaped 
His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he 

felt, 
To  find  a  deeper  in  the  narrow  gloom 
By  wife  and  child;    nor  wanted   at    his 

end 
The  dark  retinue  reverencing  death 
At  golden  thresholds;   nor  from  tender 

hearts. 
And  those  who  sorrowM  o'er  a  vanish'd 

race. 
Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant's  grave. 
Then  the  great  Hall  was  wholly  broken 

down, 
And  the  broad  woodland  parcell'd    into 

farms ; 
And     where    the    two    contrived    their 

daughter's  good, 
Lies  the  hawk's  cast,  the  mole  has  made 

his  run. 
The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plantain 

bores, 
The    rabbit    fondles    his    own    harmless 

face, 
The    slow-worm    creeps,    and    the    thin 

weasel  there 
Follows  the  mouse,  and  all  is  open  field. 


SEA   DREAMS. 

A  CITY  clerk,  but  gently  born  and  bred; 
His    wife,   an    unknown    artist's    orphan 

child  — 
One  babe  was  theirs,  a  Margaret,  three 

years  old : 
They,  thinking  that  her  clear  germander 

eye 
Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city-gloom, 
Came,  with  a  month's  leave  given  them, 

to  the  sea  : 
For  which  his  gains  were  dock'd,  however 

small : 
Small  were  his  gains,  and  hard  his  work; 

besides. 
Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for  the 

man 
Had  risk'd  his  little)  like  the  little  thrift. 
Trembled  in  perilous  places  o'er  a  deep : 
And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his  face 
Would  darken,  as  he  cursed  his  credulous- 

ness. 
And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which  lured 

him,  rogue. 
To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peruvian 

mine. 
Now     seaward-bound    for    health    they 

gain'd  a  coast, 
All   sand  and  cliff  and   deep-inrunning 

cave. 
At  close  of  day;   slept,  woke,  and  went 

the  next. 
The    Sabbath,    pious    variers    from    the 

church, 
To  chapel;  where  a  heated  pulpiteer, 
Not    preaching  simple  Christ    to  simple 

men, 
Announced  the    coming  doom,  and  ful- 
minated 
Against  the  scarlet  woman  and  her  creed ; 
For  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms,  and 

sliriek'd 
'Thus,  thus  with  violence,'  ev'n  as  if  he 

held 
The  Apocalyptic  milestone,  and  himself 
Were    that    great   Angel;     'Thus   with 

violence 
Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea; 
Then    comes    the    close.'     The    gentle- 
hearted   wife 
Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a  world; 
I  Ic  at  his  own  :  but  when  the  wordy  storm 


SEA    DREAMS. 


153 


Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced 

the  shore, 
Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing  caves, 
Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but  scarce 

believed 
(The  sootflake  of  so  many  a  summer  still 
Clung  to  their  fancies)  that  they  saw,  the 

sea. 
So  now  on  sand  they  walk'd,  and  now  on 

cliff. 
Lingering  about  the  thymy  promontories. 
Till  all  the  sails  were  darken'd  in  the  west, 
And  rosed  in  the  east :  then  homeward 

and  to  bed : 
Where  she,  who  kept  a  tender  Christian 

hope, 
Haunting  a  holy  text,  and  still  to  that 
Returning,  as  the  bird  returns,  at  night, 

*  Let    not    the   sun    go  down  upon  your 

wrath,' 
Said, '  Love,  forgive  him  :  '  but  he  did  not 

speak ; 
And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the  wife, 
Remembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died 

for  all. 
And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men. 
And  how  they  mar  this  little  by  their  feuds. 

But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a  full 

tide 
Rose   with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the 

foremost  rocks 
Touching,  upjetted  in  spirts  of  wild  sea- 
smoke. 
And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wasteful  foam, 

and  fell 
In  vast  sea-cataracts  —  ever  and  anon 
Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within  the 

cliffs 
Heard  thro'  the  living  roar.     At  this  the 

babe. 
Their  Margaret  cradled  near  them,  wail'd 

and  woke 
The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly  cried, 

*  A  wreck,  a  wreck  ! '   then  turn'd,   and 

groaning  said, 

■'  Forgive  !     How  many  will  say,  "  for- 
give," and  find 
A  sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 
To  hate  a  little  longer  !     No;   the  sin 
That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well  for- 
give, 


Hypocrisy,  I  saw  it  in  him  at  once. 
Is  it  so  true  that  second  thoughts  are  best  ? 
Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a  riper  first? 
Too  ripe,  too  late  !  they  come  too  late 

for  use. 
Ah  love,   there  surely  lives  in  man  and 

beast 
Something  divine  to  warn  them  of  their 

foes: 
And  such  a  sense,  when   first  I  fronted 

him. 
Said,  "Trust  him  not;"  but  after,  when 

I  came 
To  know  him  more,  I  lost  it,  knew  him 

less; 
Fought  with  what  seem'd  my  own    un- 

charity; 
Sat  at  his  table;   drank  his  costly  wines; 
Made  more  and  more  allowance  for  his 

talk; 
Went  further,  fool !  and  trusted  him  with 

all, 
All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a  dozen  years 
Of  dust  and  deskwork:  there  is  no  such 

mine, 
None ;  but  a  gulf  of  ruin,  swallowing  gold, 
Not   making.     Ruin'd !  ruin'd !  the    sea 

roars 
Ruin  :   a  fearful  night !  ' 

'Not  fearful;   fair,' 
Said   the   good   wife,    *  if  every   star  in 

heaven 
Can  make  it  fair:  you  do  but  hear  the  tide. 
Had  you  ill  dreams? ' 

'O  yes,'  he  said,  '  I  dream'd 
Of  such  a  tide  swelling  toward  the  land, 
And  I  from  out  the  boundless  outer  deep 
Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  enter'd  one 
Of  those  dark  caves  that  run  beneath  the 

cliffs. 
I  thought  the   motion  of  the  boundless 

deep 
Bore   thro'   the  cave,  and  I  was  heaved 

upon  it 
In  darkness  :  then  I  saw  one  lovely  star 
Larger  and  larger.     "  What  a  world,"  I 

thought, 
"To  live  in  !  "  but  in  moving  on  I  found 
Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave. 
Bright   with   the    sun    upon    the    stream 

beyond: 


154 


SEA   DREAMS. 


And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman  sat, 
All  over  earthy,  like  a  piece  of  earth, 
A  pickaxe  in  her  hand  :  then  out  I  slipt 
Into  a  land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 
As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird  that 

sings : 
And  here  the  night-light  flickering  in  my 

eyes 
Awoke  me.' 

'That  was  then  your  dream,'  she  said, 
•  Not  sad,  but  sweet.' 

'  So  sweet,  I  lay,'  said  he, 
*And  mused    upon    it,    drifting   up    the 

stream 
In  fancy,  till  I  slept  again,  and  pieced 
The  broken  vision ;  for  I  dream'd  that  still 
The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore  me  on, 
And  that  the  woman  walk'd    upon   the 

brink  : 
I  wonder'd  at  her  strength,  and  ask'd  her 

of  it : 
"  It  came,"  she  said,  "  by  working  in  the 

mines  :  " 
O  then  to  ask  her  of  my  shares,  I  thought ; 
And  ask'd;   but  not  a  word;   she  shook 

her  head. 
And    then    the    motion    of   the    current 

ceased. 
And  there  was  rolling  thunder;   and  we 

reach'd 
A   mountain,  like  a   wall    of  burs    and 

thorns; 
But  she  with  her  strong  feet  up  the  steep 

hill 
Trod  out  a  path :   I  follow'd ;    and  at  top 
She    pointed   seaward :   there  a  fleet  of 

glass. 
That  seem'd  a  fleet  of  jewels  under  me. 
Sailing  along  before. a  gloomy  cloud 
That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thunder, 

past 
In  sunshine:  right  across  its  track  there 

lay, 
Down  in  the  water,  a  long  reef  of  gold, 
Or  what  seem'd  gold  :  and  I  was  glad  at 

first 
To  think  that  in  our  often-ransack'd  world 
Still  so  much  gt)ld  was  left;    and  then  I 

fear'd 
Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splinter 

on  it, 


And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn  them 

off; 
An  idle  signal,  for  the  brittle  fleet 
(I  thought  I  could  have  died  to  save  it) 

near'd, 
Touch'd,  clink'd,  and  clash'd,  and  van- 

ish'd,  and  I  woke, 
I  heard  the  clash  so  clearly.     Now  I  see 
Mv  dream  was  Life;   the  woman  honest 

Work; 
And  my  poor  venture  but  a  fleet  of  glass 
Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  visionary  gold.' 

'  Nay,'  said  the  kindly  wife  to  comfort 

him, 
'  You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled  down 

and  broke 
The  glass  with  little  Margaret's  medicine 

in  it; 
And,  breaking  that,  you  made  and  broke 

your  dream : 
A  trifle  makes  a  dream,  a  trifle  breaks.' 

'No  trifle,'  groan'd  the  husband;  'yes- 
terday 
I  met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and  ask'd 
That  which  I  ask'd  the  woman  in  my 

dream. 
Like  her,  he  shook  his  head.    "  Show  me 

the  books !  " 
He    dodged   me   with  a  long  and  loose 

account. 
"  The   books,    the  books  !  "    but  he,  he 

could  not  wait, 
Bound  on  a  matter  he  of  life  and  death  : 
When  the  great  Books  (see  Daniel  seven 

and  ten) 
Were  open'd,  I  should  find  he  meant  me 

well ; 
And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and  ooze 
All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 
That  makes  the  widow  lean.  "  My  dearest 

friend, 
Have  faith,  have  faith  !   We  live  by  faith," 

said  he; 
"And  all  things  work  together  for  the 

good 
Of  those  "  —  it  makes  me  sick  to  quote 

him  —  last 
Oript  my  liand  hard,  and  with  (iod-bless- 

you  went. 
I  stood  like  one  that  liad  received  a  blow  : 
I  found  a  hard  friend  in  his  loose  accounts, 


SEA   DREAMS. 


155 


A  loose  one  in  the  hard  grip  of  his  hand, 
A  curse  in  his  God-bless-you :  then  my 

eyes 
Pursued   him    down  the  street,  and  far 

away, 
Among  the  honest  shoulders  of  the  crowd, 
Read  rascal  in  the  motions  of  his  back. 
And  scoundrel  in  the  supple-sliding  knee.' 

'Was  he  so  bound,  poor  soul?' said 

the  good  wife; 
'  So  are  we  all :  but  do  not  call  him,  love. 
Before  you  prove  him,  rogue,  and  proved, 

forgive. 
His  gain  is  loss;   for  he  that  wrongs  his 

friend 
Wrongs   himself  more,   and  ever  bears 

about 
A  silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast. 
Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  himself 
The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  ever  condemn'd: 
And  that  drags  down  his  life  :  then  comes 

what  comes 
Hereafter :    and   he   meant,  he  said    he 

meant. 
Perhaps  he  meant,  or  partly  meant,  vou 

well' 

* "  With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye 

askew  "  — 
Love,  let  me  quote  these  lines,  that  you 

may  learn 
A  man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself. 
Too  often,  in  that  silent  court  of  yours  — 
"  With   all  his  conscience  and  one  eye 

askew. 
So  false,  he  partly  took  himself  for  true ; 
Whose  pious  talk,  when  most  his  heart 

was  dry, 
Made  wet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  round  his 

eye; 
Who,  never  naming  God  except  for  gain. 
So  never  took  that  useful  name  in  vain, 
Made  Him  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross  his 

tool, 
And  Christ  the  bait  to  trap  his  dupe  and 

fool; 
Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace  he 

forged, 
And  snake-like  slimed  his  victim  ere  he 

gorged ; 
And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o'er  the  rest 
Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best, 


Dropping  the  too  rough  H  in  Hell  and 

Heaven, 
To  spread  the  Word   by  which   himself 

had  thriven." 
How  like  you  this  old  satire?' 

*Nay,'  she  said, 
*  I  loathe  it :  he  had  never  kindly  heart. 
Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind. 
Who  first  wrote  satire,  with  no  pity  in  it. 
But  will  you  hear  viy  dream,  for  I  had  one 
That  altogether  went  to  music?     Still 
It  awed  me.' 

Then  she  told  it,  having  dream'd 
Of  that  same  coast. 

—  But  round  the  North,  a  light, 
A  belt,  it  seem'd,  of  luminous  vapour,  lay. 
And  ever  in  it  a  low  musical  note 
Swell'd  up  and  died;    and,  as  it  swell'd, 

a  ridge 
Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and  still 
Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when 

the  note 
Had   reach'd   a   thunderous    fulness,  on 

those  cliffs 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light  (the  same  as 

that 
Living  within  the  belt)  whereby  she  saw 
That  all  those  lines  of  cliffs  were  cliffs  no 

more. 
But  huge  cathedral  fronts  of  every  age, 
Grave,  florid,  stern,  as  far  as  eye  could 

see, 
One  after  one  :   and  then  the  great  ridge 

drew, 
Lessening  to  the  lessening  music,  back, 
And  past  into  the  belt  and  swell'd  again 
Slowly  to  music  :   ever  when  it  broke 
The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder  fell; 
Then  from  the  gaps  and  chasms  of  ruin 

left 
Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clusters 

round, 
Some  crying,  '  Set  them  up  !  they  shall 

not  fall !  ' 
And  others,  '  Let  them  lie,  for  they  have 

fall'n.' 
And  still  they  strove  and  wrangled  :  and 

she  grieved 
In  her  strange  dream,  she  knew  not  why, 

to  find 


156 


SEA   DREAMS. 


Their  wildest  wailings  never  out  of  tune 
With  that  sweet  note;   and  ever  as  their 

shrieks 
Ran  highest  up  the  gamut,  that  great  wave 
Returning,  while  none  mark'd  it,  on  the 

crowd 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light,  and  show'd 

their  eyes 
Glaring,  and  passionate  looks,  and  swept 

away 
The  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  men  of 

stone. 
To  the  waste  deeps  together. 

« Then  I  fixt 
My  wistful  eyes  on  two  fair  images. 
Both  crown'd  with  stars  and  high  among 

the  stars,  — 
The  Virgin    Mother   standing  with   her 

child 
High  up  on  one  of  those  dark  minster- 
fronts  — 
Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  the  mother,  and  sent  out  a  cry 
Which  mixt  with  little  Margaret's,  and  I 

woke, 
And  my  dream  awed  me: — well  —  but 

what  are  dreams? 
Yours  came  but  from  the  breaking  of  a 

glass. 
And   mine   but    from    the   crying    of   a 

child.' 

*  Child  ?    No  ! '  said  he,  *  but  this  tide's 

roar,  and  his. 
Our  Boanerges  with  his  threats  of  doom. 
And  loud-lung'd  Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho'  I  grant  but  little  music  there) 
Went  both  to  make  your  dream :   but  if 

there  were 
A  music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries. 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you  dream'd 

about. 
Why,  that  would  make  our  passions  far 

too  like 
The  discords  dear  to  the  musician.    No  — 
One  shriek  of  hate  would  jar  all  the  hymns 

of  heaven : 
True  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl  in  tune 
With  nothing  but  the  Devil ! ' 

*  "True  "  indeed  ! 
One  of  our  town,  but  later  by  an  hour 


Here  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me  on 

the  shore; 
While  you  were  running  down  the  sands, 

and  made 
The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-furbelow 

flap. 
Good   man,  to    please   the    child.      She 

brought  strange  news. 
Why  were  you  silent  when  I  spoke  to- 
night? 
I   had  set  my  heart  on   your   forgiving 

him 
Before  you  knew.     We  must  forgive  the 

dead.' 

'  Dead  !  who  is  dead? ' 

'  The  man  your  eye  pursued. 
A  little  after  you  had  parted  with  him, 
He  suddenly  dropt  dead  of  heart-disease.' 

'Dead?    he?    of  heart-disease?    what 
heart  had  he 
To  die  of?  dead  ! ' 

*  Ah,  dearest,  if  there  be 
A  devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too. 
And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge  him 

with. 
His  angel   broke   his  heart.       But  your 

rough  voice 
(You  spoke  so  loud)  has  roused  the  child 

again. 
Sleep,  httle  birdie,  sleep !    will  she   not 

sleep 
Without  her  "little  birdie"?  well  then, 

sleep. 
And  I  will  sing  you  "  birdie."  ' 

Saying  this. 

The  woman  half  turn'd  round  from  him 
she  loved, 

Left  him  one  hand,  and  reaching  thro' 
the  night 

Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close  be- 
side) 

And  half-embraced  the  basket  cradle- 
head 

With  one  soft  arm,  which,  like  the  pliant 
bough 

That  moving  moves  the  nest  and  nestling, 
sway'd 

The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby  song : 


LUCRETIUS. 


157 


What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer. 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer. 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

*  She  sleeps :    let  us  too,  let  all   evil, 

sleep. 
He    also    sleeps  —  another    sleep    than 

ours. 
He  can  do  no  more  wrong  :  forgive  him, 

dear. 
And  I  shall  sleep  the  sounder ! ' 

Then  the  man, 
'  His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet  to 

come. 
Yet  let  our  sleep  for  this  one  night  be 

sound : 
I  do  forgive  him  ! ' 

*  Thanks,  my  love,'  she  said, 
'  Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,'  and  they 
slept. 

LUCRETIUS. 

LuciLiA,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found 
Her  master  cold;   for  when  the  morning 

flush 
Of  passion  and  the  first  embrace  had  died 
Between  them,  tho'  he  lov'd  her  none  the 

less. 
Yet  often  when    the  woman   heard   his 

foot 
Return  from  pacings  in  the  field,  and  ran 
To  greet  him  with  a  kiss,  the  master  took 
Small  notice,  or  austerely,  for  —  his  mind 
Half  buried  in  some  weightier  argument. 
Or  fancy-borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 
And  long  roll  of  the  Hexameter  —  he  past 


To  turn  and  ponder  those  three  hundred 

scrolls 
Left  by  the  Teacher,  whom  he  held  divine. 
She  brook'd  it  not ;  but  wrathful,  petulant, 
Dreaming  some  rival,  sought  and  found 

a  witch 
Who  brew'd  the  philtre  which  had  power, 

they  said. 
To  lead  an  errant  passion  home  again. 
And  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with  his 

drink. 
And  this  destroy'd  him;   for  the  wicked 

broth 
Confused  the  chemic  labour  of  the  blood. 
And  tickling  the  brute  brain  within  the 

man's 
Made  havock  among  those  tender  cells, 

and  check'd 
His  power  to  shape  :  he  loathed  himself; 

and  once 
After  a  tempest  woke  upon  a  morn 
That  mock'd  him  with  returning  calm, 

and  cried : 

(Storm  in  the  night !  for  thrice  I  heard 

the  rain 
Rushing;     and     once     the    flash    of    a 

thunderbolt  — 
iViethought  I  never  saw  so  fierce  a  fork  — 
Struck  out  the  streaming  mountain-side, 

and  show'd 
A  riotous  confluence  of  watercourses 
Blanching  and  billowing  in  a  hollow  of  it, 
Where  all  but  yester-eve  was  dusty-dry. 

*  Storm,    and    what    dreams,   ye    holy 
Gods,  what  dreams  ! 
For  thrice  I  waken'd  after  dreams.     Per- 
chance 
We  do  but  recollect  the  dreams  that  come 
Just  ere  the  waking :  terrible  !  for  it  seem'd 
A  void  was  made  in  Nature ;  all  her  bonds 
Crack'd;    and  I   saw' the  flaring  atom- 
streams 
And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe. 
Ruining  along  the  illimitable  inane, 
Fly  on  to  clash  together  again,  and  make 
Another  and  another  frame  of  things 
For  ever :   that  was  mine,  my  dream,  I 

knew  it  — 
Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 
With   inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot 
plies 


158 


LUCRETIUS. 


His  function  of  the  woodland  :  but  the 

next! 
I  thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla  shed 
Came    driving   rainlike   down   again   on 

earth, 
And    where    it    dash'd    the    reddening 

meadow,  sprang 
No  dragon  warriors  from  Cadmean  teeth. 
For   these  I  thought  my  dream  would 

show  to  me, 
But  girls,  Hetairai,  curious  in  their  art, 
Hired    animalisms,    vile    as    those    that 

made 
The    mulberry-faced    Dictator's    orgies 

worse 
Than  aught  they  fable  of  the  quiet  Gods. 
And   hands   they   mixt,   and    yell'd    and 

round  me  drove 
In  narrowing  circles  till  I  yell'd  again 
Half-suffocated,  and  sprang  up,  and  saw  — 
Was  it  the  first  beam  of  my  latest  day? 

'Then,  then,  from   utter  gloom  stood 

out  the  breasts, 
The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoveringly  a 

sword 
Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct, 
Pointed  itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down 

shamed 
At  all  that  beauty;    and  as  I  stared,  a 

fire. 
The  fire  that  left  a  roofless  Ilion, 
Shot  out  of  them,  and  scorch'd  me  that 

I  woke. 

*  Is  this   thy  vengeance,  holy  Venus, 

thine. 
Because  I  would  not  one  of  thine  own 

doves, 
Not  ev'n  a  rose,  were  offer'd  to  thee? 

thine. 
Forgetful  how  my  rich  prooemion  makes 
Thy  glory  fly  along  the  Italian  field. 
In  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity? 

'Deity?    nay,    thy    worshippers.      My 

tongue 
Trips,  or  I  speak  profanely.     Which  of 

these 
Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee  at  all? 
Not  if  thou  be'st  of  those  who,  far  aloof 
From  envy,  hate  and  pity,  and  spite  and 

scorn. 


Live  the  great  life  which  all  uur  greatest 

fain 
Would  follow,  centr'd  in  eternal  calm. 

*  Nay,  if  thou  canst,  O  Goddess,  like 

ourselves 
Touch,  and  be  touch'd,  then  would  I  cry 

to  thee 
To  kiss  thy  Mavors,  roll  thy  tender  arms 
Round  him,  and  keep  him  from  the  lust 

of  blood 
That  makes  a  steaming  slaughter-house 

of  Rome. 

'Ay,  but  I  meant  not  thee;   I  meant 

not  her, 
Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to  see 
Slide  from  that  quiet  heaven  of  hers,  and 

tempt 
The  Trojan,  while  his  neat-herds  were 

abroad ; 
Nor  her  that  o'er  her  wounded  hunter 

wept 
Her  Deity  false  in  human-amorous  tears; 
Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest.     Rather,  O  ye  Gods,^ 
Poet-like,  as  the  greaTSicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse  — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also  —  did  I  take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow 

forth 
The    all-generating    powers    and    genial 

heat 
Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  thro'   the 

thick  blood 
Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large,  and  lambs 

are  glad 
Nosing  the  mother's  udder,  and  the  bird 
Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze  of 

flowers : 
Which  things  appear  the  work  of  mighty 

Gods. 

'  The  Gods !  and  if  I  go  viy  work  is 

left 
Unfinish'd  —  //   I   go.     The  Gods,  who 

haunt 
The  lucid  interspace  of  world  and  world, 
Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves  a 

wind. 
Nor   ever  falls   the   least  white   star  of 

snow. 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans, 


LUCRETIUS. 


159 


Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to 

mar 
Their  sacred  everlasting  cahii !  and  such, 
Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a  calm. 
Not  such,  nor  all  unlike  it,  man  may  gain 
Letting  his  own  life  go.     The  Gods,  the 

Gods! 
S"  If  all   be   atoms,   how  then   should   the 
V    j>  Gods 

L  ^  Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble, 
--''    Not  follow  the  great  law?     My  master 

held 
That    Gods    there    are,    for    all    men    so 

believe. 
I  prest  my  footsteps  into  his,  and  meant 
Surely  to  lead  my  Memmius  in  a  train 
Of  flowery  clauses  onward  to  the  proof 
That    Gods    there    are,    and    deathless. 

Meant?     I  meant? 
I  have  forgotten  what  I  meant :  my  mind 
Stumbles,  and  all  my  faculties  are  lamed. 

'  Look  where  another  of  our  Gods,  the 

Sun, 
Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 
All-seeing  Hyperion  —  what  you  will  — 
Has   mounted   yonder;    since   he  never 

sware, 
Except    his    wrath    were     wreak 'd     on 

wretched  man. 
That   he    would    only  shine  among  the 

dead 
Hereafter;   tales!  for  never  yet  on  earth 
Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roast- 
ing ox 
Moan   round    the   spit  —  nor  knows  he 

what  he  sees; 
King  of  the  East   altho'  he    seem,  and 

girt 
With   song   and    flame    and    fragrance, 

slowly  lifts 
His   golden    feet    on    those    empurpled 

stairs 
That    climb    into    the    windy    halls    of 

heaven  : 
And  here  he  glances  on  an  eye  new-born, 
And  gets  for  greeting  but  a  wail  of  pain; 
And  here  he  stays  upon  a  freezing  orb 
That  fain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the 

last; 
And  here  upon  a  yellow  eyelid  fall'n 
And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a  friend 

in  vain, 


Not    thankful   that    his    troubles   are   no 

more. 
j^julaii£,_altho'  his  fire  is  on  my  face 
Blinding,  he.^e&nQt,  nor  at  all  can  tell 
Whether  I  mean  this  day  to  end  myself, 
Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says, 
That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit  the 

post 
Allotted  by  the  Gods :  but  he  that  holds 
The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefore  need  he 

care 
Greatly  for   them,  nor  rather  plunge   at 

once, 
Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight,  and 

sink 
Past    earthquake — ay,    and     gout    and 

stone,  that  break 
Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death-in- 
life, 
And  wretched  age  —  and   worst  disease 

of  all. 
These  prodigies  of  myriad  nakednesses, 
And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeakable, 
Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 
Not  welcome,  harpies  miring  every  dish, 
The  phantom  husks  of  something  foully 

done, 
And  fleeting  thro'  the  boundless  universe. 
And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my  breast 
With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity? 

'How  should  the  mind,  except  it  loved 
them,  clasp 
These  idols  to  herself?   or  do  they  fly 
Now  thinner,  and  now  thicker,  like  the 

flakes 
In  a  fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  per- 
force 
Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an  hour 
Of  civic  tumult  jam  the  doors,  and  bear 
The    keepers    down,    and    throng,    their 

rags  and  they 
The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 
Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of  the 
land? 

'  Can  I   not   fling   this   horror  off"  me 

again, 
Seeing  with  hov/  great  ease  Nature  can 

smile, 
Balmier    and    nobler  from   her   bath   of 

storm, 
At  random  ravage?   and  how  easily 


i6o 


LUCRETIUS. 


The  mountain  there  has  cast  his  cloudy 

slough, 
Now  towering  o'er  him  in  serenest  air, 
A  mountain  o'er  a  mountain,  —  ay,  and 

within 
All  hollow  as  the   hopes   and   fears   of 

men? 

'  But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  garden 
snared 
Picus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods?   a  tale 
To  laugh  at  —  more  to  laugh  at  in  my- 
self— 
For  look !  what  is  it?  there?  yon  arbutus 
Totters;    a  noiseless  riot  underneath 
Strikes   through  the  wood,  sets  all  the 

tops  quivering  — 
The  mountain  quickens  into  Nymph  and 

Faun; 
And  here  an  Oread  —  how  the  sun  de- 
lights 
To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery 

sides, 
And  rosy  knees  and  supple  roundedness. 
And    budded    bosom-peaks  —  who    this 

way  runs 
Before  the  rest  —  A  satyr,  a  satyr,  see, 
Follows;  but  him  I  proved  impossible; 
Twy-natured  is  no  nature  :  yet  he  draws 
Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  scan  him  now 
Beastlier  than  any  phantom  of  his  kind 
That  ever  butted  his  rough  brother-brute 
For  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  provender : 
I  hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken   at  him;   and 

she 
Loathes  him  as  well;   such  a  precipitate 

heel, 
Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury's  ankle- 
wing, 
Whirls  her  to  me  :  but  will  she  fling  her- 
self. 
Shameless  upon  me?     Catch  her,  goat- 
foot  :  nay, 
Hide,  hide  them,  million-myrtled  wilder- 
ness. 
And  cavern-shadowing  laurels,  hide  !    do 

I  wish  — 
What?  —  that  the  bush  were  leafless?  or 

to  whelm 
All  of  them  in  one  massacre?  O  ye  Gods, 
I  know  you  careless,  yet,  behold,  to  you 
From  childly   wont   and  ancient    use   I 
call  — 


I  thought  I  lived  securely  as  yourselves  — 
No  lewdness,  narrowing  env}',  monkey- 
spite, 
No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice,  none : 
No  larger  feast  than  under  plane  or  pine 
With  neighbours  laid  along  the  grass,  to 

take 
Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly-warm, 
Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy  — 
Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 
Of  settled,  sweet.  Epicurean  life. 
But  jiow  it  seems  some  unse^jLJilQiister 

"lays ' 
His  vast  and  filthy  hands  upon  my  will, 
Wrenching   it  backward   into    his;   and 

spoils 
My  bliss  in  being;   and  it  was  not  great; 
For    save  when   shutting   reasons  up  in 

rhythm, 
Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words. 
To  make  a  truth  less  harsh,  I  often  grew 
Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life. 
Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life  — 
Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an  hour 
Crown'd  with  a  flower  or  two,  and  there 

an  end  — 
And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems  to 

fade,.^     '^A'  :.    •    ^^ 

Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I  find  myself, 
Not   manlike    end   myself?  —  our  privi 

lege  — 
What   beast   has   heart  to  do  it?     And 

what  man. 
What  Roman  would  be  dragg'd  in  tri- 
umph thus? 
Not  I;    not   he,   who    bears  one   name 

with  her 
Whose  death-blow   struck    the    dateless 

doom  of  kings. 
When,  brooking  not  the  Tarquin  in  her 

veins. 
She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  Collatine 
And  all  his  peers,  flushing   the  guiltless 

air, 
Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in  her 

heart. 
And  from  it  sprang  the  Commonwealth, 

which  breaks 
As  I  am  breaking  now ! 

'  And  therefore  now 
Let  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb  of  all, 
Great  Nature,  take,  and  forcing  far  apart 


2> 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


i6i 


Those  blind  beginnings  that  have  made 

me  man, 
Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Thro'    all   her    cycles — into    man    once 

more, 
Or  beast  or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent  flower  : 
But  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter'd   into   one    earthquake   in    one 

day 
Cracks  all    to    pieces,  —  and    that   hour 

perhaps 
Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a  something  to  him- 
self, 
But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes 

and  fanes, 
And  even  his  bones  long  laid  within  the 

grave. 
The  very  sides  of  the  grave    itself  shall 

pass. 
Vanishing,    atom   and   void,    atom    and 

void. 
Into  the  unseen  for  ever,  — till  that  hour. 
My  golden  work  in  which  I  told  a  truth 
That  stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel. 
And  numbs  the  Fury's  ringlet-snake,  and 

plucks 
The  mortal  soul  from  out  immortal  hell, 


Shall  stand  :  ay,  surely  :  then  it  falls  at  last 
And  perishes  as  I  must;    for  O  Thou, 
Passionless  bride,  divine  Tranquillity, 
Yearn'd  after  by  the  vvisesf'^r  the  wise, 
Who  fail  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou  art 
Without  one  pleasure  and,. without  one 
■  pain, 

Howbei't  T  know  thou  surely  must  be  mine 
Or  soon  or  late,  yet  out  of  season,  thus 
I  woo  thee  rouglily,  for  thou  carest  not 
How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so  they 

win  — 
Thus  —  thus:  the  soul  flies  out  and  dies 

in  the  air.' 

With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into  his 

side : 
She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall; 

ran  in. 
Beat   breast,   tore   hair,   cried   out  upon 

herself 
As  having  fail'd  in  duty  to  him,  shriek'd 
That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back,  fell 

on  him, 
Clasp'd,  kiss'd  him,  wail'd:  he  answer'd, 

'  Care  not  thou  ! 
Thy  duty?     What  is  duty?     Fare   thee 

well ! ' 


THE    PRINCESS; 

A   MEDLEY. 

PROLOGUE. 


Sir  Walter  Vivian  all  a  summer's  day 
Gave  his  broad    lawns   until  the  set  of 

sun 
Up    to.  the    people:    thither    flock'd    at 

noon 
His  tenants,  wife  and  child,  and  thither 

half 
The    neighbouring    borough    with    their 

Institute 
Of  which    he    was   the    patron.     I    was 

there 
From  college,  visiting  the  son,  —  the  son 
A  Walter  too,  —  with  others  of  our  set. 
Five  others  :    we  were  seven  at  Vivian- 
place. 
M 


And  me  that  morning  Walter  show'd 

the  house, 
Greek,  set  with  busts :  from  vases  in  the 

hall 
Flowers  of  all  heavens,  and  lovelier  than 

their  names. 
Grew  side  by  side;  and  on  the  pavement 

lay 
Carved  stones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the 

park, 
Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones  of 

Time ; 
And  on  the  tables  every  clime  and  age 
Jumbled  together;    celts  and  calumets, 
Claymore    and   snowshoe,  toys    in    lava, 

fans 
Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  rosaries. 


1 62 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


Laborious  orient  ivory  sphere  in  sphere, 

The  cursed  Malayan  crease,  and  battle- 
clubs 

From  the  isles  of  palm  :  and  higher  on 
the  walls, 

Betwixt  the  monstrous  horns  of  elk  and 
deer, 

His  own  forefathers'  arms  and  armour 
hung. 

And  '  This,'  he  said,  '  was  Hugh's  at 

Agincourt; 
And  that  was  old  Sir  Ralph's  at  Ascalon  : 
A  good  knight  he  !  we  keep  a  chronicle 
With  all  about  him  '  —  which  he  brought, 

and  I 
Dived  in  a  hoard  of  tales  that  dealt  with 

knights, 
Half-legend,    half-historic,    counts    and 

kings 
Who  laid  about  them  at  their  wills  and 

died; 
And  mixt  with  these,  a  lady,  one  that 

arm'd 
Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro'  the 

gate. 
Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from 

her  walls. 

*  O  miracle  of  women,'  said  the  book, 
*  O  noble  heart  who,  being  strait-besieged 
By  this  wild  king  to  force  her  to  his  wish, 
Nor   bent,    nor    broke,    nor    shunn'd    a 

soldier's  death, 
But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem'd  as 

lost  — 
Her  stature  more  than  mortal  in  the  burst 
Of  sunrise,  her  arm  lifted,  eyes  on  fire  — 
Brake  with  a  blast  of  trumpets  from  the 

gate. 
And,  falling  on  them  like  a  thunderbolt, 
She  trampled  some  beneath  her  horses' 

heels. 
And  some  were  whelm'd  with  missiles  of 

the  wall. 
And  some  were  push'd  with  lances  from 

the  rock, 
And  part  were  drown'd  within  the  whirl- 
ing brook  : 
O  miracle  of  noble  womanhood  !  ' 

So  sang  the  gallant  glorious  chronicle; 
And,  I  all  rapt  in  this,  'Come  out,'  he  said, 


'  To  the  Abbey  :  there  is  Aunt  Elizabeth 
And  sister  Lilia  with  the  rest.'  We  went 
(I  kept  the  book  and  had  my  finger  in  it) 
Down  thro'  the  park  :    strange  was  the 

sight  to  me; 
For    all    the   sloping  pasture  murmur'd, 

sown 
With  happy  faces  and  with  holiday. 
There  moved  the  multitude,  a  thousand 

heads : 
The  patient  leaders  of  their  Institute 
Taught  them  with  facts.     One  rear'd  a 

font  of  stone 
And  drew,  from  butts  of  water  on  the 

slope. 
The   fountain  of  the    moment,    playing, 

now 
A  twisted  snake,  and  now  a  rain  of  pearls. 
Or  steep-up   spout  whereon   the   gilded 

ball 
Danced  like  a  wisp  :  and  somewhat  lower 

down 
A  man  with  knobs  and  wires  and  vials 

fired 
A  cannon :  Echo  answer'd  in  her  sleep 
From  hollow  fields  :  and  here  were  tele- 
scopes 
For  azure  views;    and  there  a  group  of 

girls 
In  circle  waited,  whom  the  electric  shock 
Dislink'd    with    shrieks    and    laughter  : 

round  the  lake 
A  little  clock-work  steamer  paddling  plied 
And  shook  the  lilies  :  perch'd  about  the 

knolls 
A  dozen  angry  models  jetted  steam  : 
A  petty  railway  ran  :   a  fire-balloon 
Rose  gem-like  up  before  the  dusky  groves 
And  dropt  a  fairy  parachute  and  past  : 
And  there  thro'  twenty  posts  of  telegraph 
They  flash'd  a  saucy  message  to  and  fro 
Between  the  mimic  stations;  so  that  sport 
Went  hand  in  hand  with  Science;  other- 
where 
Pure  sport :   a  herd  of  boys  with  clamour 

bowl'd 
And  stump'd  the  wicket;    babies   roll'd 

about 
Like    tumbled  fruit  in  grass;    and  men 

and  maids 
Arranged  a  country  dance,  and  flew  thro' 

And  shadow,  while  the  twanging  violin 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


163 


Struck  up  with  Soldier-laddie,  and  over- 
head 
The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty  lime 
Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from 
end  to  end. 

Strange  was  the  sight  and  smacking  of 

the  time; 
And  long  we  gazed,  but  satiated  at  length 
Came  to  the  ruins.    High-arch'd  and  ivy- 

claspt, 
Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a  fire, 
Thro'  one  wide  chasm  of  time  and  frost 

they  gave 
The  park,  the  crowd,  the  house;   but  all 

within 
The  sward  was  trim  as  any  garden  lawn  : 
And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
And  Lilia  with  the  rest,  and  lady  friends 
From    neighbour   seats :    and    there  was 

Ralph  himself, 
A  broken  statue  propt  against  the  wall. 
As  gay  as  any.     Lilia,  wild  with  sport. 
Half  child  half  woman  as  she  was,  had 

wound 
A  scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony  helm, 
And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a  rosy  silk. 
That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his  ivied 

nook 
Glow  like  a  sunbeam  :  near  his  tomb  a  feast 
Shone,  silver-set;   about  it  lay  the  guests. 
And    there   we  join'd    them :    then    the 

maiden  Aunt 
Took  this  fair  day  for  text,  and  from  it 

preach'd 
An  universal  culture  for  the  crowd, 
And  all  things  great;   but  we,  unworthier, 

told 
Of  college  :    he  had  climb'd   across  the 

spikes. 
And   he    had  squeezed   himself  betwixt 

the  bars, 
And  he  had  breathed  the  Proctor's  dogs; 

and  one 
Discuss'd  his  tutor,  rough  to  common  men. 
But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a  lord; 
And  one  the  Master,  as  a  rogue  in  grain 
Veneer'd  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But    while    they   talk'd,    above    their 
heads  I  saw 
The    feudal    warrior    lady-clad;     which 
brought 


My  book   to  mind :   and  opening  this  I 

read 
Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a  page  or  two  that  rang 
With  tilt  and  tourney;   then  the  tale  of 

her 
That  drove  her  foes  with  slaughter  from 

her  walls. 
And  much  I  praised  her  nobleness,  and 

'  Where,' 
Ask'd  Walter,  patting  Lilia's  head  (she 

lay 
Beside  him)  '  lives  there  such  a  woman 

now  ? ' 

Quick  answer'd  Lilia, '  There  are  thou- 
sands now 
Such  women,  but  convention  beats  them 

down : 
It   is    but   bringing  up;    no   more    than 

that: 
You  men  have  done  it :  how  I  hate  you 

all! 
Ah,  were  I  something  great !     I  wish  I 

were 
Some    mighty   poetess,    I   would   shame 

you  then, 
That  love  to  keep  us  children  !    O  I  wish 
That  I  were  some  great  princess,  I  would 

build 
Far  off  from  men  a  college  like  a  man's, 
And  I  would  teach  them  all  that  men  are 

taught; 
We  are  twice  as  quick  ! '     And  here  she 

shook  aside 
The  hand  that  play'd  the  patron  with  her 

curls. 

And  one  said  smiling, '  Pretty  were  the 

sight 
If  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex, 

and  flaunt 
With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers  for 

deans, 
And  sweet  girl-graduates  in  their  golden 

hair. 
I  think  they  should  not  wear  our  rusty 

gowns. 
But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths,  or 

Ralph 
Who  shines  so  in  the  corner;   yet.  I  fear. 
If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood. 
However  deep  you  might  embower  the 

nest, 


164 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


Some  boy  would  spy  it.' 

At  this  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal'd  foot : 
'That's   your    light   way;    but    I    would 

make  it  death 
For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us,' 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself  she 

laugh'd ; 
A  rosebud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns, 
And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make  her, 

she : 
But  Walter  hail'd  a  score  of  names  upon 

her. 
And  '  petty  Ogress,'  and  *  ungrateful  Puss,' 
And   swore    he    long'd    at    college,  only 

long'd, 
All  else  was  well,  for  she-society. 
They  boated    and  they  cricketed;    they 

talk'd 
At  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics; 
They   lost   their    weeks;    they   vext    the 

souls  of  deans; 
They  rode;    they  betted;    made  a  hun- 
dred friends, 
And  caught   the    blossom    of  the  flying 

terms, 
But  miss'd  the  mignonette  of  Vivian-place, 
The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.     Thus  he 

spoke, 
Part  banter,  part  affection. 

'  True,'  she  said, 
'  We  doubt  not  that.     O  yes,  you  miss'd 

us  much. 
I'll  stake  my  ruby  ring  upon  it  you  did.' 

She  held  it  out;   and  as  a  parrot  turns 
Up  thro'  gilt  wires  a  crafty  loving  eye, 
And  takes  a  lady's  finger  with  all  care. 
And  bites  it  for  true  heart  and  not  for 

harm. 
So  he  with  Lilia's.     Daintily  she  shriek'd 
And  wrung  it.     *  Doubt  my  word  again  !  ' 

he  said. 
*  Come,  listen !    here    is  proof  that   you 

were  miss'd : 
We  seven  stay'd  at  Christmas  up  tu  read ; 
And  there  we  took  one  tutor  as  to  read  : 
The  hard-grain'd  Muses  of  the  cube  and 

square 
Were  out  of  season  :  never  man,  I  think, 
So  moulder'd  in  a  sinecure  as  he : 
For  while  our  cloisters  echo'd  frosty  feet, 


And  our  long  walks  were  stript  as  bare 

as  brooms. 
We  did  but  talk  you  over,  pledge  you  all 
In  wassail;    often,  like  as  many  girls  — 
Sick  for  the  hollies  and  the  yews  of  home  — 
As  many  little  trifling  Lilias  —  play'd 
Charades    and    riddles    as    at    Christmas 

here, 
And  ivhaVs  my  thought   and   when    and 

whet'e  and  how, 
And    often  told    a   tale  from    mouth    to 

mouth 
As  here  at  Christmas.' 

She  remember'd  that : 
A  pleasant  game,  she  thought :  she  liked 

it  more 
Than  magic  music,  forfeits,  all  the  rest. 
But  these  —  what  kind  of  tales  did  men 

tell  men, 
She  wonder'd,  by  themselves? 

A  half-disdain 
Perch'd   on  the  pouted   blossom   of  her 

lips : 
And  Walter  nodded  at  me ;   '  He  began. 
The  rest  would  follow,  each  in  turn ;  and  so 
We    forged    a   sevenfold   story.      Kind? 

what  kind? 
Chimeras,  crotchets,  Christmas  solecisms. 
Seven-headed  monsters  only  made  to  kill 
Time  by  the  fire  in  winter,' 

'  Kill  him  now, 
The  tyrant !  kill  him  in  the  summer  too,' 
Said  Lilia;   '  Why  not  now?  '  the  maiden 

Aunt. 
'  Why  not  a  summer's  as  a  winter's  tale? 
A  tale  for  summer  as  befits  the  time, 
And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the 

place, 
Heroic,  for  a  hero  lies  beneath, 
Grave,  solemn  ! ' 

Walter  warp'd  his  mouth  at  this 
To    something   so   mock-solemn,  that    I 

laugh'd 
And     Lilia    woke    with    sudden-shrilling 

mirth 
And  echo  like  a  ghostly  woodpecker, 
Hitl  in  the  ruins;    till  the  maiden  Aunt 
(A  little  sense  of  wrong  had  touch'd  her 

face 
With  colour)  turn'd  to  me  with  '  As  you 

will; 

Heroic  if  you  will,  or  what  you  will, 
Or  be  yourself  your  hero  if  you  will.' 


THE   PRINCESS;   A    MEDLEY. 


165 


'Take  Lilia,  then,  for  heroine,'  clam- 

our'd  he, 
'  And  make  her  some  great  Princess,  six 

feet  high, 
Grand,  epic,  homicidal  ;  and  be  you 
The  Prince  to  win  her  ! ' 

'  Then  follow  me,  the  Prince,' 
I  answer'd,  '  each  be  hero  in  his  turn  ! 
Seven  and  yet    one,  like  shadows  in  a 

dream.  — 
Heroic  seems  our  Princess  as  required  — 
But  something  made  to  suit  with  Time 

and  place, 
A  Gothic  ruin  and  a  Grecian  house, 
A  talk  of  college  and  of  ladies'  rights, 
A  feudal  knight  in  silken  masquerade. 
And,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange  experi- 
ments 
For  which  the  good  Sir  Ralph  had  burnt 

them  all  — 
This  were  a  medley  !  we  should  have  him 

back 
Who  told  the  "  Winter's  tale  "to  do  it 

for  us. 
No  matter :  we  will  say  whatever  comes. 
And  let  the  ladies  sing  us,  if  they  will, 
Yxowx  time  to  time,  some  ballad  or  a  song 
To  give  us  breathing-space.' 

So  I  began, 
And  the  rest  follow'd  :  and  the  women 

sang 
Between  the  rougher  voices  of  the  men. 
Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind : 
And  here  I  give  the  story  and  the  songs. 


A  prince   I  was,  blue-eyed,  and  fair  in 

face. 
Of  temper  amorous,  as  the  first  of  May, 
With  lengths  of  yellow  ringlet,  like  a  girl. 
For  on  my  cradle    shone  the  Northern 

star. 

There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in  our 

house. 
Some  sorcerer,  whom  a  far-off  grandsire 

burnt 
Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  foretold, 
Dying,  that  none  of  all  our  blood  should 

know 
The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and  that 

one 


Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows  and 

to  fall. 
For  so,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran. 
And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more  or 

less, 
An  old  and  strange  affection  of  the  house. 
Myself  too  had  weird  seizures,  Heaven 

knows  what : 
On  a  sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and  day, 
And  while  I  walk'd  and  talk'd  as  hereto- 
fore, 
I    seem'd    to    move    among   a  world    of 

ghosts, 
And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
Our  great  court-Galen  poised  his  gilt-head 

cane, 
And  paw'd  his  beard,  and  mutter'd  '  cata- 
lepsy.' 
My    mother    pitying   made    a   thousand 

prayers; 
ISIy  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint. 
Half-canonised  by  all  that  look'd  on  her. 
So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tenderness : 
But  my  good    father  thought  a  king   a 

king; 
He    cared   not   for   the  affection  of  the 

house; 
He  held  his  sceptre  like  a  pedant's  wand 
To  lash  offence,  and  with  long  arms  and 

hands 
Reach'd  out,  and  pick'd  offenders  from 

the  mass 
For  judgment. 

Now  it  chanced  that  I  had  been. 
While    life   was  yet   in  bud   and  blade, 

betroth'd 
To   one,   a   neighbouring  Princess :    she 

to  me 
Was  proxy-wedded  with  a  bootless  calf 
At  eight  years  old;   and  still  from  time 

to  time 
Came  murmurs   of  her  beauty  from  the 

South, 
And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puissance ; 
And  still  I  wore  her  picture  by  my  heart, 
And  one  dark  tress;  and  all  around  them 

both 
Sweet   thoughts   would   swarm   as   bees 

about  their  queen. 

But  when  the  days  drew  nigh  that  I 
should  wed, 
My  father  sent  ambassadors  with  furs 


1 66 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


And  jewels,   gifts,    to    fetch    her :   these 

brought  back 
A  present,  a  great  labour  of  the  loom; 
And    therewithal    an    answer   vague    as 

wind : 
Besides,  they  saw  the  king;   he  took  the 

gifts; 
He  said  there  was  a  compact;   that  was 

true : 
But  then  she  had  a  will ;  was  he  to  blame  ? 
And  maiden  fancies;   loved  to  live  alone 
Among  her  women;   certain,  would  not 

wed. 

That  morning  in  the  presence  room  I 

stood 
With  Cyril  and   with    Florian,   my  two 

friends : 
The  first,  a  gentleman  of  broken  means 
(His   father's  fault)  but  given  to  starts 

and  bursts 
Of  revel ;  and  the  last,  my  other  heart. 
And    almost   my    half-self,    for    still   we 

moved 
Together,  twinn'd  as  horse's  ear  and  eye. 

Now,    while    they   spake,    I    saw   my 

father's  face 
Grow  long   and   troubled   like    a  rising 

moon. 
Inflamed  with  wrath  :  he  started  on  his 

feet. 
Tore  the  king's  letter,  snow'd  it  down, 

and  rent 
The  wonder  of  the  loom  thro'  warp  and 

woof 
From  skirt  to  skirt;  and  at  the  last  he 

sware 
That  he  would  send  a  hundred  thousand 

men, 
And  bring  her  in  a  whirlwind :  then  he 

chevv'd 
The    thrice-turn'd     cud    of    wrath,    and 

cook'd  his  spleen, 
Communing  with  his  captains  of  the  war. 

At  last  I  spoke.  '  My  father,  let  me  go. 
It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 
In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a  king. 
Whom  all  men  rate  as  kind  and  hospitable  : 
Or,  maybe,  I  myself,  my  l)ri(le  once  seen, 
Whate'er  my  grief  to  find  her  less  than 
fame, 


May  rue  the  bargain  made. '    And  Florian 

said : 
'  I  have  a  sister  at  the  foreign  court, 
Who  moves  about  the  Princess;   she,  you 

know, 
Who   wedded   with   a    nobleman     from 

thence : 
He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I  hear. 
The  lady  of  three  castles  in  that  land : 
Thro'  her   this   matter    might    be    sifted 

clean.' 
And  Cyril  whisper'd  :   '  Take  me  with  you 

too.' 
Then    laughing   'what,    if    these    weird 

seizures  come 
Upon  you  in  those  lands,  and  no  one  near 
To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from  the 

truth  ! 
Take   me :     I'll   serve   you    better    in    a 

strait ; 
I  grate  on  rusty  hinges  here  : '  but '  No  ! ' 
Roar'd  the  rough  king,  'you  shall  not; 

we  ourself 
Will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies  dead 
In  iron  gauntlets  :   break  the  council  up.' 

But  when  the  council  broke,  I  rose  and 
past 

Thro'  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about  the 
town; 

Found  a  still  place,  and  pluck'd  her  like- 
ness out; 

Laid  it  on  flowers,  and  watch'd  it  lying 
bathed 

In  the  green  gleam  of  dewy-tassell'd  trees : 

What  were  those  fancies?  wherefore 
break  her  troth? 

Proud  look'd  the  lips  :  but  while  I  medi- 
tated 

A  wind  arose  and  rush'd  upon  the  South, 

And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers,  and 
the  shrieks 

Of  the  wild  woods  together;   and  a  Voice 

Went  with  it,  '  Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt 
win,' 

Then,  ere  the  silver  sickle  of  that  month 
Became  her  golden  shield,  I  stole  from 

court 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  unperceived, 
Cat-footed   tliro'   the   town    and  half   in 

dread 
To  hear  my  father's  clamour  at  our  backs 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


167 


With  Ho  !  from  some  bay-window  shake 

the  night; 
But  all  was    quiet :    from   the  bastion'd 

walls 
Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  one,  we 

dropt, 
And  flying  reach'd  the  frontier  :  then  we 

crost 
To  a  livelier  land;   and  so  by  tilth  and 

grange, 
And  vines,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wilder- 
ness, 
We    gain'd   the    mother-city  thick   with 

towers, 
And  in  the   imperial   palace  found   the 

king. 

His  name  was  Gama;  crack'd  and 
small  his  voice, 

But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a  wrinkling 
wind 

On  glassy  water  drove  his  cheek  in  lines; 

A  little  dry  old  man,  without  a  star, 

Not  like  a  king  :  three  days  he  feasted 
us, 

And  on  the  fourth  I  spake  of  why  we 
came. 

And  my  betroth'd.  '  You  do  us,  Prince,' 
he  said. 

Airing  a  snowy  hand  and  signet  gem, 

'  All  honour.  We  remember  love  our- 
selves 

In  our  sweet  youth  :  there  did  a  compact 
pass 

Long  summers  back,  a  kind  of  cere- 
mony — 

I  think  the  vear  in  which  our  olives 
fail'd. 

I  would  you  had  her.  Prince,  with  all  my 
heart. 

With  my  full  heart :  but  there  were 
widows  here, 

Two  widows.  Lady  Psyche,  Lady  Blanche; 

They  fed  her  theories,  in  and  out  of  place 

Maintaining  that  with  equal  husbandry 

The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 

They  harp'd  on  this;  with  this  our  ban- 
quets rang; 

Our  dances  broke  and  buzz'd  in  knots  of 
talk ; 

Nothing  but  this;    my  very  ears  were  hot 

To  hear  them:  knowledge,  so  my  daughter 
held, 


Was  all  in  all :  they  had  but  been,  she 

thought, 
As  children;   they  must  lose   the   child, 

assume 
The  woman :   then,   Sir,  awful  odes  she 

wrote. 
Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  they  treated  of, 
But  all  she  is  and  does  is  awful;    odes 
About  this  losing  of  the  child ;  and  rhymes 
And  dismal  lyrics,  prophesying  change 
Beyond    all   reason :     these    the    women 

sang; 
And    they   that   know    such    things  —  I 

sought  h)ut  peace ; 
No  critic   I  —  would   call  them  master- 
pieces : 
They  mastered  jue.     At  last  she  begg'd  a 

boon, 
A  certain  summer-palace  which  I  have 
Hard  by  your  father's  frontier :   I  said  no, 
Yet  being  an  easy  man,  gave  it  :    and 

there. 
All  wild  to  found  an  University 
For  maidens,  on  the  spur  she  fled;   and 

more 
We  know  not,  —  only  this:  they  see  no 

men. 
Not  ev'n  her  brother  Arac,  nor  the  twins 
Her  brethren,  tho'  they  love  her,   look 

upon  her 
As  on  a  kind  of  paragon;   and  I 
(Pardon  me  saying  it)  were  much  loth  to 

breed 
Dispute   betwixt  myself  and  mine :   but 

since 
(And  I  confess  with  right)  you  think  me 

bound 
In  some  sort,  I  can  give  you  letters  to  her; 
And  yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  rate  your 

chance 
Almost  at  naked  nothing.' 

Thus  the  king; 
And  I,  tho'  nettled  that  he  seem'd  to  slur 
With  garrulous  ease  and  oily  courtesies 
Our  formal  compact,  yet,  not  less  (all  frets 
But  chafing  me  on  fire  to  find  my  bride) 
Went  forth  again  with  both  my  friends. 

We  rode 
Many  a  long  league  back  to  the  North. 

At  last 
From  hills,  that  look'd  across  a  land  of 

hope. 
We  dropt  with  evening  on  a  rustic  town 


1 68 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


Set  in  a  gleaming  river's  crescent-curve, 
Close  at  the  boundary  of  the  liberties; 
There,  enter'd  an  old  hostel,  call'd  mine 

host 
To  council,  plied  him  with    his   richest 

wines, 
And  show'd  the  late-writ  letters  of  the 

king. 

He  with  a  long  low  sibilation,  stared 
As  blank  as  death  in  marble;   then  ex- 

claim'd 
Averring  it  was  clear  against  all  rules 
For  any  man  to  go :  but  as  his  brain 
Began  to  mellow,  '  If  the  king,'  he  said, 
'  Had  given  us  letters,  was  he  bound  to 

speak  ? 
The  king  would  bear  him  out;  '  and  at 

the  last  — 
The  summer  of  the  vine  in  all  his  veins  — 
'  No  doubt  that  we  might  make  it  worth 

his  while. 
She  once  had  past  that  way;   he  heard 

her  speak; 
She  scared  him;   life!  he  never  saw  the 

like; 
She  look'd  as  grand  as  doomsday  and  as 

grave  : 
And   he,    he   reverenced    his   liege-lady 

there; 
He  always  made  a  point  to  post  with 

mares; 
His  daughter  and  his  housemaid  were  the 

boys : 
The  land,  he  understood,  for  miles  about 
Was  till'd  by  women;   all  the  swine  were 

sows, 
And  all  the  dogs '  — 

But  while  he  jested  thus, 
A  thought  flash'd  thro'  me  which  I  clothed 

in  act. 
Remembering   how  we  three   presented 

Maid 
Or  Nymph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide  of 

feast. 
In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father's  court. 
We  sent  mine   host  to  purchase  female 

gear; 
He  brought   it,  and  himself,  a  sight  to 

shake 
The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter,  holp 
To    lace    us    up,    till,    each,    in    maiden 

plumes 


We  rustled :  him  we  gave  a  costly  bribe 
To  guerdon  silence,  mounted  our  good 

steeds, 
And  lioldly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 

We  follow'd  up  the  river  as  we  rode, 
And  rode  till  midnight  when  the  college 

lights 
Began  to  glitter  firefly-like  in  copse 
And  linden  alley  :  then  we  past  an  arch, 
Whereon  a  woman-statue  rose  with  wings 
From  four  wing'd  horses  dark  against  th'e 

stars; 
And  some  inscription  ran  along  the  front, 
But    deep    in   shadow  :    further    on    we 

gain'd 
A  little  street  half  garden  and  half  house; 
But  scarce  could  hear  each  other  speak 

for  noise 
Of  clocks  and  chimes,  like  silver  hammers 

falling 
On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and  stir 
Of  fountains  spouted  up  and  showering 

down 
In  meshes  of  the  jasmine  and  the  rose  : 
And  all  about  us  peal'd  the  nightingale, 
Rapt  in  her   song,  and    careless  of  the 

snare. 

There  stood  a  bust  of  Pallas  for  a  sign. 
By  two  sphere  lamps  blazon'd  like  Heaven 

and  Earth 
With  constellation  and  with  continent. 
Above  an  entry  :  riding  in,  we  call'd ; 
A  plump-arm'd   Ostleress   and   a  stable 

\\'ench 
Came  running  at  the  call,  and  help'd  us 

down. 
Then  stept  a  buxom   hostess  forth,  and 

sail'd. 
Full-blown,  before  us  into  rooms  which 

gave 
Upon  a  pillar'd  porch,  the  bases  lost 
In  laurel :   her  we  ask'd  of  that  and  this, 
And  who  were  tutors.     '  Lady  Blanche,' 

she  said, 
*  And  Lady  Psyche.'     '  Which  was  pret- 
tiest, 
Best-natured? '     'Lady  Psyche.'     'Hers 

are  we,' 
One  voice,  we  cried;   and  I  sat  down  and 

wrote. 
In  such  a  hand  as  when  a  licld  of  corn 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


169 


Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring  East; 

'Three   ladies    of  the   Northern  empire 

pray 
Your  Highness  would  enroll  them  with 

your  own, 
As  Lady  Psyche's  pupils.' 

This  I  seal'd  : 
The  seal  was  Cupid  bent  above  a  scroll, 
And  o'er  his  head  Uranian  Venus  hung. 
And  raised  the  blinding  bandage  from  his 

eyes: 
I  gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn; 
And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  doze  I 

seem'd 
To  float  about  a  glimmering  night,  and 

watch 
A  full  sea  glazed  with  muffled  moonlight, 

swell 
On  some  dark  shore  just  seen  that  it  was 

rich. 

II. 

As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why, 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 
And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 

And  kiss  again  with  tears  \ 
For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

At   break  of  day   the    College    Portress 

came  : 
She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 
The  lilac,  with  a  silken  hood  to  each. 
And  zoned  with  gold;    and   now  w^hen 

these  were  on, 
And   we    as   rich    as   moths   from    dusk 

cocoons, 
She,  curtseying  her  obeisance,  let  us  know 
The  Princess  Ida  waited :   out  we  paced, 
I  first,  and  following  thro'  the  porch  that 

sang 
x\ll  round  with  laurel,  issued  in  a  court 
Compact    of   lucid    marbles,  boss'd  'with 

lengths 
Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings  gay 


Betwixt  the  pillars,  and  with  great  urns 

of  flowers. 
The  Muses  and  the  Graces,  group'd  in 

threes, 
Enring'd    a    billowing    fountain    in    the 

midst ; 
And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges  lay 
Or  book  or  lute;   but  hastily  we  past, 
x\nd  up  a  flight  of  stairs  into  the  hall. 

There  at  a  board  by  tome  and  paper 

sat. 
With  two  tame  leopards  couch'd  beside 

her  throne, 
All  beauty  compass'd  in  a  female  form, 
The  Princess;    liker  to  the  inhabitant 
Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the  Sun, 
Than  our  man's  earth;    such  eyes  were  in 

her  head. 
And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breathing 

down 
From  over  her  arch'd  brows,  with  every 

turn 
Lived  thro'  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long 

hands. 
And  to  her  feet.     She  rose  her  height, 

and  said : 

'  We  give  you  welcome :    not  without 

redound 
Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye  come. 
The  first-fruits  of  the  stranger  :  aftertime, 
And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round 

the  grave. 
Will  rank  you  nobly,  mingled  up  with  me. 
What !    are  the  ladies    of  your    land  so 

tall?' 
'  We  of  the  court,'   said   Cyril.      '  From 

the  court,' 
She  answer'd, '  then  ye  know  the  Prince?  ' 

and  he  : 
'  The  climax  of  his  age  !  as  tho'  there  were 
One  rose  in  all  the  world,  your  Highness 

that, 
He  worships  your  ideal :  '  she  replied  : 
'  We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall  to 

hear 
This  barren  verbiage,  current  among  men, 
Light  coin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compliment. 
Your  flight  from  out  your  bookless  wilds 

would  seem 
As  arguing   love    of  knowledge    and  uf 

power; 


170 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


Your  language  proves  you  still  the  child. 

Indeed, 
We  dream  not  of  him :  when  we  set  our 

hand 
To  this    great  work,  we    purposed  with 

ourself 
Never  to  wed.     You  likewise  will  do  well, 
Ladies,    in    entering   here,    to    cast    and 

fling 
The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys  of  men, 

that  so, 
Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will, 
You  may  with  those  self-styled  our  lords 

ally 
Your  fortunes,  justlier  balanced,  scale  with 

scale.' 

At  those  high  words,  we  conscious  of 

ourselves. 
Perused  the  matting;   then  an  officer 
Rose  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such  as 

these : 
Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with 

home; 
Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  liberties; 
Not    for   three  years  to  speak  with  any 

men; 
And  many  more,  which  hastily  subscribed, 
We  enter'd  on  the  boards :  and  '  Now/ 

she  cried, 
*  Ye  are  green  wood,  see  ye  warp   not. 

Look,  our  hall ! 
Our  statues!  —  not    of  those    that    men 

desire. 
Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode. 
Nor  stunted  squaws  of  West  or  East;   but 

she 
That  taught  the  Sabine  how  to  rule,  and 

she 
The  foundress  of  the  Babylonian  wall, 
The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  in  war. 
The  Rhodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 
Clelia,  Cornelia,  with  the  Palmyrene 
That    fought   Aurelian,  and  the  Roman 

brows 
Of  Agrippina.     Dwell   with    these,   and 

lose 
Convention,  since  to  look  on  noble  forms 
Makes  noble  thro'  the  sensuous  organism 
That  which  is  higher.     O  lift  your  natures 

up: 
Embrace  our  aims :  work  out  your  free- 
dom.    Girls, 


Knowledge  is  now  no  more  a  fountain 

seal'd : 
Drink  deep,  until  the  habits  of  the  slave, 
The  sins  of  emptiness,  gossip  and  spite 
And  slander,  die.     Better  not  be  at  all 
Than  not  be  noble.     Leave  us  :  you  may 

go: 
To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 
The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before; 
For  they  press  in  from  all  the  provinces, 
And  till  the  hive.' 

She  spoke,  and  bowing  waved 
Dismissal :   back  again  we  crost  the  court 
To  Lady  Psyche's :  as  we  enter'd  in. 
There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morning 

doves 
That   sun    their   milky   bosoms    on    the 

thatch, 
A  patient  range  of  pupils;   she  herself 
Erect  behind  a  desk  of  satin-wood, 
A   quick   brunette,  well-moulded,  falcon 

eyed. 
And  on  the  hither  side,  or  so  she  look'd. 
Of  twenty  summers.     At  her  left,  a  child, 
In  shining  draperies,  headed  like  a  star. 
Her  maiden  babe,  a  double  April  old, 
Aglaia  slept.    We  sat :  the  Lady  glanced  : 
Then    Florian,  but  no  livelier  than    the 

dame 
That  whisper'd  '  Asses'  ears  '  among  the 

sedge, 
'  My  sister.'     '  Comely,  too,  by  all  that's 

fair,' 
Said   Cyril.     '  O   hush,  hush ! '  and   she 

began. 

*  This  world  was  once  a  fluid  haze  of 

light, 
Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry  tides. 
And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling  cast 
The  planets  :  then  the  monster,  then  the 

man; 
Tattoo'd  or  woaded,  winter-clad  in  skins. 
Raw  from  the  prime,  and  crushing  down 

his  mate; 
As  yet   we  find  in  barbarous  isles,  and 

here 
Among  the  lowest.' 

Thereupon  she  took 
A  bird's-eye-view  of  all  the   ungracious 

past; 
Glanced  at  the  legendary  Amazon 
As  emblematic  of  a  nobler  age; 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


171. 


Appraised  the  Lycian  custom,  spoke  of 

those 
That  lay  at  wine  with  Lar  and  Lucumo; 
Ran  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Roman 

lines 
Of  empire,  and  the  woman's  state  in  each, 
How  far  from  just;   till  warming  with  her 

theme 
She  fulmined  out  her  scorn  of  laws  Salique 
And  little-footed  China,  touch'd  on  Ma- 
homet 
With     much    contempt,    and    came    to 

chivalry : 
When  some  respect,  however  slight,  was 

paid 
To  woman,  superstition  all  awry : 
However  then  commenced  the  dawn:  a 

beam 
Had  slanted  forward,  falling  in  a  land 
Of  promise;   fruit  would  follow.     Deep, 

indeed. 
Their  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first  had 

dared 
To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 
Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and 

assert 
None  lordlier  than  themselves  but  that 

which  made 
Woman  and   man.     She  had    founded; 

they  must  build. 
Here  might  they  learn  whatever  men  were 

taught : 
Let  them  not  fear  :  some  said  their  heads 

were  less : 
Some  men's  were  small;     not   they  the 

least  of  men; 
For  often  fineness  compensated  size  ; 
Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand,  and 

grew 
With  using  ;   thence  the  man's,  if  more 

Avas  more  ; 
He  took  advantage  of  his  strength  to  be 
First  in  the  field :  some  ages  had  been 

lost; 
But  woman  ripen'd  earlier,  and  her  life 
Was   longer;    and   albeit  their    glorious 

names 
Were  fewer,  scatter'd  stars,  yet  since  in 

truth 
The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man, 
And  not  the  Kaffir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 
Nor  those  horn-handed  breakers  of  the 

glebe, 


But  Homer,  Plato,  Verulam;   even  so 
With  woman :  and  in  arts  of  government 
Elizabeth  and  others;   arts  of  war 
The    peasant  Joan  and  others;    arts    of 

grace 
Sappho  and  others  vied  with  any  man: 
And,  last  not  least,  she  who  had  left  her 

place, 
And  bow'd  her  state  to  them,  that  they 

might  grow 
To  use  and  power  on  this  Oasis,  lapt 
In   the  arms  of  leisure,  sacred  from  the 

blight 
Of  ancient  influence  and  scorn. 

At  last 
She  rose  upon  a  wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future;   'everywhere 
Two    heads   in    council,  two  beside   the 

hearth, 
Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the  world. 
Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life, 
Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound 

the  abyss 
Of  science,  and  the  secrets  of  the  mind  : 
Musician,  painter,  sculptor,  critic,  more: 
And  everywhere  the  broad  and  bounteous 

Earth 
Should   bear  a  double  growth   of  those 

rare  souls. 
Poets,  whose  thoughts  enrich  the  blood 

of  the  world.' 

She  ended  here,  and  beckon'd  us  :  the 

rest 
Parted;  and, glowing  full-faced  welcome, 

she 
Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving  on 
In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a  boat 
Tacks,  and    the  slacken'd  sail  flaps,  all 

her  voice 
Faltering  and  fluttering  in  her  throat,  she 

cried 
*  My  brother  ! '  '  Well,  my  sister.'     '  O,' 

she  said, 
'What  do  you  here?  and  in  this  dress? 

and  these? 
Why  who  are  these?  a  wolf  within  the 

fold ! 
A  pack  of  wolves  !  the  Lord  be  gracious 

to  me  ! 
A  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot,  to  ruin  all !  ' 
'No      plot,      no      plot,'     he      answer'd. 

'  Wretched  boy. 


172 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


How  saw  you  not  the  inscription  on  the 

gate, 
Let  no    man    enter    in    on   pain   of 

DEATH  ? ' 

'  And  if  I  had,'  he  answer'd,  '  who  could 

think 
The  softer  Adams  of  your  Academe, 

0  sister,  Sirens  tho'  they  be,  were  such 
As  chanted    on  the  blanching  bones  of 

men? ' 

*  But  you  will  find  it  otherwise,'  she  said. 
'You  jest:  ill   jesting  with    edge-tools! 

my  vow 
Binds  me  to  speak,  and  O  that  iron  will. 
That  axelike  edge  unturnable,  our  Head, 
The  Princess.*     '  Well  then,  Psyche,  take 

my  life, 
And  nail  me  like  a  weasel  on  a  grange 
For  warning:  bury  me  beside  the  gate. 
And  cut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones; 
Here  lies  a  brother  by  a  sister  slain, 
All  for  the  coinmon  good  of  jvotnankind.'' 

*  Let   me    die    too,'    said   Cyril,  *  having 

seen 
And  heard  the  Lady  Psyche.' 

I  struck  in : 
'Albeit  so  mask'd,  Madam,  I  love   the 

truth ; 
Receive  it;   and  in  me  behold  the  Prince 
Your  countryman,  affianced  years  ago 
To  the  Lady  Ida :   here,  for  here  she  was, 
And   thus  (what  other  way  was  left)   I 

came.' 
'O    Sir,  O   Prince,   I  have  no  country; 

none; 
If  any,  this;   but  none.      Whate'er  I  was 
Disrooted,  what  I  am  is  grafted  here. 
Affianced,   Sir?    love-whispers   may    not 

breathe 
Within  this  vestal  limit,  and  how  should 

I, 

Who  am  not  mine,  say,  live  :  the  thunder- 
bolt 

Hangs  silent;  but  prepare:  I  speak;  it 
falls.' 

*  Yet  pause,'  I  said  :   '  for  that  inscription 

there, 

1  think  no  more  of  deadly  lurks  therein, 
Than  in  a  clapper  clapping  in  a  garth. 
To   scare  the   fowl  from  fruit:    if  more 

there  be. 
If  more    and    acted    on,    what    follows? 
war; 


Your  own  work    marr'd :    for   this  your 

Academe, 
Whichever  side  be  Victor,  in  the  halloo 
Will  topple    to  the  trumpet   down,   and 

pass 
With  all  fair  theories  only  made  to  gild 
A  stormless  summer.'     '  Let  the  Princess 

judge 
Of  that,'  she  said  :  *  farewell.   Sir  —  and 

to  you. 
I  shudder  at  the  sequel,  but  I  go.' 

'  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,'  I  rejoin'd, 
'  The  fifth  in  line  from  that  old  Florian, 
Yet  hangs  his  portrait  in  my  father's  hall 
(The  gaunt  old  Baron  with  his  beetle  brow 
Sun-shaded  in  the  heat  of  dusty  fights) 
As  he  bestrode  my  Grandsire,  when  he 

fell. 
And  all  else  fled?  we  point  to  it,  and  we 

say, 
The  loyal  warmth  of  Florian  is  not  cold. 
But  branches    current   yet    in    kindred 

veins.' 
'Are  you  that  Psyche,'  Florian  added; 

'  she 
With  whom  I  sang   about  the  morning 

hills, 
Flung   ball,    flew    kite,    and    raced    the 

purple  fly. 
And  snared  the  squirrel  of  the  glen?  are 

you 
That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throbbing 

brow. 
To  smoothe  my  pillow,  mix  the  foaming 

draught 
Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and  read 
My  sickness  down  to  happy  dreams?  are 

you 
That  brother-sister  Psyche,  both  in  one? 
You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  are  you 

now?' 
'  You  are  that  Psyche,'  Cyril    said,  '  for 

whom 
I  would  be  that  for  ever  which  I  seem, 
Woman,  if  I  might  sit  beside  your  feet, 
And  glean  your  scatter'd  sapience.' 

Then  once  more, 
'Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,'  I  began, 
'That    on   her   bridal    morn    before    she 

past 
From  all   her  old  companions,  when  the 

kinor 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


173 


Kiss'd    her    pale    cheek,    declared    that 

ancient  ties 
Would  still  be  dear  beyond  the  southern 

hills; 
That  were  there  any  of  our  people  there 
In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And   help    them?    look!     for   such    are 

these  and  I.' 
'Are   you   that    Psyche,'   Florian    ask'd, 

'to  whom, 
In   gentler    days,   your    arrow-wounded 

fawn 
Came    flving  while  you   sat   beside    the 

well? 
The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your  lap, 
And  sobb'd,  and  you  sobb'd  with  it,  and 

the  blood 
Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  you 

wept. 
That  was    fawn's   blood,    not    brother's, 

yet  you  wept. 
O  by  the  bright  head  of  my  little  niece, 
You  were    that    Psyche,    and   what   are 

you  now? ' 
*  You  are  that  Psyche,'  Cyril  said  again, 
'The  mother  of  the  sweetest  little  maid, 
That  ever  crow'd  for  kisses.' 

'  Out  upon  it !  ' 
She  answer'd,  *  peace  !  and  why  should 

I  not  play 
The  Spartan  ^lother  with  emotion,  be 
The  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  of  my  kind  ? 
Him  you  call  great :   he  for  the  common 

weal, 
The  fading  politics  of  mortal  Rome, 
As  I  might  slay  this  child,  if  good  need 

were, 
Slew  both  his  sons :   and  I,  shall  I,  on 

whom 
The  secular  emancipation  turns 
Of  half  this  world,  be  swerved  from  right 

to  save 
A  prince,  a  brother?  a  little  will  I  yield. 
Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well  for 

you. 
O  hard,  when  love   and  duty  clash  I    I 

fear 
My  conscience  Mill  not  count  me  fleck- 
less;   yet  — 
Hear  my  conditions  :  promise  (otherwise 
You  perish^  as  you  came,  to  slip  away, 
To-day,    to-morrow,    soon :     it    shall    be 
said, 


These  women  were  too  barbarous,  would 

not  learn; 
They  fled,  who  might  have  shamed  us: 

promise,  all.' 

What    could   we    else,    we    promised 

each;   and  she. 
Like   some  wild    creature    newly-caged, 

commenced 
A  to-and-fro,  so  pacing  till  she  paused 
By  Florian;   holding  out  her  lily  arms 
Took  both  his  hands,  and  smiling  faintly 

said : 
'  I  knew  you  at  the  first :  tho'  you  have 

grown 
You  scarce  have  alter'd :  I  am  sad  and 

glad 
To   see   you,    Florian.     /  give   thee    to 

death 
My  brother  I  it  was  duty  spoke,  not  1. 
My  needful  seeming  harshness,  pardon  it. 
Our  mother,  is  she  well?  ' 

With  that  she  kiss'd 
His    forehead,    then,    a'  moment    after, 

clung 
About  him,  and  betwixt  them  blossom'd 

up 
From  out  a  common  vein  of  memory 
Sweet    household    talk,  and   phrases    of 

the  hearth, 
And  far  allusion,  till  the  gracious  dews 
Began  to  glisten  and  to  fall :  and  while 
They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came  a 

voice, 
'  I    brought   a  message  here  from  Lady 

Blanche.' 
Back  started  she,  and  turning  round  we 

saw 
The  Lady  Blanche's  daughter  where  she 

stood, 
Melissa,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock, 
A  rosy  blonde,  and  in  a  college  gown, 
That  clad  her  like  an  April  daffodilly 
(Her    mother's    colour)    with    her    lips 

apart. 
And  all  her  thoughts  as  fair  within  her 

eyes. 
As  bottom  agates  seen  to  wave  and  float 
In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morning  seas. 

So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at  the 
door. 
Then  Lady  Psyche, '  Ah  —  Melissa  —  you ! 


174 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


You  heard  us?  '  and  Melissa,  'O  pardon 

nie 
I    heard,  I  could    not    help    it,  did   not 

wish : 
But,  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me  not. 
Nor  think  I  bear  that  heart  within  my 

breast. 
To  give  three  gallant  gentlemen  to  death.' 
*  I  trust  you,'  said  the  other,  '  for  we  two 
Were    always   friends,  none   closer,  elm 

and  vine : 
But  yet  your  mother's  jealous  tempera- 
ment— 
Let  not  your  prudence,  dearest,  drowse, 

or  prove 
The  Danaid  of  a  leaky  vase,  for  fear 
This  whole  foundation  ruin,  and  I  lose 
My  honour,  these  their  lives.'     '  Ah,  fear 

me  not,' 
Replied  Melissa;   'no —  I  would  not  tell. 
No,  not  for  all  Aspasia's  cleverness. 
No,  not    to    answer,    Madam,   all   those 

hard  things 
That  Sheba  cam'e  to  ask  of  Solomon.' 
'  Be  it  so,'  the  other,  '  that  we  still  may 

lead 
The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  in  peace, 
For  Solomon  may  come  to  Sheba  yet.' 
Said  Cyril,  *  Madam,  he  the  wisest  man 
Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in  halls 
Of  Lebanonian  cedar  :  nor  should  you 
(Tho',  Madam,  you  should  answer,  ive 

would  ask) 
Less  welcome  find  among  us,  if  you  came 
Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  you, 
Myself  for  something  more.'     He  said 

not  what. 
But   'Thanks,'  she    answer'd,    'Go:   we 

have  been  too  long 
Together :    keep  your   hoods  about    the 

face; 
They  do  so  that  affect  abstraction  here. 
Speak  little;   mix  not  with  the  rest;   and 

hold 
Your  promise :  all,  I  trust,  may  yet  be 

well.' 

We  turn'd  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  the 
child, 

And  held  her  round  the  knees  against 
his  waist. 

And  blew  the  swoll'n  cheek  of  a  trump- 
eter. 


W^hile    Psyche    watch'd    them,    smiling, 

and  the  child 
Push'd    her    flat   hand  against    his   face 

and  laugh'd; 
And  thus  our  conference  closed. 

And  then  we  stroll'd 
For  half  the  day  thro'  stately  theatres 
Bench'd  crescent-wise.     In  each  we  sat, 

we  heard 
The    grave    Professor.     On    the    lecture 

slate 
The  circle  rounded  under  female  hands 
With   flawless   demonstration  :     folio w'd 

then 
A  classic  lecture,  rich  in  sentiment. 
With  scraps  of  thundrous  Epic  lilted  out 
By  violet-hooded  Doctors,  elegies 
And  quoted  odes,  and  jewels  five-words 

long 
That  on  the  stretch'd   forefinger  of  all 

Time 
Sparkle  for  ever :   then  we  dipt  in  all 
That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state. 
The  total  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind. 
The  morals,  something  of  the  frame,  the 

rock. 
The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell,  the 

flower. 
Electric,  chemic  laws,  and  all  the  rest, 
And    whatsoever    can    be    taught    and 

known; 
Till  like  three  horses  that  have  broken 

fence. 
And  glutted  all  night  long  breast-deep 

in  corn. 
We  issued  gorged  with  knowledge,  and 

I  spoke : 
'  Why,  Sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well  as 

we.' 
'They  hunt  old  trails,'  said  Cyril,  'very 

well; 
But  when  did  woman  ever  yet  invent?' 
'Ungracious!'  answered  Florian;    'have 

you  learnt 
No  more  from  Psyche's  lecture,  you  that 

talk'd 
The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and  almost 

sad?' 
'  O  trash,'  he  said,  '  but  with  a  kernel  in  it. 
Should  I  not  call  her  wise,  who  made  me 

wise? 
And  learnt?    1  learnt  more  from  her  in  a 

flash. 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


175 


Than  if  my  brainpan  were  an  empty  hull, 
And  every  Muse  tumbled  a  science  in. 
A  thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  these  halls, 
And  round  these  halls  a  thousand  baby 

loves 
Fly   twanging   headless    arrows    at    the 

hearts. 
Whence   follows   many  a  vacant  pang; 

but  O 
With  me.  Sir,  enter'd  in  the  bigger  boy, 
The  Head  of  all  the  golden-shafted  firm, 
The   long-limb'd  lad  that  had  a  Psyche 

too; 
He  cleft  me   thro'   the   stomacher;   and 

now 
What  think  you  of  it,  Florian?  do  I  chase 
The    substance    or  the  shadow?    will  it 

hold? 
I  have  no  sorcerer's  malison  on  me. 
No  ghostly  hauntings  like  his  Highness.  I 
Flatter  myself  that  always  everywhere 
I    know  the    substance  when    I   see    it. 

Well, 
Are  castles  shadows?     Three  of  them? 

Is  she 
The  sweet  proprietress  a  shadow?    If  not. 
Shall  those  three  castles  patch  my  tat- 

ter'd  coat? 
For  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my 

wants, 
And  dear  is  sister  Psyche  to  my  heart. 
And  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double 

worth, 
And  much  I  might  have  said,  but  that 

my  zone 
Unmann'd  me  :   then  the  Doctors  !     O  to 

hear 
The  Doctors !     O  to  watch   the  thirsty 

plants 
Imbibing  !  once  or  twice  I  thought  to  roar, 
To  break  my  chain,  to  shake  my  mane  : 

but  thou, 
Modulate  me.  Soul  of  mincing  mimicry  ! 
Make  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon,  my 

throat; 
Abase  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to  meet 
Star-sisters     answering    under     crescent 

brows; 
Abate  the  stride,  which  speaks  of  man, 

and  loose 
A  flying  charm  of  blushes  o'er  this  cheek, 
Where  they  like  swallows  coming  out  of 

time 


Will  wonder  why  they  came  :   but  hark 

the  bell 
For  dinner,  let  us  go  ! ' 

And  in  we  stream'd 
Among  the  columns,  pacing  staid  and  still 
By  twos  and  threes,  till  all  from  end  to  end 
With  beauties  every  shade  of  brown  and 

fair 
In  colours  gayer  than  the  morning  mist. 
The    long   hall   glitter'd    like    a    bed    of 

flowers. 
How  might  a  man  not  wander  from  his 

wits 
Pierced  thro'  with  eyes,  but  that  I  kept 

mine  own 
Intent  on  her,  who  rapt  in  glorious  dreams, 
The  second-sight  of  some  Astraean  age, 
Sat  compass'd  with  professors :   they,  the 

while, 
Discuss'd  a  doubt  and  tost  it  to  and  fro : 
A  clamour  thicken'd,  mixt  with  inmost 

terms 
Of  art  and  science  :   Lady  Blanche  alone 
Of  faded  form  and  haughtiest  lineaments, 
With  all  her  autumn  tresses  falsely  brown. 
Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a  tiger-cat 
In  act  to  spring. 

At  last  a  solemn  grace 
Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gardens : 

there 
One  walk'd  reciting  by  herself,  and  one 
In  this  hand  held  a  volume  as  to  read, 
And  smoothed  a  petted  peacock  down 

with  that : 
Some  to  a  low  song  oar'd  a  shallop  by. 
Or  under  arches  of  the  marble  bridge 
Hung,  shadow'd   from   the  heat :    some 

hid  and  sought 
In  the  orange  thickets  :   others  tost  a  ball 
Above  the  fountain-jets,  and  back  again 
With    laughter :     others    lay   about   the 

lawns. 
Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmur'd  that  their 

May 
Was  passing :    what  was  learning  unto 

them? 
They  wish'd  to  marry;   they  could  rule  a 

house; 
Men  hated  learned  women  :  but  we  three 
Sat  muffled  like    the   Fates;   and   often 

came 
Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 
Of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity. 


176 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


That  harm'd  not:   then  day  droopt;    the 

chapel  bells 
Call'd  us:  we  left    the  walks;     we  mixt 

with  those 
Six  hundred  maidens  clad  in  purest  white, 
Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall  to 

wall, 
While  the  great  organ  almost  burst  his 

pipes, 
Groaning  for  power,  and  rolling  thro'  the 

court 
A  long  melodious  thunder  to  the  sound 
Of  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies. 
The    work    of   Ida,   to    call    down    from 

Heaven 
A  blessing  on  her  labours  for  the  world. 

III. 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea. 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest. 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon: 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 

Morn  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morning 

star 
Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold. 
We  rose,  and  each  by  other  drest  with 

care 
Descended  to  the  court  that  lay  three  parts 
In  shadow,  but  the  Muses'  heads  were 

touch'd 
Above  the  darkness  from  their  native  East. 

There  while  we  stood  beside  the  fount, 

and  watch'd 
Or  seem'd  to  watch  the  dancing  bubble, 

approach'd 
Melissa,  tinged  with  wan   from   lack   of 

sleep. 
Or  grief,  and  glowing   round   her  dewy 

eyes 


The  circled  Iris  of  a  night  of  tears; 

'  And  fly,'  she  cried,  '  O  fly,  while  yet  you 

may ! 
My  mother  knows :  '  and  when  I  ask'd 

her  '  how,' 
'  My  fault,'  she  wept,  *  my  fault !  and  yet 

not  mine; 
Yet  mine  in  part.     O  hear  me,  pardon 

me. 
My  mother,  'tis  her  wont  from  night  to 

night 
To  rail  at  Lady  Psyche  and  her  side. 
She  says  the  Princess  should  have  been 

the  Head, 
Herself  and  Lady  Psyche  the  two  arms; 
And  so  it  was    agreed   when   first    they 

came ; 
But  Lady  Psyche  was  the  right  hand  now, 
And  she  the  left,  or  not,  or  seldom  used ; 
Hers  more  than  half  the  students,  all  the 

love. 
And  so  last  night  she  fell  to  canvass  you : 
Her  countrywomen  !  she  did  not  envy  her. 
"  Who  ever  saw  such  wild  barbarians? 
Girls?  —  more  like  men!"  and  at  these 

words  the  snake, 
My  secret,  seem'd  to  stir  within  my  breast ; 
And  oh,  Sirs,  could  I  help  it,  but  my  cheek 
Began  to  burn  and  burn,  and  her  lynx  eye 
To    fix    and    make    me    hotter,    till    she 

laugh'd : 
"  O  marvellously  modest  maiden,  you ! 
]\Ien  !  girls,  like  men  !  why,  if  they  had 

been  men 
You  need  not  set  your  thoughts  in  rubric 

thus 
For  wholesale  comment."     Pardon,  I  am 

shamed 
That  I  must  needs  repeat  for  my  excuse 
What  looks  so  little    graceful :    "  men  " 

(for  still 
My  mother  went  revolving  on  the  word)  ■ 
"  And  so  they  are,  —  very  like  men  in- 
deed— 
And  with  that  woman  closeted  for  hours  !  " 
Then  came  these  dreadful  words  out  one 

by  one, 
"  Why  —  these  —  are  —  men  :  "    I  shud- 

der'd  :   "  and  you  know  it." 
"O  ask  me  nothing,"  I  said:  "And  she 

knows  too, 
And  she   conceals  it."     So    my    mother 

clutch'd 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


177 


The  truth  at  once,  but  with  no  word  from 

nie; 
And  now  thus  early  risen  she    goes    to 

inform 
The    Princess :    Lady    Psyche    will    be 

crush'd; 
But  you  mav  yet  be  saved,  and  therefore 

fly:  '    _ 
But  heal  me  with  your  pardon  ere  you  go.' 

*  What  pardon,  sweet    Melissa,    for    a 

blush?' 
Said  Cyril :   '  Pale  one,  blush  again  :   than 

wear 
Those  lilies,  better  blush  our  lives  away. 
Yet  let  us  breathe  for  one  hour  more  in 

Heaven,' 
He  added, '  lest  some  classic  Angel  speak 
In  scorn  of  us,  "  They  mounted,  Gany- 

medes. 
To  tumble,  \'ulcans,  on  the  second  morn." 
But  I  will  melt  this  marble  into  wax 
To  yield  us  farther  furlough : '    and  he 

went. 

Melissa  shook  her  doubtful  curls,  and 

thought 
He    scarce    would    prosper.      '  Tell    us,' 

Florian  ask'd, 
'  How  grew  this  feud  betwixt  the  right 

and  left.' 
*  O  long  ago,'  she  said, '  betwixt  these  two 
Division    smoulders     hidden;      'tis     my 

mother, 
Too  jealous,  often  fretful  as  the  wind 
Pent  in  a  crevice  :  much  1  bear  with  her  : 
I  never  knew  my  father,  but  she  says 
(God  help  her)  she  was  wedded  to  a  fool; 
And  still  she  rail'd  against  the  state  of 

things. 
She  had  the  care  of  Lady  Ida's  youth, 
And  from  the  Queen's  decease  she  brought 

her  up. 
But  when  your  sister  came  she  won  the 

heart 
Of  Ida  :  they  were  still  together,  grew 
(Forsothey  said  themselves)  inosculated; 
Consonant  chords  that  shiver  to  one  note ; 
One  mind  in  all  things :   vet  mv  mother 

still 
Affirms  your  Psyche  thieved  her  theories, 
And  angled  with  them  for  her  pupil's  love  : 
She  calls  her  plagiarist;  I  know  not  what : 

N 


But  I  must  go :    I  dare  not  tarry,'  and 

light. 
As  flies  the  shadow  of  a  bird,  she  fled. 

Then   murmur'd   Florian  gazing  after 

her, 
'  An  open-hearted  maiden,  true  and  pure. 
If  I  could  love,  why  this  were  she :  how 

pretty 
Her  blushing  was,  and  how  she  blush'd 

again, 
As  if  to  close  with  Cyril's  random  wish  : 
Not   like   your   Princess    cramm'd   with 

erring  pride. 
Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  she  drags  in 

tow.' 

'  The  crane,'  I  said, '  may  chatter  of  the 

crane. 
The  dove  may  murmur  of  the  dove,  but  I 
An  eagle  clang  an  eagle  to  the  sphere. 
My  princess,  O  my  princess  !  true  she  errs, 
But  in  her  own  grand  way  :  being  herself 
Three  times  more  noble  than  three  score 

of  men. 
She  sees  herself  in  every  woman  else. 
And  so  she  wears  her  error  like  a  crown 
To  blind  the  truth  and  me :  for  her,  and 

her, 
Hebes  are  they  to  hand  ambrosia,  mix 
The  nectar ;  but  —  ah  she  —  whene'er  she 

moves 
The  Samian  Here  rises  and  she  speaks 
A  Memnon    smitten   with   the   morning 

Sun.' 

So   saying   from  the  court  we  paced, 

and  gain'd 
The  terrace  ranged  along  the  Northern 

front. 
And  leaning  there  on  those  balusters,  high 
Above  the  empurpled  champaign,  drank 

the  gale 
That  blown  about  the  foliage  underneath. 
And  sated  with  the  innumerable  rose, 
Beat  balm  upon  our  eyelids.    Hither  came 
Cyril,  and  yawning    'O   hard    task,'    he 

cried; 
'No  fighting  shadows  here!    I  forced  a 

way 
Thro'  solid  opposition  crabb'd  andgnarl'd. 
Better  to  clear  prime  forests,  heave  and 

thump 


178 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


A   league    of  street   in  summer  solstice 

down, 
Than   hammer   at  this  reverend  gentle- 
woman. 
I  knock'd  and    bidden,   enter'd;    found 

her  there 
At  point  to   move,   and    settled    in   her 

eyes 
The    green   malignant    light   of   coming 

storm. 
Sir,  I  was  courteous,  every  phrase  well- 

oil'd, 
As  man's  could  be;   yet  maiden-meek  I 

pray'd 
Concealment :    she    demanded   who    we 

were, 
And  why  we  came?  I  fabled  nothing  fair, 
But,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  all. 
Up  went  the  hush'd  amaze  of  hand  and 

eye. 
But  when  I  dwelt  upon  your  old  affiance, 
She  answer'd  sharply  that  I  talk'd  astray. 
I  urged  the  tierce  inscription  on  the  gate, 
And    our    three    lives.      True  —  we   had 

limed  ourselves 
With  open  eyes,  and  we   must  take  the 

chance. 
But  such  extremes,  I  told  her,  well  might 

harm 
The  woman's  cause.     "Not   more   than 

now,"  she  said, 
"  So  puddled  as  it  is  with  favouritism." 
I  tried  the  mother's  heart.     Shame  might 

befall 
Melissa,  knowing,  saying  not  she  knew  : 
Her  answer  was,  *'  Leave  me  to  deal  with 

that." 
I  spoke  of  war  to  come  and  many  deaths. 
And  she  replied,  her  duty  was  to  speak. 
And  duty  duty,  clear  of  consequences. 
I  grew  discouraged.  Sir;  but  since  I  knew 
No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a  little  wave 
May  beat  admission  in  a  thousand  years, 
I   recommenced;   "  Decide  not   ere  you 

pause. 
I  find  you  here  but  in  the  second  place, 
Some  say  the  third — the  authentic  foun- 
dress you. 
I  offer  boldly  :  we  will  seat  you  highest : 
Wink  at  our  advent :   help  my  prince  to 

gain 
His  rightful  bride,  and  here  I  promise 

you    • 


Some  palace  in  our  land,  where  you  shall 
reign 

The  head  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she- 
world. 

And  your  great  name  flow  on  with  broad- 
ening time 

For  ever."  Well,  she  balanced  this  a 
little. 

And  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to-day, 

Meantime  be  mute  :  thus  much,  nor  more 
I  gain'd.' 

He  ceasing,  came  a  message  from  the 

Head. 
'That  afternoon  the  Princess  rode  to  take 
The  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  North. 
Would  we  go  with  her?  we  should  find 

the  land 
Worth  seeing;    and  the  river  made  a  fall 
Out  yonder : '    then  she  pointed   on    to 

where 
A  double  hill  ran  up  his  furrowy  forks 
Beyond  the  thick-leaved  platans  of  the 

vale. 

Agreed  to,  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro' 

all 
Its  range  of  duties  to  the  appointed  hour. 
Then  summon'd  to  the  porch  we  went. 

She  stood 
Among  her  maidens,  higher  by  the  head, 
Her  back    against  a  pillar,  her  foot  on 

one 
Of  those  tame  leopards.     Kittenlike  he 

roll'd 
And  paw'd  about   her    sandal.     I    drew 

near; 
I  gazed.     On  a  sudden  my  strange  seizure 

came 
Upon  me,  the  weird  vision  of  our  house  : 
The  Princess  Ida  seem'd  a  hollow  show. 
Her  gay-furr'd  cats  a  painted  fantasy, 
Her    college    and    her    maidens    empty 

masks, 
And  I  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
For  all  things  were  and  were  not.     Yet 

I  felt 
My  heart  beat  thick  with    passion    and 

with  awe; 
Then    from    my    breast    the    involuntary 

sigh 
Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  light  of 

eyes 


THE  PRINCESS;   A    MEDLEY. 


179 


That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and 

shook 
My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  and  so 
Went  forth  in  long  retinue  following  up 
The  river  as  it  narrow'd  to  the  hills. 

I  rode  beside  her  and  to  me  she  said  : 
*0  friend,  we  trust  that  you  esteem'd  us 

not 
Too  harsh  to  your  companion  yestermorn; 
Unwillingly  we  spake.'   '  No  —  not  to  her,' 
I  answer'd, '  but  to  one  of  whom  we  spake 
Your    Highness  might  have  seem'd  the 

thing  you  say.' 
'Again?'   she  cried,   'are  you  ambassa- 
dresses 
From  him  to  me?   we  give   you,  being 

strange, 
A  license  :  speak,  and  let  the  topic  die.' 

I  stammer'd  that  I  knew  him  —  could 
have  wish'd  — 
'Our  king  expects  —  was  there  no  pre- 
contract? 
There  is  no  truer-hearted  —  ah,  you  seem 
All  he  prefigured,  and  he  could  not  see 
The    bird   of    passage    flying   south    but 

long'd 
To  follow :  surely,  if  your  Highness  keep 
Your  purport,  you  will  shock  him  ev'n  to 

death. 
Or  baser  courses,  children  of  despair.' 

*  Poor  boy,'  she  said,  '  can  he  not  read 
—  no  books? 

Quoit,  tennis,  ball  —  no  games?  nor  deals 
in  that 

"Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exercise? 

To  nurse  a  blind  ideal  like  a  girl, 

Methinks  he  seems  no  better  than  a  girl; 

As  girls  were  once,  as  we  ourself  have 
been: 

We  had  our  dreams;  perhaps  he  mixt 
with  them : 

We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun  to 
do  it. 

Being  other  —  since  we  learnt  our  mean- 
ing here. 

To  lift  the  woman's  fall'n  divinity 

Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man.' 

She  paused,  and  added  with  a  haughtier 
smile 


'And  as  to  precontracts,  we    move,  my 

friend. 
At  no  man's  beck,  but  know  ourself  and 

thee, 

0  Vashti,  noble  Vashti !     Summon'd  out 
She  kept  her  state,  and  left  the  drunken 

king 
To    brawl    at    Shushan    underneath    the 
palms.' 

'  Alas    your    Highness    breathes    full 
East,'  I  said, 
'  On  that  which  leans  to  you.     I  know 
the  Prince, 

1  prize  his  truth  :    and  then  how  vast  a 

work 
To  assail  this  gray  preeminence  of  man  ! 
You  grant  me  license;    might  I  use  it? 

think ; 
Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  life  may 

fail; 
Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  your 

plan. 
And  takes  and  ruins  all;   and  thus  your 

pains 
May  only  make  that  footprint  upon  sand 
Which  old- recurring  waves  of  prejudice 
Resmooth    to    nothing :    might    I    dread 

that  you. 
With    only   Fame  for  spouse    and   your 

great  deeds 
For  issue,  yet  may  live  in  vain,  and  miss. 
Meanwhile,   what    every  woman    counts 

her  due, 
Love,  children,  happiness?' 

And  she  exclaim'd, 
'  Peace,  you  young  savage  of  the  Northern 

wild  ! 
What !  tho'  your  Prince's  love  were  like 

a  God's, 
Have  we  not  made  ourself  the  sacrifice? 
You  are  bold  indeed:  we  are  not  talk'd 

to  thus : 
Yet  will  we  say  for  children,  would  they 

grew 
Like   field-flowers   everywhere !    we  like 

them  well : 
But  children  die;    and  let  me  tell  you, 

girl 
Howe'er  you  babble,  great  deeds,  cannot 

die; 
They  with  the  sun  and  moon  renew  their 

light 


i8o 


THE  PRINCESS;   A    MEDLEY. 


For  ever,  blessing  those  that  look  on 
them. 

Children  —  that  men  may  pluck  them 
from  our  hearts, 

Kill  us  with  pity,  break  us  with  our- 
selves— 

O  —  children  —  there  is  nothing  upon 
earth 

More  miserable  than  she  that  has  a  son 

And  sees  him  err :  nor  would  we  work 
for  fame; 

Tho'  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  applause 
of  Great, 

Who  learns  the  one  POU  STO  whence  after- 
hands 

May  move  the  world,  tho'  she  herself  effect 

But  little :  wherefore  up  and  act,  nor 
shrink 

For  fear  our  solid  aim  be  dissipated 

By  frail  successors.  Would,  indeed,  we 
had  been, 

In  lieu  of  many  mortal  flies,  a  race 

Of  giants  living,  each,  a  thousand  years, 

That  we  might  see  our  own  work  out, 
and  watch 

The  sandy  footprint  harden  into  stone.' 

I  answer'd  nothing,  doubtful  in  myself 
If  that    strange    Poet-princess  with  her 

grand 
Imaginations  might  at  all  be  won. 
And    she    broke    out    interpreting    my 

thoughts  : 

*  No  doubt  we  seem  a  kind  of  monster 

to  you; 
We  are  used  to  that :  for  women,  up  till 

this 
Cramp'd  under  worse  than  South-sea-isle 

taboo, 
Dwarfs  of  the  gynoeceum,  fail  so  far 
In    high    desire,  they  know  not,  cannot 

guess 
How  much  their  welfare  is  a  passion  to  us. 
If  we    could    give    them    surer,   quicker 

proof — 
Oh  if  our  end  were  less  achievable 
By  slow  approaches,  than  by  single  act 
Of  immolation,  any  phase  of  death. 
We  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against  the 

pikes. 
Or  down  the  fiery  gulf  as  talk  of  it, 
To  compass  our  dear  sisters'  liberties.' 


She  bow'd  as  if  to  veil  a  noble  tear; 
And   up   we  came    to    where    the   river 

sloped 
To    plunge    in    cataract,    shattering    on 

black  blocks 
A  breadth  of  thunder.     O'er  it  shook  the 

woods. 
And    danced    the    colour,    and,    below, 

stuck  out 
The  bones  of  some  vast  bulk  that  lived 

and  roar'd 
Before  man  was.     She  gazed  awhile  and 

said, 
'  As  these  rude  bones  to  us,  are  we  to 

her 
That  will  be.'     '  Dare  we  dream  of  that,' 

I  ask'd, 
'  Which  wrought  us,  as  the  workman  and 

his  work. 
That    practice    betters  ?  '      '  How,'    she 

cried,  '  you  love 
The   metaphysics !    read    and    earn    our 

prize, 
A  golden  brooch :    beneath  an  emerald 

plane 
Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 
Of  hemlock;     our    device;    wrought  to 

the  life; 
She  rapt  upon  her  subject,  he  on  her: 
For   there    are   schools   for  all.'      'And 

yet,'  I  said, 
'  Methinks  I  have  not  found  among  them 

all 
One    anatomic'      'Nay,  we  thought    of 

that,' 
She  answer'd,  '  but  it  pleased  us  not :  in 

truth 
W^e    shudder    but    to    dream    our  maids 

should  ape 
Those    monstrous   males  that  carve   the 

living  hound, 
And  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of  the 

grave. 
Or  in  the  dark  dissolving  human  heart, 
And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm. 
Dabbling  a  shameless  hand  with  shame- 
ful jest, 
Encarnalise  their  spirits  :   yet  we  know 
Knowledge  is  knowledge,  and  this  mat- 
ter hangs : 
llowbeit  oursclf,  foreseeing  casualty, 
Nor  wiUing  men  should  come  among  us, 

learnt, 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


i«i 


For  many  weary  moons  before  we  came, 
This  craft    of  healing.     Were  you  sick, 

ourself 
Would   tend  upon  you.     To  your  ques- 
tion now, 
Which  touches  on  the  workman  and  his 

work. 
Let  there  be  light  and  there  was  light : 

'tis  so : 
For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but  is; 
And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once, 
The  birth  of  light :  but  we  that  are  not 

all, 
As  parts,  can   see    but  parts,  now  this, 

now  that, 
And    live,    perforce,    from    thought    to 

thought,  and  make 
One  act  a  phantom  of  succession  :  thus 
Our     weakness     somehow    shapes     the 

shadow.  Time; 
But    in    the    shadow  will  we  work,  and 

mould 
The  woman  to  the  fuller  day.' 

She  spake 
With    kindled   eyes :    we  rode  a   league 

beyond, 
And,  o'er  a  bridge  of  pinewood  crossing, 

came 
On  flowery  levels  underneath  the  crag. 
Full  of  all  beauty.     '  O  how  sweet,'  I  said 
(For  I  was  half-oblivious  of  my  mask), 
'To  linger  here  with  one  that  loved  us.' 

'Yea,' 
She  answer 'd,  '  or  with  fair  philosophies 
That   lift    the    fancy;    for   indeed    these 

fields 
Are    lovely,    lovelier    not     the    Elysian 

lawns. 
Where  paced  the  Demigods  of  old,  and 

saw 
The  soft  white  vapour  streak  the  crowned 

towers 
Built  to  the  Sun : '  then,  turning  to  her 

maids, 
'  Pitch  our  pavilion  here  upon  the  sward; 
Lay  out  the  viands.'     At  the  word,  they 

raised 
A  tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 
With  fair  Corinna's  triumph;    here    she 

stood, 
Engirt  with  many  a  florid  maiden-cheek, 
The      woman-conqueror  ;      woman-con- 

quer'd  there 


The    bearded    Victor    of    ten-thousand 

hymns. 
And    all   the  men  mourn'd  at  his  side  : 

but  we 
Set  forth  to  climb;   then,  climbing,  Cyril 

kept 
With  Psyche,  with  Melissa  Florian,  I 
With  mine  aflianced.     Many  a  little  hand 
Glanced  like  a  touch  of  sunshine  on  the 

rocks. 
Many   a   light   foot   shone  like  a  jewel 

set 
In  the  dark  crag:   and  then  we  turn'd, 

we  wound 
About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  out  and  in, 
Hammering     and     clinking,    chattering 

stony  names 
Of   shale  and    hornblende,  rag  and  trap 

and  tuff. 
Amygdaloid  and  trachyte,  till  the  Sun 
Grew  broader  toward  his  death  and  fell, 

and  all 
The    rosy  heights  came   out   above    the 

lawns. 

IV. 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story: 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;   answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle ;   answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,   answer,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

•  There    sinks  the  nebulous  star  we  call 

the  Sun, 
If  that  hypothesis  of  theirs  be  sound,' 
Said  Ida;    'let  us  down  and  rest;  '  and 

we 


1 82 


THE  PRINCESS;   A    MEDLEY. 


Down  from  the  lean  and  wrinkled  preci- 
pices, 

By  every  coppice-feather'd  chasm  and 
cleft, 

Dropt  thro'  the  ambrosial  gloom  to 
where  below 

No  bigger  than  a  glow-worm  shone  the 
tent 

Lamp-lit  from  the  inner.  Once  she 
lean'd  on  me, 

Descending;  once  or  twice  she  lent  her 
hand, 

And  blissful  palpitations  in  the  blood, 

Stirring  a  sudden  transport  rose  and  fell. 

But  when  we  planted  level  feet,  and  dipt 
Beneath  the  satin  dome  and  enter'd  in, 
There    leaning   deep  in  broider'd  down 

we  sank 
Our  elbows :  on  a  tripod  in  the  midst 
A   fragrant   flame    rose,    and   before   us 

glow'd 
Fruit,  blossom,  viand,  amber  wine,  and 

gold. 

Then  she,  '  Let  some  one  sing  to  us : 

lightlier  move 
The  minutes  fledged  with  music  : '  and  a 

maid, 
Of  those  beside  her,  smote  her  harp,  and 

sang. 

'  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

'  Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

'  Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

'  Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others:    deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more.' 


She  ended  with  such  passion  that  the 

tear, 
She  sang  of,  shook  and  fell,  an    erring 

pearl 
Lost  in  her  bosom :  but  with  some  dis- 
dain 
Answer'd  the  Princess,  '  If  indeed  there 

haunt 
About  the  moulder'd  lodges  of  the  Past 
So   sweet   a   voice   and  vague,   fatal   to 

men, 
Well  needs  it  we  should  cram  our  ears 

with  wool 
And  so    pace  by :  but  thine  are  fancies 

hatch'd 
In  silken-folded  idleness;   nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a  true  occasion  lost, 
But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones 

be, 
While    down    the    streams   that  float  us 

each  and  all 
To  the  issue,  goes,  like  glittering  bergs 

of  ice, 
Throne  after  throne,  and  molten  on  the 

waste 
Becomes    a   cloud :  for    all  things  serve 

their  time 
Toward  that  great  year  of  equal  mights 

and  rights. 
Nor  would  I  fight  with  iron  laws,  in  the 

end 
Found  golden :  let  the  past  be  past;   let 

be 
Their  cancell'd  Babels :    tho'  the  rough 

kex  break 
The  starr'd  mosaic,  and  the  beard-blown 

goat 
Hang  on  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  figtree 

split 
Their  monstrous  idols,  care  not  while  we 

hear 
A  trumpet  in  the  distance  pealing  news 
Of  better,  and    Hope,  a   poising  eagle, 

burns 
Above   the    unrisen    morrow : '    then    to 

me; 
'  Know  you  no  song  of  your  own  land,' 

she  said, 
'  Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retrospect, 
l')Ut  deals  with  the  other  distance  and  the 

hues 
Of   promise;    not  a  death's-head  at  the 

wine.' 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


1 8: 


Then  I  remember'd  one  myself  had 
made, 

What  time  I  watch'd  the  swallow  wing- 
ing south 

From  mine  own  land,  part  made  long 
since,  and  part 

Now  while  I  sang,  and  maidenlike  as 
far 

As  I  could  ape  their  treble,  did  I  sing. 

'  O  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves. 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  what  I  tell  to  thee. 

'  O  tell  her,  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest  each. 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

'  O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow,  and 
light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill, 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

'  O  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take  me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

'  Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart  with  love, 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are  green? 

'  O  tell  her.  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is  flown: 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

'  O  tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

'  O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods, 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make  her 

mine, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee.' 

I  ceased,   and  all   the  ladies,  each   at 

each. 
Like  the  Ithacensian  suitors  in  old  time, 
Stared  with  great  eyes,  and  laugh'd  with 

alien  lips, 
And  knew  not  what  they  meant;   for  still 

my  voice 
Rang  false :  but  smiling,  '  Not  for  thee,' 

she  said, 
'  O  Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistan 
Shall  burst  her  veil :   marsh-divers,  rather, 

maid, 


Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow- 
crake 
Grate   her  harsh  kindred  in  the  grass: 

and  this 
A  mere  love-poem  I  O  for  such,  my  friend, 
We  hold  them  slight :  they  mind  us  of 

the  time 
When  we  made  bricks  in  Egypt.    Knaves 

are  men, 
That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tenderness, 
And  dress  the  victim  to  the  offering  up. 
And  paint  the  gates  of  Hell  with  Paradise, 
And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny. 
Poor  soul !   1  had  a  maid  of  honour  once; 
She  wept  her  true  eyes  blind  for  such  a 

one, 
A  rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 
I  loved  her.     Peace  be  Avith  her.     She 

is  dead. 
So  they  blaspheme  the  muse  !     But  great 

is  song 
Used  to  great  ends:   ourself  have  often 

tried 
Valkyrian  hymns,  or  into    rhythm   have 

dash'd 
The  passion  of  the  prophetess;   for  song 
Is  duer  unto  freedom,  force  and  growth 
Of  spirit  than  to  junketing  and  love. 
Love  is  it?     Would  this  same  mock-love, 

and  this 
Mock-Hymen  were  laid    up  like  winter 

bats, 
Till  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our  worth, 
Not  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor  pretty  babes 
To  be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills,  and 

sphered 
Whole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none. 

Enough ! 
But  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit,  you, 
Know  you  no  song,  the  true  growth  of 

your  soil. 
That  gives  the  manners  of  your  country- 
women ? ' 

She  spoke  and  turn'd  her  sumptuous 

head  with  eyes 
Of  shining  expectation  fixt  on  mine. 
Then  while  I  dragg'd  my  brains  for  such 

a  song, 
Cyril,  with  whom  the  bell-mouth'd  glass 

had  wrought, 
Or  master'd  by  the  sense  of  sport,  began 
To  troll  a  careless,  careless  tavern-catch 


1 84 


THE  PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experiences 
Unmeet  fur   ladies.     Florian  nodded  at 

him, 
I  frowning;    Psyche  flush'd  and  wann'd 

and  shook; 
The  ladylike  Melissa  droop'd  her  brows; 
*  Forbear,' the  Princess  cried;    'Forbear, 

Sir,' I; 
And  heated  thro'  and  thro'  with  wrath 

and  love, 
I  smote  him  on  the  breast;    he  started 

up; 
There  rose  a  shriek  as  of  a  city  sack'd; 
Melissa  clamour'd, '  Flee  the  death;  '  '  To 

horse,' 
Said  Ida;    '  home  1  to  horse!'  and  fled, 

as  flies 
A  troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the  dusk. 
When  some  one  batters  at  the  dovecote 

doors, 
Disorderly  the  women.     Alone  I  stood 
With  Florian,  cursing  Cyril,  vext  at  heart, 
In  the  pavilion  :    there  like  parting  hopes 
1  heard  them  passing  from  me  :  hoof  by 

hoof, 
And  every  hoof  a  knell  to  my  desires, 
Clang'd  on  the  bridge;   and  then  another 

shriek, 
'The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess,  O 

the  Head ! ' 
For  blind  with  rage  she  miss'd  the  plank, 

and  roU'd 
In  the  river.     Out  I  sprang  from  glow  to 

gloom  : 
There   whirl'd    her   white    robe    like    a 

blossom'd  branch 
Rapt  to  the    horrible   fall :    a  glance   I 

gave. 
No  more;   but  woman-vested  as  I  was 
Plunged;     and   the    flood    drew;    yet   I 

caught  her;   then 
Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my  left 
The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half  the 

world, 
Strove  to  buftet  to  land  in  vain.     A  tree 
Was  half-disrooted    from  his  place   and 

stoop'd 
To  drench  his  dark  locks  in  the  gurgling 

wave 
Mid-channel.     Right  on    this  we    drove 

and   caught. 
And  grasping  down  the  boughs  I  gain'd 

the  shore. 


There  stood  her  maidens  glimmeringly 

group'd 
In  the  hollow  bank.     One  reaching  for- 
ward drew 
My  burthen  from  mine  arms;   they  cried 

'  she  lives  : ' 
They  bore  her  back  into  the  tent :  but  I, 
So    much    a  kind   of   shame   within  me 

wrought. 
Not  yet   endured   to   meet  her   opening 

eyes. 
Nor  found  my  friends;   but  push'd  alone 

on  foot 
(For  since  her  horse  was  lost  I  left  her 

mine) 
Across  the  woods,  and  less  from  Indian 

craft 
Than  beelike  instinct  hiveward,  found  at 

length 
The  garden  portals.     Two  great  statues. 

Art 
And  Science,  Caryatids,  lifted  up 
A  weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were 

valves 
Of  open-work  in  which  the  hunter  rued 
His    rash    intrusion,    manlike,    but    his 

brows 
Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  there- 
upon 
Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked  the 

gates. 

A  little   space  was   left   between   the 

horns, 
Thro'  which  I  clamber'd  o'er  at  top  with 

pain, 
Dropt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  linden 

walks, 
And,  tost  on  thoughts  that  changed  from 

hue  to  hue. 
Now  poring  on  the  glowworm,  now  the 

star, 
I   paced  the   terrace,  till   the   Bear  had 

wheel'd 
Thro'  a  great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 

A  step 
Of  lightest  echo,  then  a  loftier  form 
Than  female,  moving  thro'  the  uncertain 

gloom, 
Disturb'd  me  with  the  doubt  '  if  this  were 

she,' 
But  it  was   Florian.     'Hist,  O  hist,'  he 

said, 


THE   PRINCESS;   A    MEDLEY. 


185 


'  They   seek    us :    out   so    late    is   out    of 

rules. 
Moreover  "  seize  the  strangers  "  is  the  cry. 
How  came  you  here?'  I  told  him:   'I,' 

said  he, 
'  Last  of  the  train,  a  moral  leper,  I, 
To  whom  none  spake,  half-sick  at  heart, 

return'd. 
Arriving  all  confused  among  the  rest 
With  hooded  brows  I  crept  into  the  hall, 
And,   couch'd  behind   a   Judith,   under- 
neath 
The  head  of  Holofernes  peep'd  and  saw. 
Girl  after  girl  was  call'd  to  trial :   each 
Disclaim'd  all  knowledge  of  us :  last  of 

all, 
Melissa :  trust  me.  Sir,  I  pitied  her. 
She,  question'd  if  she  knew  us  men,  at 

first 
Was  silent  ;    closer  prest,  denied  it  not : 
And    then,    demanded    if    her    mother 

knew. 
Or  Psyche,  she  affirm'd  not,  or  denied : 
From  whence  the  Royal  mind,  familiar 

with  her. 
Easily  gather'd  either  guilt.      She  sent 
For  Psyche,  but  she  was  not  there  ;   she 

call'd 
For  Psyche's  child  to   cast   it   from   the 

doors; 
She  sent  for  Blanche  to  accuse  her  face 

to  face; 
And  I  slipt  out :    but  whither  will   you 

now  ? 
And  where  are  Psyche,  Cyril?  both  are 

fled: 
What,  if  together?  that  were  not  so  well. 
Would  rather  we  had    never    come !     I 

dread 
His  wildness,  and   the    chances  of  the 

dark.' 

'And   yet,'   I    said,   'you  wrong   him 

more  than  I 
That  struck  him  :    this  is  proper  to  the 

clown, 
Tho'    smock'd,    or    furr'd    and    purpled, 

still  the  clown. 
To  harm  the  thing  that  trusts  him,  and 

to  shame 
That  which  he  says  he  loves :   for  Cyril, 

howe'er 
He  deal  in  frolic,  as  to-night  —  the  song 


Might  have   been  worse   and   sinn'd    in 

grosser  lips 
Beyond  all  pardon  —  as  it  is,  I  hold 
These  flashes  on  the  surface  are  not  he. 
He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament : 
But  as  the  waterlily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  of  wind, 
Tho'    anchor'd   to    the    bottom,  such  is 

he.' 

Scarce  had  I  ceased  when  from  a  tama- 
risk near 
Two    Proctors    leapt    upon    us,    crying, 

*  Names : ' 
He,  standing  still,  was  clutch'd;    but   1 

began 
To  thrid  the  musky-circled  mazes,  wind 
And  double  in  and  out  the   boles,  and 

race 
By  all  the  fountains  :  fleet  I  was  of  foot : 
Before  me  shower'd  the  rose  in  flakes; 

behind 
I  heard  the  pufPd  pursuer;   at  mine  ear 
Bubbled    the    nightingale    and    heeded 

not. 
And  secret  laughter  tickled  all  my  soul. 
At  last  I  hook'd  my  ankle  in  a  vine, 
That  claspt  the  feet  of  a  Mnemosyne, 
And  falling  on  my  face  was  caught  and 

known. 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess  where 

she  sat 
High  in  the  hall :  above  her  droop'd  a 

lamp. 
And  made  the  single  jewel  on  her  brow 
Burn   like    the   mystic    fire    on    a    mast- 
head. 
Prophet  of  storm :  a  handmaid  on  each 

side 
Bow'd  toward  her,  combing  out  her  long 

black  hair 
Damp  from  the  river;    and  close  behind 

her  stood 
Eight  daughters  of  the  plough,  stronger 

than  men, 
Huge  women  blowzed  with  health,  and 

wind,  and  rain, 
i\.nd   labour.      Each    was   like    a   Druid 

rock ; 
Or  like  a  spire  of  land  that  stands  apart 
Cleft   from   the   main,  and  wail'd   about 

with  mews. 


i86 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  dividing 

clove 
An    advent   to    the    throne :    and   there- 

beside, 
Half-naked  as  if  caught  at  once   from 

bed 
And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footcloth,  lay 
The  lily-shining  child;   and  on  the  left, 
Bow'd  on  her  palms  and  folded  up  from 

wrong, 
Her  round  white  shoulder  shaken  with 

her  sobs, 
Melissa  knelt;    but  Lady  Blanche  erect 
Stood  up  and  spake,  an  affluent  orator. 

*  It  was  not  thus,  O   Princess,  in    old 

days : 
You  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon  my 

lips: 
I  led  you  then  to  all  the  Castalies; 
I  fed  you  with  the  milk  of  every  Muse; 
I  loved  you  like   this  kneeler,  and  you 

me 
Your  second    mother:    those  were    gra- 
cious times. 
Then  came  your  new  friend  :  you  began 

to  change  — 
I  saw  it  and  grieved  —  to  slacken  and  to 

cool; 
Till  taken  with  her  seeming  openness 
You  turn'd  your  warmer  currents  all  to 

her, 
To  me  you  froze  :  this  was  my  meed  for 

all. 
Yet  I  bore  up  in  part  from  ancient  love, 
And  partly  that  I  hoped  to  win  you  back, 
And  partly  conscious  of  my  own  deserts. 
And  partly  that  you  were  my  civil  head. 
And  chiefly  you  were  born  for  something 

great, 
In  which  I  might  your  fellow-worker  be, 
When  time    should   serve;    and    thus   a 

noble  scheme 
Grew  up  from  seed  we  two   long  since 

had  sown; 
In  us  true  growth,  in  her  a  Jonah's  gourd, 
Up  in  one  night  and  due  tu  sudden  sun  : 
We  took  this  palace ;  but  even  from  the 

first 
You  stood  in  your  own  light  and  ilarken'd 

mine. 
What  student  came  but  that  you  planed 

her  path 


To  Lady  Psyche,  younger,  not  so  wise, 
A  foreigner,  and  I  your  countrywoman, 
I  your  old  friend  and  tried,  she  new  in  all? 
But  still  her  lists  were  swell'd  and  mine 

were  lean ; 
Yet   I    bore    up  in  hope  she  would   be 

known : 
Then  carne  these  wolves  :  they  knew  her  : 

they  endured, 
Long-closeted  with  her  the  yesterniorn. 
To  tell  her  what  they  were,  and  she  to 

hear : 
And  me  none  told :   not  less  to  an  eye 

like  mine 
A  lidless  watcher  of  the  public  weal, 
Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent,  and 

my  foot 
Was  to  you  :  but  I  thought  again  :  I  fear'd 
To  meet  a  cold  "  We  thank  you,  we  shall 

hear  of  it 
From   Lady  Psyche :  "  you  had  gone  to 

her, 
She  told,    perforce;    and   winning   easy 

grace, 
No   doubt,    for    slight    delay,   remain'd 

among  us 
In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown,  the 

stem 
Less   grain    than    touchwood,  while  my 

honest  heat 
Were  all  miscounted  as  malignant  haste 
To  push  my  rival  out  of  place  and  power. 
But  public  use  required  she  should   be 

known ; 
And  since  my  oath  was  ta'en  for  public 

use, 
I  broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the  sense. 
I    spoke    not   then  at  first,  but  watch'd 

them  well, 
Saw    that  they  kept    apart,  no  mischief 

done; 
And  yet  this  day  (tho'  you  should   hate 

me  for  it) 
I  came  to  tell  you;    found  that  you  had 

gone, 
Ridd'n  to  the  hills,  she  likewise:   now,  I 

thought, 
'I'hat  surely  she  will  speak  ;  if  not,  then  I  : 
Did  sl»c?    'i'hese  monsters  bUizonM  what 

they  were, 
According  to  the  coarseness  of  their  kind, 
I'or  thus  1  hear;  anil  known  at  last  (my 

work) 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


187 


And  full  of  cowardice  and  guilty  shame, 
I  grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame,  she 

flies; 
And  I  remain  on  whom  to  wreak  your 

rage, 
I,  that  have  lent  my  life  to  build  up  yours, 
I  that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth, 

and  time, 
And  talent,  I  —  you  know  it  —  I  will  not 

boast : 
Dismiss  me,  and  I  prophesy  your  plan. 
Divorced   from   my  experience,  will    be 

chaff 
For  every  gust  of  chance,  and  men  will 

say 
We    did  not  know   the    real    light,  but 

chased 
The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot  can 

tread.' 

She   ceased :    the    Princess    answer'd 

coldly,  *  Good  : 
Your  oath  is  broken  :  we  dismiss  you  :  go. 
For  this   lost   lamb  (she  pointed  to  the 

child) 
Our  mind  is  changed :  we  take  it  to  our- 

self.' 

Thereat  the  Lady  stretch'd  a  vulture 

throat, 
And    shot  from  crooked  lips  a  haggard 

smile. 
'  The  plan  was  mine.     I  built  the  nest,' 

she  said, 
'  To    hatch    the    cuckoo.       Rise !  '    and 

stoop'd  to  updrag 
Melissa:  she,  half  on  her  mother  propt, 
Half-drooping  from  her,  turn'd  her  face, 

and  cast 
A  liquid  look  on  Ida,  full  of  prayer. 
Which    melted    Florian's    fancy    as    she 

hung, 
A  Niobean  daughter,  one  arm  out. 
Appealing  to  the  bolts  of  Pleaven;   and 

while 
We  gazed  upon  her  came  a  little  stir 
About  the  doors,  and  on  a  sudden  rush'd 
Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pursued, 
A  woman-post  in  flying  raiment.     Fear 
Stared  in  her  eyes,  and  chalk'd  her  face, 

and  wing'd 
Her  transit  to  the  throne,  wberebv  she 

fell 


Delivering   seal'd    dispatches  which  the 

Head 
Took  half-amazed,  and  in  her  lion's  mood 
Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  surmise 
Regarding,  while  she  read,  till  over  brow 
And  cheek  and  bosom  brake  the  wrath- 
ful bloom 
As  of  some  fire  against  a  stormy  cloud. 
When  the  wild    peasant    rights  himself, 

the  rick 
Flames,    and    his   anger  reddens  in  the 

heavens; 
For  anger  most  it  seem'd,  while  now  her 

breast. 
Beaten  with  some  great  passion  at  her 

heart. 
Palpitated,  her  hand  shook,  and  we  heard 
In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she  held 
Rustle :  at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her  feet 
Sent  out  a  bitter  bleating  for  its  dam; 
The  plaintive  cry  jarr'd  on  her  ire;   she 

crush'd 
The  scrolls  together,  made  a  sudden  turn 
As  if  to  speak,  but,  utterance  failing  her, 
She   whirl'd    them    on    to    me,    as    who 

should  say 
'Read,'  and  I  read — two  letters  —  one 

her  sire's. 

'  Fair    daughter,    when    we    sent   the 

Prince  your  way 
We   knew    not    your    ungracious    laws, 

which  learnt, 
We,  conscious  of  what  temper  you  are 

built, 
Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong,  but 

fell 
Into  his   father's   hands,   who    has    this 

night, 
You  lying  close  upon  his  territory, 
Slipt  round  and  in  the  dark  invested  you. 
And  here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his 

son.' 

The  second  was  my  father's  running 

thus : 
*  You  have  our  son :  touch  not  a  hair  of 

his  head  : 
Render  him  up  unscathed  :  give  him  your 

hand : 
Cleave  to  your  contract :  tho'  indeed  we 

hear 
You  hold  the  woman  is  the  better  man; 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


A  rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 

Would   make    all   women    kick   against 
their  Lords 

Thro'  all    the  world,  and    which    might 
well  deserve 

That  we   this  night   should    pluck  your 
palace  down; 

And  we  will   do  it,  unless  you  send  us 
back 

Our  son,  on  the  instant,  whole.' 

So  far  I  read; 

And   then  stood  up  and  spoke  impetu- 
ously. 

*0  not  to  pry  and  peer  on  your  reserve, 
But  led  by  golden  wishes,  and  a  hope 
The  child  of  regal  compact,  did  I  break 
Your  precinct;  not  a  scorner  of  your  sex 
But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 
All  that  it  might  be :  hear  me,  for  I  bear, 
Tho'  man,  yet  human,  whatsoe'er  your 

wrongs. 
From  the  flaxen  curl  to  the  gray  lock  a 

life 
Less  mine  than  yours :  my  nurse  would 

tell  me  of  you; 
I  babbled  for  you,  as  babies  for  the  moon, 
Vague    brightness;     when    a    boy,   you 

stoop'd  to  me 
From    all   high    places,  lived   in  all  fair 

lights. 
Came  in  long  breezes  rapt  from  inmost 

south 
And  blown  to  inmost  north ;    at  eve  and 

dawn 
With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods; 
The  leader  wildswan  in  among  the  stars 
Would  clang  it,  and  lapt  in  wreaths  of 

glowworm  light 
The  mellow  breaker  murmur'd  Ida.  Now, 
Because  I  would  have  reach'd  you,  had 

you  been 
Sphered  up  with  Cassiopeia,  or  the  en- 
throned 
Persephone  in  Hades,  now  at  length. 
Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  worn  out, 
A  man  I  came  to  see  you :  but,  indeed. 
Not    in    this   frequence    can  I   lend  full 

tongue, 
O  noble  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that  wait 
On  you,  their  centre  :  let  me  say  but  this, 
That  many  a  famous  man  and  woman, 

town 


And  landskip,  have  I  heard  of,  after  seen 
The  dwarfs  of  presage  :  tho'  when  known, 

there  grew 
Another  kind  of  beauty  in  detail 
Made  them  worth  knowing;    but  in  you 

I  found 
My  boyish  dream  involved  and  dazzled 

down 
And    master'd,    while    that    after-beauty 

makes 
Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  hour  to 

hour. 
Within  me,  that  except  you  slay  me  here. 
According  to  your  bitter  statute-book, 
I  cannot  cease  to  follow  you,  as  they  say 
The   seal   does  music;    who   desire   you 

more 
Than  growing  boys  their  manhood;   dy- 
ing lips. 
With  many  thousand  matters  left  to  do. 
The  breath  of  life;    O  more  than  poor 

men  wealth. 
Than  sick  men  health — yours,  yours,  not 

mine  —  but  half 
Without  you;   with  you,  whole;   and  of 

those  halves 
You  worthiest;    and  howe'er  you  block 

and  bar 
Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine,  I 

hold 
That  it  becomes  no  man  to  nurse  despair, 
But  in  the  teeth  of  clench'd  antagonisms 
To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die  : 
Yet  that  I  came  not  all  unauthorised 
Behold  your  father's  letter.' 

On  one  knee 
Kneeling,  I  gave  it,  which  she  caught, 

and  dash'd 
Unopen'd  at  her  feet  :  a  tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem'd  to  wait  behind  her  lips. 
As  waits  a  river  level  with  the  dam 
Ready  to  burst  and  flood  the  world  with 

foam  : 
And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but  there 

rose 
A  hubbub  in  the  court  of  half  the  maids 
Gather'd  together  :  from  the  illumined  hall 
Long  lanes  of  splendour  slanted  o'er  a 

press 
Of   snowy    shoulders,    thick    as    herded 

ewes. 
And  rainbow  robes,  and  gems  and  gem- 
like eyes. 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


189 


And  gold  and  golden  heads;   they  to  and 

fro 
Fluctuated,  as  flowers  in  storm,  some  red, 

some  pale, 
All  open-mouth'd,  all  gazing  to  the  light, 
Some  crying  there  was  an  army  in  the 

land, 
And  some   that   men  were   in  the  very 

walls, 
And  some  they  cared  not;   till  a  clamour 

grew 
As  of  a  new-world  Babel,  woman-built, 
And  worse-confounded  :  high  above  them 

stood 
The  placid  marble  Muses,  looking  peace. 

Not  peace  she  look'd,  the  Head :  but 

rising  up 
Robed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep  hair, 

so 
To  the  open  window  moved,  remaining 

there 
Fixt  like  a  beacon-tower  above  the  waves 
Of  tempest,  when  the  crimson-rolling  eye 
Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the 

light 
Dash    themselves    dead.      She   stretch'd 

her  arms  and  call'd 
Across  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell. 

'What   fear    ye,   brawlers?    am   not  I 

your  Head? 
On  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks : 

/  dare 
All  these  male  thunderbolts :  what  is  it 

ye  fear? 
Peace  !  there  are  those  to  avenge  us  and 

they  come  : 
If   not,  —  myself  were    like    enough,    O 

girls. 
To  unfurl  the  maiden  banner  of  our  rights, 
And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of  war, 
Or,  falling,  protomartyr  of  our  cause. 
Die :  yet  I  blame  you  not  so  much  for 

fear; 
Six  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made  you 

that 
From  which  I  would  redeem  you :   but 

for  those 
That  stir  this  hubbub  —  you  and  you  —  I 

know 
Your  faces  there  in  the  crowd  —  to-morrow 

morn 


We  hold  a  great  convention  :   then  shall 

they 
That  love  their  voices  more  than  duty, 

learn 
With  whom  they  deal,  dismiss'd  in  shame 

to  live 
No  wiser  than  their  mothers,  household 

stuff. 
Live    chattels,   mincers   of   each    other's 

fame, 
Full  of  weak    poison,   turnspits  for   the 

clown. 
The  drunkard's  football,  laughing-stocks 

of  Time, 
Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and  in 

their  heels. 
But  tit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to 

thrum. 
To  tramp,  to  scream,  to  burnish,  and  to 

scour, 
For  ever  slaves  at  home  and  fools  abroad.' 

She,  ending,  waved  her  hands  :   thereat 

the  crowd 
Muttering,  dissolved  :  then  with  a  smile, 

that  look'd 
A  stroke  of  cruel  sunshine  on  the  cliff, 
When  all  the  glens  are  drown'd  in  azure 

gloom 
Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us  and 

said  : 

'  You    have    done    well    and    like    a 

gentleman. 
And  like  a  prince :  you  have  our  thanks 

for  all : 
And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman's 

dress : 
Well  have  you  done  and  like  a  gentleman. 
You  saved  our  Hfe :   we  owe  you  bitter 

thanks : 
Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones  in 

the  flood  — 
Then  men  had  said  —  but  now  —  What 

hinders  me 
To  take  such  bloody  vengeance  on  you 

both?  — 
Yet  since  our  father  —  Wasps  in  our  good 

hive, 
You  would-be  quenchers  of  the  light  to 

be, 
Barbarians,    grosser    than    your    native 

bears  — 


IQO 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


0  would  I  had  his  sceptre  for  one  hour  ! 
You  that  have  dared  to  break  our  bound, 

and  guU'd 
Our    servants,    wrong'd    and    lied    and 

thwarted  us  — 
/  wed  with  thee  !  /  bound  by  precontract 
Your  bride,  your  bondslave  !   not  tho'  all 

the  gold 
That   veins   the    world  were    pack'd   to 

make  your  crown. 
And  every  spoken  tongue    should   lord 

you.     Sir, 
Your  falsehood  and  yourself  are  hateful 

to  us: 

1  trample  on  your  offers  and  on  you : 
Begone  :  we  will  not  look  upon  you  more. 
Here,  push  them  out  at  gates.' 

In  wrath  she  spake. 
Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters  of  the 

plough 
Bent   their    broad  faces    toward   us  and 

address'd 
Their  motion  :   twice  I  sought  to  plead 

my  cause. 
But   on  my  shoulder  hung  their  heavy 

hands. 
The  weight  of  destiny :  so  from  her  face 
They   push'd   us,   down    the    steps,   and 

thro'  the  court, 
And  with  grim  laughter  thrust  us  out  at 

gates. 

We  cross'd  the  street  and  gain'd  a  petty 

mound 
Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lights  and 

heard 
The  voices  murmuring.     While  I  listen'd, 

came 
On  a  sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the 

doubt : 
I   seem'd   to   move   among   a  world   of 

ghosts ; 
The  Princess  with  her  monstrous  woman- 
guard. 
The  jest  and  earnest  working  side  by  side, 
The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the  kings 
Were   shadows  ;    and  the  long  fantastic 

night 
With  all  its  doings  had  and  had  not  been, 
And  all  things  were  and  were  not. 

This  went  by 
As  strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my  spirits 
Settled  a  gentle  cloud  of  melancholy; 


Not  long;    I  shook   it   off;    for  spite   of 

doul^ts 
And  sudden  ghostly  shadowings  I  was  one 
To  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischance  but 

came 
As  night  to  him  that  sitting  on  a  hill 
Sees  the  midsummer,  midnight,  Norway 

sun 
Set  into  sunrise;    then  we  moved  away. 

Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums, 

That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands: 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow. 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 

So    Lilia   sang:     we    thought    her   half- 

possess'd. 
She  struck  such  warbling  fury  thro'  the 

words; 
And,   after,  feigning  pique  at   what  she 

call'd 
The  raillery,  or  grotesque,  or  false  sub- 
lime— 
Like  one  that  wishes  at  a  dance  to  change 
The  music  —  clapt  her  hands  and  cried 

for  war. 
Or  some  grand  fight  to  kill  and  make  an 

end : 
And  he  that  next  inherited  the  tale 
Half  turning  to  the  broken  statue,  said, 
'  Sir  Ralph  has  got  your  colours  :  if  I  prove 
Your  knight,  and  fight  your  battle,  what 

for  me?' 
It  chanced,  her  empty  glove  upon  the 

tomb 
Lay  by  her  like  a  model  of  her  hand. 
She  took  it  and  she  flung  it.     '  Fight,' 

she  said, 
'  And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great  and 

good.' 
He    knightlike    in    his    cap    instead    of 

casque, 
A  cap  of  Tyrol  borrow'd  from  the  hall. 
Arranged  the   favour,   and    assumed  the 

Prince. 

V, 

Now,  scarce  three  paces  measured  from 

the  mound, 
Wc  stumbled  on  a  stationary  voice. 


THE   PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


191 


Aiul    'Stand,    who    goes?'     'Two    from 

the  palace,'  I. 
*The    second  two:    they  wait,'  he   said, 

'  pass  on ; 
His    Highness    wakes :  '    and    one,    that 

clash'd  in  arms. 
By  glimmering  lanes  and  walls  of  canvas 

led 
Threading  the  soldier-city,  till  we  heard 
The    drowsy   folds  of  our   great    ensign 

shake 
P'rom  blazon'd  lions  o'er  the  imperial  tent 
Whispers  of  war. 

Entering,  the  sudden  light 
Dazed  me  half-blind  :   I  stood  and  seem'd 

to  hear, 
As  in  a  poplar  grove  when  a  light  wind 

wakes 
A  lisping  of  the  innumerous  leaf  and  dies. 
Each  hissing  in  his  neighbour's  ear;   and 

then 
A  strangled    titter,  out    of  which  there 

brake 
On    all    sides,    clamouring    etiquette    to 

death, 
Unmeasured  mirth;    while  now  the  two 

old  kings 
Began    to    wag    their    baldness    up    and 

down, 
The    fresh  young  captains   flash'd    their 

glittering  teeth. 
The    huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved 

and  blew, 
And  slain  with  laughter  roll'd  the  gilded 

Squire. 

At   length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheek 

wet  with  tears, 
Panted  from  weary  sides,  *  King,  you  are 

free ! 
We  did  but  keep  you  surety  for  our  son, 
If  this  be  he,  —  or  a  draggled  mawkin, 

thou. 
That  tends  her  bristled  grunters  in  the 

sludge  : ' 
For  I  was  drench' d  with  ooze,  and  torn 

with  briers. 
More  crumpled  than  a  poppy  from  the 

sheath. 
And  all  one  rag,  disprinced  from  head  to 

heel. 
Then  some  one  sent  beneath  his  vaulted 

palm 


A  whisper'd  jest  to  some  one  near  him, 
'  Look, 

1  le  has  been  among  his  shadows.'    '  Satan 
take 

The  old  women  and  their  shadows  !  (thus 
the  King 

Roar'd)  make  yourself  a  man  to  fight  with 
men. 

Go  :  Cyril  told  us  all.' 

As  boys  that  slink 

From  ferule  and  the  trespass-chiding  eye, 

Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a  trice 

From  what  was    left    of  faded    woman- 
slough 

To  sheathing  splendours  and  the  golden 
scale 

Of  harness,  issued  in  the  sun,  that  now 

Leapt   from  the   dewy  shoulders  of  the 
Earth, 

And  hit  the  Northern  hills.     Here  Cyril 
met  us. 

A  little  shy  at  first,  but  by  and  by 

We  twain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask'd  and 
given 

For  stroke  and  song,  resolder'd   peace, 
whereon 

Follow'd  his  tale.     Amazed  he  fled  away 

Thro'  the  dark  land,  and  later  in  the  night 

Had  come  on  Psyche  weeping :  '  then  we 
fell 

Into  your  father's  hand,  and  there  she 
lies. 

But  will  not  speak,  nor  stir.' 

He  show'd  a  tent 

A  stone-shot  off:   we  enter'd  in,  and  there 

Among  piled  arms  and  rough  accoutre- 
ments. 

Pitiful  sight,  wrapp'd  in  a  soldier's  cloak, 

Like  some  sweet  sculpture  draped  from 
head  to  foot. 

And    push'd    by   rude    hands    from    its 
pedestal. 

All  her  fair  length  upon  the  ground  she 
lay : 

And  at  her  head  a  follower  of  the  camp, 

A  charr'd  and  wrinkled  piece  of  woman- 
hood. 

Sat  watching  like  a  watcher  by  the  dead. 

Then    Florian  knelt,   and  '  Come,'  he 
whisper'd  to  her, 
'Lift  up  your  head,  sweet  sister:  lie  not 
thus. 


192 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


What  have  you  done  but  right?  you  could 

not  slay 
Me,  nor  your  prince  :  look  up  :  be  com- 
forted : 
Sweet  is  it  to  have  done  the  thing  one 

ought, 
When  fall'n  in  darker  ways.'     And  like- 
wise I : 
'  Be  comforted  :   have  I  not  lost  her  too, 
In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless 

charm 
That  none  has  else  for  me  ? '  She  heard, 

she  moved, 
She  moan'd,  a  folded  voice;   and  up  she 

sat. 
And  raised  the  cloak  from  brows  as  pale 

and  smooth 
As  those  that  mourn  half-shrouded  over 

death 
In  deathless  marble.       '  Her,'  she  said, 

'  my  friend  — 
Parted    from    her  —  betray'd    her    cause 

and  mine  — 
Where  shall  I  breathe?  why  kept  ye  not 

your  faith? 
O  base    and  bad!    what    comfort?  none 

for  me  ! ' 
To  whom  remorseful  Cyril,  '  Yet  I  pray 
Take  comfort :   live,  dear  lady,  for  your 

child ! ' 
At  which  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and  cried. 

'Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah,  my 

child, 
My  one  sweet  child,  whom  I  shall  see  no 

more  ! 
For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back; 
And  either  she  will  die  from  want  of  care. 
Or  sicken  with  ill-usage,  when  they  say 
The  child  is  hers  —  for  every  little  fault. 
The  child  is  hers;   andJihey  will  beat  my 

girl 
Remembering  her  mother  :   O  my  flower  ! 
Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make  her 

hard, 
And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 
With  some   cold   reverence   worse  than 

were  she  dead. 
Ill  mother  that  I  was  to  leave  her  there. 
To  lag  behind,  scared  by  the  cry  they 

made. 
The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them  all : 
But  I  will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors. 


And  make  a  wild  petition  night  and  day, 
Until  they  hate  to  hear  me  like  a  wind 
Wailing  for  ever,  till  they  open  to  me. 
And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet, 
My  babe,  my  sweet  Aglaia,  my  one  child  : 
And  I  will  take  her  up  and  go  my  way, 
And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her : 
Ah  !  what  might  that  man  not  deserve  of 

me 
Who   gave    me   back    my    child?'     *  Be 

comforted,' 
Said  Cyril, '  you  shall  have  it;  '  but  again 
She  veil'd  her  brows,  and  prone  she  sank, 

and  so 
Like  tender  things  that  being  caught  feign 

death. 
Spoke  not,  nor  stirr'd. 

By  this  a  murmur  ran 
Thro'  all  the  camp  and  inwarti  raced  the 

scouts 
With  rumour  of  Prince  Arac  hard  at  hand. 
We  left  her  by  the  woman,  and  without 
Found  the  gray  kings  at  parle  :  and '  Look 

you,'  cried 
My  father,  'that  our  compact  be  fulfiU'd  : 
You  have  spoilt  this  child;   she  laughs  at 

you  and  man  : 
She  wrongs  herself,  her  sex,  and  me,  and 

him : 
But  red-faced  war  has  rods  of  steel  and 

fire; 
She  yields,  or  war.' 

Then  Gama  turn'd  to  me  : 
*  We   fear,  indeed,  you  spent  a   stormy 

time 
With  our  strange  girl :   and  yet  they  say 

that  still 
You  love  her.     Give  us,  then,  your  mind 

at  large  : 
How  say  you,  war  or  not?' 

'  Not  war,  if  possible, 
O  king,'  I  said,  '  lest  from  the  abuse  of 

war, 
The  desecrated  shrine,  the  trampled  year, 
The    smouldering    homestead,    and    the 

household  flower 
Torn  from   the  lintel  —  all  the  common 

wrong  — 
A  smoke  go  up  thro'  which  I  loom  to  her 
Three  times  a  monster  :   now  she  lightens 

scorn 
At    him    that   mars   her  plan,  but    then 

would  hate 


THE  PRINCESS;   A    MEDLEY. 


193 


(And  every  voice  she  talk'd  with  ratify  it, 
And  every  face  she  look'd  on  justify  it) 
The  general  foe.     More   soluble   is   this 

knot, 
By  gentleness  than  war.    I  want  her  love. 
What  were  I  nigher  this  altho'  we  dash'd 
Your  cities  into  shards  with  catapults, 
She  would  not  love; — or  brought   her 

chain'd,  a  slave, 
The  lifting  of  whose  eyelash  is  my  lord. 
Not  ever  would  she  love;   but  brooding 

turn 
The   book   of  scorn,  till   all  my   flitting 

chance 
Were  caught  within  the   record   of  her 

wrongs, 
And  crush'd  to  death :  and  rather,  Sire, 

than  this 
I  would  the  old  God  of  war  himself  were 

dead, 
Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills, 
Rotting  on  some  wild  shore  with  ribs  of 

wreck, 
Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk'd  in 

ice, 
Not  to  be  molten  out.' 

And  roughly  spake 
My  father,  'Tut,  you  know  them  not,  the 

girls. 
Boy,  when  I  hear  you  prate  I  almost  think 
That  idiot  legend  credible.     Look  you, 

Sir! 
Man  is  the  hunter;   woman  is  his  game  : 
The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the 

chase. 
We  hunt   them  for  the  beauty  of  their 

skins; 
They  love  us  for  it,  and  we  ride   them 

down. 
Wheedling  and  siding  with  them  !     Out ! 

for  shame  ! 
Boy,  there's  no  rose  that's  half  so  dear  to 

them 
As  he  that  does  the  thing  they  dare  not  do, 
Breathing  and  sounding  beauteous  battle, 

comes 
With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round  him, 

and  leaps  in 
Among  the  women,  snares  them  by  the 

score 
Flatter'd  and  fluster'd,  wdns,  tho'  dash'd 

with  death 
He  reddens  what  he  kisses :   thus  I  won 


Your  mother,  a  good  mother,  a  good  wife, 
Worth    winning;     but    this    firebrand  — 

gentleness 
To  such  as  her !  if  Cyril  spake  her  true, 
To  catch  a  dragon  in  a  cherry  net, 
To  trip  a  tigress  with  a  gossamer, 
Were  wisdom  to  it.' 

'  Yea  but  Sire,'  I  cried, 
'  Wild    natures    need    wise   curbs.      The 

soldier?     No: 
What  dares  not  Ida  do  that  she  should 

prize 
The  soldier?    I  beheld  her,  when  she  rose 
The  yesternight,  and  storming  in  extremes. 
Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance 

down 
Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn'd  the 

death, 
No,  not  the  soldier's  :  yet  I  hold  her,  king, 
True  woman  :  but  you  clash  them  all  in 

one. 
That  have  as  many  differences  as  we. 
The  violet  varies  from  the  lily  as  far 
As  oak  from  elm  ;  one  loves  the  soldier, 

one 
The  silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this,  one 

that, 
And  some  unv^'orthily;   their  sinless  faith, 
A  maiden  moon  that  sparkles  on  a  sty, 
Glorifying  clown  and  satyr;   whence  they 

need 
More  breadth  of  culture  :  is  not  Ida  right? 
They  worth  it?  truer  to  the  law  within? 
Severer  in  the  logic  of  a  life? 
Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences 
Of  earth  and  heaven?  and  she  of  whom 

you  speak. 
My  mother,  looks  as  whole  as  some  serene 
Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 
Of  sovereign  artists;     not  a  thought,  a 

touch. 
But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak  the 

white 
Of  the  first  snowdrop's  inner  leaves;  I  say. 
Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man. 
Bursts  of  great  heart  and  slips  in  sensual 

mire. 
But  whole  and  one :   and  take  them  all- 
in-all, 
Were  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good,  as 

kind. 
As    truthful,    much    that    Ida   claims   as 

right 


194 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


Had  ne'er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly 

theirs 
As  dues  of  Nature.     To  our  point :  not 

war : 
Lest  I  lose  all.' 

'  Nay,  nay,  you  spake  but  sense,' 
Said  Gama.  '  We  remember  love  ourself 
In  our  sweet  youth;   we  did  not  rate  him 

then 
This  red-hot  iron  to  be  shaped  with  blows. 
You  talk  almost  like  Ida:  she  can  talk; 
And  there  is  something  in  it  as  you  say : 
But  you  talk  kindlier  :  we  esteem  you  for 

it. — 
He  seems  a  gracious  and  a  gallant  Prince, 
I  would  he  had  our  daughter  :    for  the 

rest, 
Our    own    detention,    why,    the    causes 

weigh'd, 
Fatherly  fears — you  used  us  courteously — 
We    would    do    much    to    gratify    your 

Prince  — 
We  pardon  it;   and  for  your  ingress  here 
Upon  the  skirt  and   fringe   of   our   fair 

land. 
You  did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the  night, 
Nor  in  the  furrow  broke  the  ploughman's 

head, 
Nor    burnt    the  grange,    nor  buss'd   the 

milking-maid. 
Nor    robb'd    the  farmer  of   his   bowl  of 

cream : 
But    let   your   Prince    (our   royal    word 

upon  it. 
He  comes  back  safe)  ride  with  us  to  our 

lines. 
And  speak  with   Arac :   Arac's  word    is 

thrice 
As   ours   with    Ida:    something  may  be 

done  — 
I  know  not  what  —  and  ours  shall  see  us 

friends. 
You,  likewise,  our  late  guests,  if  so  you 

will, 
Follow  us:    who  knows?   we   four  may 

build  some  plan 
Foursquare  to  opposition.' 

Here  he  reach'd 
White  hands  of  farewell  to  my  sire,  who 

growl'd 
An    answer    which,    half-muffled    in   his 

beard. 
Let  so  much  out  as  gave  us  leave  to  go. 


Then  rode  we  with  the  old  king  across 

the  lawns 
Beneath  huge  trees,  a  thousand  rings  of 

Spring 
In  every  bole,  a  song  on  every  spray 
Of  birds  that  piped  their  Valentines,  and 

woke 
Desire  in  me  to  infuse  my  tale  of  love 
In  the    old  king's    ears,    who    promised 

help,  and  oozed 
All  o'er  with  honey' d  answer  as  we  rode 
And  blossom-flagrant  slipt  the  heavy  dews 
Gather'd  by  night  and  peace   with  each 

light  air 
On  our  mail'd  heads :  but  other  thoughts 

than  peace 
Burnt  in  us,  when  we  saw  the  embattled 

squares. 
And  squadrons  of  the  Prince,  trampling 

the  flowers 
With  clamour  :  for  among  them  rose  a 

cry 
As  if  to  greet   the   king;   they  made    a 

halt; 
The    horses   yell'd;     they   clash'd   their 

arms;   the  drum 
Beat;    merrily-blowing  shrill'd  the  mar- 
tial fife; 
And  in  the  blast  and  bray  of  the  long 

horn 
And  serpent-throated  bugle,  undulated 
The  banner :    anon    to    meet  us   lightly 

pranced 
Three  captains  out;   nor  ever  had  I  seen 
Such  thews  of  men  :    the  midmost  and 

the  highest 
\Vas  Arac  :  all  about  his  motion  clung 
The  shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 
Of  the  East,  that  play'd  upon  them,  made 

them  glance 
Like  those  three  stars  of  the  airy  Giant's 

zone. 
That  glitter  burnish'd  by  the  frosty  dark; 
And  as  the  fiery  Sirius  alters  hue, 
And    bickers     into     red    and    emerald, 

shone 
Their  morions,  wash'd  with  morning,  as 

they  came. 

And  I  that  prated  peace,  when  first  I 
heard 
War-music,    felt    the  blind   wildbeast  of 
force, 


THE   PRINCESS;   A    MEDLEY. 


195 


Whose  home  is  iu  the  sinews  of  a  man, 
Stir  in   me  as  to  strike  :   then  took   the 

king 
His  three  broad  sons;   with  now  a  wan- 
dering hand 
And  now  a  pointed  finger,  told  them  all : 
A  common   light    of  smiles  at  our  dis- 
guise 
Broke  from  their  lips,  and,  ere  the  windy 

jest 
Had   labour'd    down    within    his    ample 

lungs, 
The  genial  giant,  Arac,  roll'd  himself 
Thrice  in  the  saddle,   then  burst  out  in 
words. 

'  Our  land  invaded,  'sdeath  !    and  he 

himself 
Your   captive,    yet  my  father    wills    not 

war : 
And,  'sdeath  !    myself,  what  care  I,  war 

or  no? 
But  then  this  question  of  your  troth  re- 
mains : 
And  there's  a  downright  honest  meaning 

in  her; 
She  flies  too    high,  she  flies  too  high  ! 

and  yet 
She  ask'd  but  space  and  fairplay  for  her 

scheme ; 
She  prest  and  prest  it  on  me  —  I  myself. 
What  know  I  of  these  things?    but,  life 

and  soul  I 
I  thought  her  half-right  talking  of  her 

wrongs ; 
I  say  she  flies  too  high,  'sdeath  !  what  of 

that? 
I    take    her    for    the    flower   of  woman- 
kind, 
And  so  I  often  told  her,  right  or  wrong. 
And,  Prince,  she  can  be  sweet  to  those 

she  loves, 
And,  right  or  wrong,  I  care  not :  this  is 

all, 
I  stand  upon    her    side :  she   made    me 

swear  it  — 
'Sdeath  —  and    with     solemn    rites     by 

candle-light  — 
Swear  by    St.    something — I  forget  her 

name  — 
Her    that   talk'd    down    the    fifty   wisest 

men; 
She  was  a  princess  too;    and  so  I  swore. 


Come,  this  is  all;   she    will  not:    waive 

your  claim  : 
If  not,  the  foughten  field,  what  else,   at 

once 
Decides  it,  'sdeath !    against  my  father's 

will.' 

I  lagg'd  in  answer,  loth  to  render  up 
My  precontract,  and    loth    by   brainless 

war 
To  cleave  the  rift   of   difference    deeper 

yet; 
Till  one  of  those  two  brothers,  half  aside 
And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  his  lip. 
To  prick  us  on  to  combat  '  Like  to  like  ! 
The  woman's  garment  hid  the  woman's 

heart.' 
A  taunt  that  clench'd  his  purpose  like  a 

blow ! 
For  fiery-short  was  Cyril's  counter-scoff, 
And  sharp  I  answer'd,  touch'd  upon  the 

point 
Where  idle  boys  are    cowards   to    their 

shame, 
'  Decide  it  here  :  why  not?  we  are  three 

to  three.' 

Then  spake  the  third,  *  But  three  to 

three?    no  more? 
No  more,  and  in  our  noble  sister's  cause  ? 
More,  more,  for  honour :    every  captain 

waits 
Hungry  for  honour,  angry  for  his  king. 
More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a  side,   that 

each 
May    breathe    himself,    and    quick !     by 

overthrow 
Of  these  or  those,  the  question  settled  die.' 

'  Yea,'     answer'd    I,     *  for    this    wild 

wreath  of  air, 
This    flake    of    rainbow   flying    on    the 

highest 
Foam  of  men's  deeds  —  this  honour,  if 

ye  will. 
It  needs  must  be  for  honour  if  at  all : 
Since,  what  decision?    if  we  fail,  we  fail. 
And  if  we  win,  we  fail :   she  would  not 

keep 
Her    compact.'      '  'Sdeath  !    but  w€  will 

send  to  her,' 
Said    Arac,    '  worthy    reasons   why    she 

should 


196 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


Bide  by  this  issue  :  let  our  missive  thro', 
And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by  the 
word.' 

'  Boys !  '    shriek'd    the    old    king,    but 
vainlier  than  a  hen 
To  her  false  daughters  in  the  pool;    for 

none 
Regarded;   neither  seem'd  there  more  to 

say: 
Back  rode  we  to  my  father's  camp,  and 

found 
He  thrice  had  sent  a  herald  to  the  gates, 
To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  Cede  our  claim. 
Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 
With  her  own  people's  life :  three  times 

he  went : 
The  first,  he  blew  and  blew,    but   none 

appear'd  : 
He  batter'd  at  the  doors;  none  came  :  the 

next. 
An  awful  voice  within  had  warn'd  him 

thence : 
The  third,  and  those  eight  daughters  of 

the  plough 
Came     sallying    thro'     the    gates,    and 

caught  his  hair. 
And  so  belabour'd  him  on  rib  and  cheek 
They  made  him  wild  :  not  less  one  glance 

he  caught 
Thro'  open  doors  of  Ida  station'd  there 
Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose,  firm 
The'  compass'd  by  two  armies  and  the 

noise 
Of  arms;  and  standing  like  a  stately  Pine 
Set  in  a  cataract  on  an  island-crag, 
When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and  right 

and  left 
Suck'd  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long 

hills  roll 
The  torrents,  dash'd  to  the  vale  :  and  yet 

her  will 
Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  fall. 

But  when  I  told  the  king  that  I  was 

pledged 
To    fight   in   tourney   for   my  bride,  he 

clash'd 
His  iron  palms  together  with  a  cry; 
Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the  lads : 
But  overborne  by  all  his  bearded  lords 
With  reasons  drawn  from  age  and  state, 

perforce' 


He   yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce 

demur : 
And  many  a  bold  knight  started  up  in  heat, 
And  sware  to  combat  for  my  claim  till 

death. 

All  on  this  side  the  palace  ran  the  field 
Flat  to   the   garden-wall :    and    likewise 

here. 
Above  the  garden's  glowing  blossom-belts, 
A  column'd  entry  shone  and  marble  stairs. 
And  great  bronze  valves,  emboss'd  with 

Tomyris 
And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight, 
But  now  fast  barr'd  :  so  here  upon  the  flat 
All  thatlongmorn  the  lists  were  hammer'd 

up. 
And  all  that  morn  the  heralds  to  and  fro, 
With   message   and   defiance,   went  and 

came; 
Last,  Ida's  answer,  in  a  royal  hand. 
But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rolling 

words 
Oration-like.     I  kiss'd  it  and  I  read. 

'  O  brother,  you  have  known  the  pangs 

we  felt. 
What  heats  of  indignation  when  we  heard 
Of  those  that  iron-cramp'd  their  women's 

feet; 
Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the  poor 

bride 
Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift  a 

scourge ; 
Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the  fire 
Where  smoulder  their  dead  despots;  and 

of  those,  — 
Mothers,  —  that,  all  prophetic  pity,  fling 
Their  pretty  maids  in  the  running  flood, 

and  swoops 
The  vulture,  beak  and  talon,  at  the  heart 
Made  for  all  noble  motion  :  and  I  saw 
That  equal  baseness  lived  in  sleeker  times 
With    smoother    men :     the    old    leaven 

leaven'd  all : 
Millions  of  throats  would  bawl  for  civil 

rights. 
No  woman  named  :   therefore   I   set  my 

face 
Against  all  men,  and  lived  but  for  mine 

own. 
Far  off  from  men  I  built  a  fold  for  them  : 
I  stored  it  full  of  rich  memorial : 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


197 


I  fenced  it  round  with  gallant  institutes, 
And  biting  laws  to  scare  the  beasts  of 

prey 
And  prosper'd ;    till  a  rout  of  saucy  boys 
Brake  on  us  at  our  books,  and  marr'd 

our  peace, 
Mask'd  like  our  maids,  blustering  I  know 

not  what 
Of  insolence  and  love,  some  pretext  held 
Of  baby  troth,  invalid,  since  my  will 
Seal'd  not  the  bond  —  the  striplings  ! — for 

their  sport !  — 
I  tamed  my  leopards :  shall  I  not  tame 

these? 
Or  you?    or  I?   for  since  you  think  me 

touch'd 
In  honour  —  what,  I  would  not  aught  of 

false  — 
Is  not  our  cause  pure?    and  whereas   I 

know 
Your  prowess,  Arac,  and  what  mother's 

blood 
You  draw  from,  fight;  you  failing,  I  abide 
What  end  soever  :  fail  you  will  not.  Still 
Take  not  his  life  :  he  risk'd  it  for  my  own ; 
His  mother  lives :  yet  whatsoe'er  you  do. 
Fight  and  fight  well;    strike  and  strike 

home.     O  dear 
Brothers,  the  woman's  Angel  guards  you, 

you 
The  sole  men  to  be   mingled  with    our 

cause, 
The  sole  men  we  shall  prize  in  the  after- 
time, 
Your  very   armour   hallow'd,    and   your 

statues 
Rear'd,  sung  to,  when,  this  gad-fly  brush'd 

aside, 
We  plant  a  solid  foot  into  the  Time, 
And  mould  a  generation  strong  to  move 
With  claim  on  claim  from  right  to  right, 

till  she 
Whose  name  is  yoked  with   children's, 

know  herself; 
And  Knowledge  in  our  own  land  make 

her  free. 
And,  ever  following  those  two  crowned 

twins. 
Commerce  and  conquest,  shower  the  fiery 

grain 
Of  freedom  broadcast  over  all  that  orbs 
Between  the  Northern  and  the  Southern 

morn.' 


Then  came  a  postscript  dash'd  across 

the  rest. 
'  See  that  there  be   no  traitors  in  your 

camp  : 
We  seem  a  nest  of  traitors  —  none  to  trust 
Since  our  arms  fail'd  —  this  Egypt-plague 

of  men  ! 
Almost  our  maids  were  better  at   their 

homes, 
Than  thus  man-girdled  here :    indeed  I 

think 
Our  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 
Of  one  unworthy  mother;  which  she  left : 
She  shall  not  have   it  back :    the    child 

shall  grow 
To  prize  the  authentic  mother  of  her  mind. 
I  took  it  for  an  hour  in  mine  own  bed 
This  morning :  there  the  tender  orphan 

hands 
Felt  at  my  heart,  and  seem'd  to  charm 

from  thence 
The  wrath  I  nursed  against  the  world : 

farewell.' 

I  ceased;  he  said,  'Stubborn,  but  she 
may  sit 

Upon  a  king's  right  hand  in  thunder- 
storms. 

And  breed  up  warriors !  See  now,  tho' 
yourself 

Be  dazzled  by  the  wildfire  Love  to  sloughs 

That  swallow  common  sense,  the  spin- 
dling king. 

This  Gama  swamp'd  in  lazy  tolerance. 

When  the  man  wants  weight,  the  woman 
takes  it  up, 

And  topples  down  the  scales;  but  this  is 
fixt 

As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of  all; 

Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the 
hearth : 

Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle 
she : 

Man  with  the  head  and  woman  with  the 
heart: 

Man  to  command  and  woman  to  obey; 

All  else  confusion.  Look  you  !  the  gray 
mare 

Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  her  whinny  shrills 

From  tile  to  scullery,  and  her  small  good- 
man 

Shrinks  in  his  arm-chair  while  the  fires 
of  Hell 


198 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


Mix  with  his  hearth  :  but  .you  —  she's  yet 

a  colt  — 
Take,  break  her :  strongly  groom'd  and 

straitly  curb'd 
She  might  not  rank  with  those  detestable 
That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home,  and 

brawl 
Their  rights  or  wrongs  like  potherbs  in 

the  street. 
They  say  she's  comely;   there's  the  fairer 

chance : 
/like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at  her  ! 
Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  we, 
But  suffers  change  of  frame.    A  lusty  brace 
Of  twins  may  weed  her  of  her  folly.    Boy, 
The  bearing  and  the  training  of  a  child 
Is  woman's  wisdom.' 

Thus  the  hard  old  king: 
I  took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly  noon : 
I  pored  upon  her  letter  which  I  held. 
And  on  the   little   clause   '  take   not   his 

life  :  ' 
I   mused  on  that   wild   morning  in   the 

woods. 
And  on  the  '  Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt 

win :  ' 
I  thought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had 

said, 
And  how  the  strange  betrothment  was  to 

end  : 
Then  I  remember'd  that  burnt  sorcerer's 

curse 
That  one  should  fight  with  shadows  and 

should  fall; 
And    like    a    flash    the    weird    affection 

came : 
King,  camp  and  college  turn'd  to  hollow 

shows; 
I  seem'd  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts, 
And  doing  battle  with  forgotten  ghosts, 
To  dream  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream  : 
And  ere  I  woke  it  was  the  point  of  noon, 
The  lists  were  ready.     Empanoplied  and 

plumed 
We  enter'd  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 
Opposed  to  fifty,  till  the  trumpet  blared 
At  the  barrier  like  a  wild  horn  in  a  land 
Of   echoes,    and   a   moment,    and    once 

more 
The  trumpet,  and  again  :    at  which   the 

storm 
Of  galloping  hoofs  bare  on  tlic  ridge  of 

spears 


And    riders    front    to    front,    until    they 

closed 
In  conflict  with    the    crash  of  shivering 

points. 
And    thunder.     Yet  it  seem'd  a  dream, 

I  dream'd 
Of  fighting.     On  his  haunches  rose  the 

steed. 
And  into  fiery  splinters  leapt  the  lance. 
And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang  the 

fire. 
Part  sat  like  rocks :  part  reel'd  but  kept 

their  seats: 
Part  roU'd  on  the  earth  and  rose  again 

and  drew : 
Part    stumbled    mixt    with    floundering 

horses.     Down 
From  those  two  bulks  at  Arac's  side,  and 

down 
From  Arac's  arm,  as  from  a  giant's  flail. 
The    large    blows   rain'd,    as    here    and 

everywhere 
He  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ringing 

lists. 
And    all   the  plain,  —  brand,  mace,  and 

shaft,  and  shield,  — 
Shock'd,    like    an     iron-clanging     anvil 

bang'd 
With  hammers;   till  I  thought,  can  this 

be  he 
From  Gama's  dwarfish  loins?  if  this  be  so, 
The  mother  makes  us  most  —  and  in  my 

dream 
I  glanced  aside,  and  saw  the  palace-front 
Alive  with   fluttering   scarfs  and  ladies' 

eyes. 
And  highest,  among  the  statues,  statue- 
like, 
Between  a  cymbal'd  Miriam  and  a  Jael, 
With  Psyche's  babe,  was  Ida  watching  us, 
A  single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair. 
Like  a  Saint's  glory  up  in  heaven  :  but  she 
No  saint  —  inexorable  —  no  tenderness  — 
Too    hard,   too  cruel:   yet  she  sees  me 

figlit, 
Yea,   let    her  see  me   fall !   with   that   I 

drave 
Among  the  thickest  and    bore  down   a 

Prince, 
And  Cyril,  one.     Yea,  let  me  make  my 

dream 
All    that    I    would.       But    that    large- 

moulded  man, 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


199 


His  visage  all  agrin  as  at  a  wake, 
Made  at  me  thro'  the  press,  and,  stagger- 
ing back 
With  stroke    on    stroke    the   horse    and 

horseman,  came 
As  comes  a  pillar  of  electric  cloud. 
Flaying  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the  drains, 
And  shadowing  down  the  champaign  till 

it  strikes 
On  a  wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and 

cracks,  and  splits. 
And   twists  the  grain  with  such   a  roar 

that  Earth 
Reels,  and  the  herdsmen  cry;   for  every- 
thing 
Gave  way  before  him:  only  Florian,   he 
That  loved  me  closer  than  his  own  right 

eye. 
Thrust  in  between;   but  Arac  rode  him 

down : 
And  Cyril  seeing  it,  push'd  against  the 

Prince, 
With  Psyche's  colour  round  his  helmet, 

tough. 
Strong,  supple,  sinew-corded,  apt  at  arms; 
But   tougher,  heavier,  stronger,  he  that 

smote 
And  threw  him  :  last  I  spurr'd;   I  felt  my 

veins 
Stretch  with  fierce  heat;   a  moment  hand 

to  hand, 
And  sword  to  sword,  and  horse  to  horse 

we  hung, 
Till  I  struck  out  and  shouted;   the  blade 

glanced, 
I  did  but  shear  a  feather,  and  dream  and 

truth 
Flow'd   from  me;    darkness  closed  me; 

and  I  fell. 

VI. 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead; 

She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry: 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

'  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.' 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 

Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 
Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 


Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears  — 
'  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee.' 

My  dream  had  never  died  or  lived  again. 
As  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I  lay; 
Seeing  I  saw  not,  hearing  not  I  heard  : 
Tho',  if  I  saw  not,  yet  they  told  me  all 
So  often  that  I  speak  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem'd,  or  so  they  said  to  me. 
That  all   things  grew   more    tragic    and 

more  strange; 
That  when  our  side  was  vanquish'd  and 

my  cause 
For  ever  lost,  there  went  up  a  great  cry, 
The    Prince  is  slain.     My  father   heard 

and  ran 
In   on  the  lists,   and  there  unlaced  my 

casque 
And  grovell'd  on  my  body,  and  after  him 
Came  Psyche,  sorrowing  for  Aglaia. 

But  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
With   Psyche's   babe  in  arm :    there   on 

the  roofs 
Like    that  great  dame  of  Lapidoth  she 

sang. 

'  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n:  the  seed, 
The  little  seed  they  laugh'd  at  in  the  dark, 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown  a  bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A  thousand  arms  and  rushes  to  the  Sun. 

'Our   enemies  have   fall'n,  have   fall'n:    they 
came; 
The  leaves  were  wet  with  women's  tears;   they 

heard 
The  noise  of  songs  they  would  not  understand : 
They  mark'd  it  with  the  red  cross  to  the  fall, 
And  would  have  strewn  it,  and  are  fall'n  them- 
selves. 

'Our  enemies  have  fall'n,    have   fall'n;    they 
came. 
The  woodmen  with  their  axes;  lo  the  tree! 
But  we  will  make  it  faggots  for  the  hearth, 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  lor  roof  and  floor, 
And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

'Our  enemies   have   fall'n,   have   fall'n;    they 
struck; 
With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  themselves,  nor 
knew 


200 


THE  PRINCESS;   A    MEDLEY. 


There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain : 
The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their  arms, 
Their  arms  were  shattered  to  the  shoulder  blade. 

'  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  but  this  shall  grow 
A  night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  a  breadth 
Of  Autumn,  dropping  fruits  of  power:  and  roll'd 
With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of  Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star,  the  fangs 
Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world. 

'And     now,    O    maids,    behold     our 

sanctuary 
Is  violate,  our  laws  broken :  fear  we  not 
To   break   them   more   in  their  behoof, 

whose  arms 
Champion'd  our  cause  and  won  it  with  a 

day 
Blanch'd  in  our  annals,  and  perpetual  feast, 
When  dames  and  heroines  of  the  golden 

year 
Shall   strip  a  hundred   hollows   bare  of 

Spring, 
To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their  statues,  borne  aloft,  the  three  :  but 

come. 
We  will  be  liberal,  since  our  rights  are 

won. 
Let  them  not  lie  in  the  tents  with  coarse 

mankind, 
111  nurses;  but  descend,  and  proffer  these 
The  brethren  of  our  blood  and  cause,  that 

there 
Lie    bruised    and    maim'd,    the    tender 

ministries 
Of  female  hands  and  hospitality.' 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet  in 

her  arms, 
Descending,  burst  the  great  bronze  valves, 

and  led 
A  hundred  maids  in  train  across  the  Park. 
Some  cowl'd,  and  some  bare-headed,  on 

they  came, 
Their  feet   in  flowers,   her  loveliest:  liy 

them  went 
The  enamour'd  air  sighing,  and  on  their 

curls 
From  the  high  tree  the  blossom  wavering 

fell, 
And  over  them  the  tremulous  isles  of  light 
Slided,    they  moving    under  shade :   but 

Blanche 
At  distance  follovv'd  :  so  they  came  :  anon 


Thro'  open  field  into  the  lists  they  wound 
Timorously;    and    as    the  leader  of  the 

herd 
That    holds   a   stately   fretwork    to    the 

Sun, 
And  foUow'd  up  by  a  hundred  airy  does. 
Steps  with  a  tender  foot,  light  as  on  air, 
The  lovely,  lordly  creature  floated  on 
To    where    her  wounded  brethren   lay; 

there  stay'd; 
Knelt  on  one  knee,  —  the  child  on  one,  — 

and  prest 
Their   hands,  and  call'd  them  dear  de- 
liverers, 
And  happy  warriors,  and  immortal  names, 
And  said :  '  You  shall  not  lie  in  the  tents 

but  here. 
And   nursed    by   those    for   whom   you 

fought,  and  served 
With  female  hands  and  hospitality.' 

Then,  whether  moved  by  this,  or  was 

it  chance. 
She  past  my  way.     Up  started  from  my 

side 
The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  whelpless 

eye. 
Silent;  but  when  she  saw  me  lying  stark, 
Dishelm'd    and    mute,  and    motionlessly 

pale, 
Cold  ev'n  to  her,  she  sigh'd;   and  when 

she  saw 
The  haggard  father's  face  and  reverend 

beard 
Of  grisly  twine,  all  dabbled  with  the  blood 
Of  his  own  son,  shudder'd,  a  twitch  of 

pain 
Tortured  her  mouth,  and  o'er  her  fore- 
head past 
A  shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  and  she 

said : 
'  He  saved  my  life  :  my  brother  slew  him 

for  it.' 
No   more :  at  which   the  king  in   bitter 

scorn 
Drew  from  my  neck  the  painting  and  the 

tress, 
And  held  them  up  :  she  saw  them,  and  a 

day 
Rose  from  the  distance  on  her  memory, 
When  the  good  Queen,  her  mother,  shore 

the  tress 
With  kisses,  ere  the  days  of  Lady  Blanche  : 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


20 1 


And  then  once  more  she  look'd  at  my 

pale  face  : 
Till  understanding  all  the  foolish  work 
Of  Fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  all, 
Her  iron  will  was  broken  in  her  mind; 
Her  noble  heart  was  molten  in  her  breast ; 
She  bow'd,  she  setthe  child  on  the  earth; 

she  laid 
A  feeling  finger  on  my  brows,  and  pres- 
ently 
*  O  Sire,'  she  said,  '  he  lives :  he  is  not 

dead: 
O  let  me  have  him  with  my  brethren  here 
In  our  own  palace :  we  will  tend  on  him 
Like  one  of  these  ;  if  so,  by  any  means. 
To  lighten  this  great  clog  of  thanks,  that 

make 
Our  progress  falter  to  the  woman's  goal.' 

She  said :  but  at  the  happy  word  '  he 

lives,' 
My   father  stoop'd,    re-father'd  o'er  my 

wounds. 
So  those  two  foes  above  my  fallen  life, 
With  brow  to  brow  like  night  and  evening 

mixt 
Their  dark  and  gray,  while  Psyche  ever 

stole 
A  little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by  us, 
Half-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden 

brede, 
Lay  like  a  new-fall'n  meteor  on  the  grass, 
Uncared  for,  spied  its  mother  and  began 
A  blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and  to 

dance 
Its  body,  and  reach  its  fatling  innocent 

arms 
And  lazy  lingering  fingers.  She  the  appeal 
Brook'd  not,  but  clamouring  out '  Mine  — 

mine  —  not  yours. 
It  is  not  yours,  but  mine  :  give  me  the 

child,' 
Ceased  all  on  tremble :   piteous  was  the 

cry  : 
So    stood    the    unhappy   mother    open- 

mouth'd, 
And  turn'd  each  face  her  way :  wan  was 

her  cheek 
With  hollow  watch,  her  blooming  mantle 

torn, 
Red  grief  and  mother's  hunger  in  her  eye. 
And  down  dead-heavy  sank  her  curls,  and 

half 


The  sacred  mother's  bosom,  panting,  burst 
The  laces  toward  her  babe;   but  she  nor 

cared 
Nor  knew  it,  clamouring  on,  till  Ida  heard, 
Look'd  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me, 

stood 
Erect  and  silent,  striking  with  her  glance 
The  mother,  me,  the  child;   but  he  that 

lay 
Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter'd  as  he  was, 
Trail'd  himself  up  on  one  knee:  then  he 

drew 
Her  robe  to  meet  his  lips,  and  down  she 

look'd 
At  the  arm'd  man  sideways,  pitying  as  it 

seem'd. 
Or  self-involved;  but  when  she  learnt  his 

face. 
Remembering  his  ill-omen'd  song,  arose 
Once  more  thro'  all  her  height,  and  o'er 

him  grew 
Tall  as  a  figure  lengthen'd  on  the  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and  he 

said : 

'  O    fair    and    strong     and     terrible ! 

Lioness 
That  with  your  long  locks  play  the  Lion's 

mane  ! 
But  Love  and  Nature,  these  are  two  more 

terrible 
And  stronger.     See,  your  foot  is  on  our 

necks. 
We  vanquish'd,  you  the  Victor  of  your 

will. 
What   would   you   more?   give   her  the 

child !  remain 
Orb'd  in  your  isolation :  he  is  dead, 
Or  all  as  deard  :  henceforth  we  let  you  be  : 
Win   you   the    hearts   of    women;    and 

beware 
Lest,  where  you  seek  the  common  love 

of  these, 
The    common   hate    with  the   revolving 

wheel 
Should  drag  you  down,  and  some  great 

Nemesis 
Break  from  a  darken'd  future,  crown'd 

with  fire, 
And  tread  you  out  for  ever :  but  how- 

soe'er 
Fix'd  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own  arms 
To  hold  your  own,  deny  not  hers  to  her, 


202 


THE  PRINCESS;    A    MEDLEY. 


Give  her  the  child  !    O  if,  I  say,  you  keep 
One  pulse  that  beats  true  woman,  if  you 

loved 
The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dandled 

you, 
Or  own  one  port  of  sense   not  flint  to 

prayer, 
Give    her  the  child !  or  if  you  scorn  to 

lay  it, 
Yourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt  with 

yours. 
Or  speak  to   her,  your  dearest,  her  one 

fault 
The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that  could  not 

kill, 
Give  me  it :  /  will  give  it  her.' 

He  said : 
At  first  her  eye  with  slow  dilation  roll'd 
Dry  flame,  she  listening;   after  sank  and 

sank 
And,  into   mournful  twilight  mellowing, 

dwelt 
Full  on  the  child;   she  took  it:   'Pretty 

bud! 
Lily  of  the  vale  !   half  open'd  bell  of  the 

woods ! 
Sole  comfort  of  my  dark  hour,  when  a 

world 
Of  traitorous  friend  and  broken  system 

made 
No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery, 
Pledge  of  a  love  not  to  be  mine,  farewell; 
These  men  are  hard  upon  us  as  of  old. 
We  two  must   part :    and  yet  how  fain 

was  I 
To  dream  thy  cause  embraced  in  mine, 

to  think 
I  might  be  something  to  thee,  when  I 

felt 
Thy  helpless  warmth   about  my  barren 

breast 
In  the  dead  prime  :  but  may  thy  mother 

prove: 
As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  to  me  ! 
And,  if  thou  needs  must  bear  the  yoke, 

I  wish  it 
Gentle  as  freedom  '  —  here  she  kiss'd  it : 

then  — 
'AH  good  go  with  thee  !  take  it,  Sir,'  and  so 
Laid    the   soft  babe    in   his  hard-mailed 

hands, 
Who  turn'd  half-round  to  Psyche  as  she 

sprang 


To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum  in 
thanks; 

Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from  head 
to  foot, 

And  hugg'd  and  never  hugg'd  it  close 
enough, 

And  in  her  hunger  mouth'd  and  mum- 
bled it. 

And  hid  her  bosom  with  it;   after  that 

Put  on  more  calm  and  added  suppliantly  : 

'  We  two  were  friends :   I  go  to  mine 
own  land 
For  ever  :   find  some  other  :  as  for  me 
I  scarce  am  tit  for  your  great  plans :  yet 

speak  to  me. 
Say  one  soft  word  and  let  me  part  for- 
given.' 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  upon  the  child. 
Then  Arac.     '  Ida  —  'sdeath  !  you  blame 

the  man; 
You  wrong  yourselves  —  the  woman  is  so 

hard 
Upon  the  woman.    Come,  a  grace  to  me  ! 
I  am  your  warrior :    I    and   mine    have 

fought 
Your  battle  :  kiss  her;  take  her  hand,  she 

weeps : 
'Sdeath  !  I  would  sooner  fight  thrice  o'er 

than  see  it.' 

But    Ida  spoke    not,    gazing    on    the 
ground; 
And  reddening  in  the  furrows  of  his  chin, 
And  moved  beyond    his   custom,   Gama 
said : 

'  I've  heard  that  there  is  iron  in  the 

blood, 
And  I   believe  it.     Not  one   word?  not 

one? 
Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper?  not 

from  me, 
Not  from  your  mother,  now  a  saint  with 

saints. 
She  said  you  had  a  heart  —  I  heard  her 

say  it  — 
"  Our  Ida  has  a  heart  "  — just  ere   she 

died  — 
•'  But  see  that  some  one  with  authority 
Be  near  her  still "  and   1  —  1  sought  for 

one  — 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


203 


All  people  said  she  had  authority  — 
The  Lady  Blanche  :   much  profit !     Not 

one  word; 
No !  tho'  your  father  sues :  see  how  you 

stand 
Stiff  as  Lot's  wife,  and  all  the  good  knights 

maim'd, 
I  trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to  death, 
For  your  wild  whim  :   and  was  it  then  for 

this, 
Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up. 
Where  we  withdrew  from  summer  heats 

and  state, 
And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath  the 

planes. 
And  many  a  pleasant  hour  with  her  that's 

gone, 
Ere  you  were  born  to  vex  us?  Is  it  kind? 
Speak   to  her  I  say :  is  this  not  she  of 

whom, 
When  first  she  came,  all  flush'd  you  said 

to  me 
Now  had  you  got  a  friend  of  your  own 

age, 
Now  could  you  share  your  thought;   now 

should  men  see 
Two  women  faster  welded  in  one  love 
Than  pairs  of  wedlock;   she  you  walk'd 

with,  she 
You  talk'd  with,  whole  nights  long,  up  in 

the  tower, 
Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth, 
And  right  ascension,  Heaven  knows  what; 

and  now 
A  word,  but  one,  one  little  kindly  word, 
Not  one   to   spare   her :    out   upon  you, 

flint! 
You  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any;    nay, 
You  shame  your  mother's  judgment  too. 

Not  one? 
You  will  not?  well  —  no  heart  have  you, 

or  such 
As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a  nut 
Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitterness.' 
So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond  his 

wont. 

But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  drain'd   of 

her  force 
By  many  a  varying  influence  and  so  long. 
I)own  thro'  her  limbs  a  drooping  languor 

wept : 
Her  head  a  little  bent;  and  on  her  mouth 


A  doubtful  smile  dwelt   like   a   clouded 

moon 
In  a  still  water :   then  brake  out  my  sire, 
Lifting  his  grim  head  from  my  wounds. 

'  O  you, 
Woman,  whom  we  thought  woman  even 

now. 
And  were  half  fool'd  to  let  you  tend  our 

son. 
Because  he  might  have  wish'd  it  —  but 

we  see 
The  accomplice  of  your  madness  un for- 
given, 
And  think  that  you  might  mix  his  draught 

with  death, 
When   your    skies    change    again :    the 

rougher  hand 
Is  safer :  on  to  the  tents :   take   up  the 

Prince.' 

He  rose,  and  while  each  ear  was  prick'd 
to  attend 
A  tempest,  thro'  the  cloud  that  dimm'd 

her  broke 
A  genial  warmth   and  light  once  more, 

and  shone 
Thro'  glittering  drops  on  her  sad  friend. 

•'Come  hither. 

0  Psyche,'  she  cried  out,  '  embrace  me, 

come, 
Quick  while  I  melt;  make  reconcilement 

sure 
With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind  an 

hour : 
Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander  so  I 
Kiss  and  be  friends,  like  children  being 

chid! 
/  seem  no  more  :   /want  forgiveness  too  : 

1  should  have  had  to  do  with  none  but 

maids. 
That  have  no  links  with  men.     Ah  false 

but  dear. 
Dear    traitor,   too   much  loved,  why?  — 

why  ?  —  Yet  see, 
Before  these  kings  we  embrace  you  yet 

once  more 
With  all  forgiveness,  all  oblivion, 
And  trust,  not  love,  you  less. 

And  now,  O  sire, 
Grant   me   your   son,  to   nurse,  to  wait 

upon  him, 
Like  mine  own   brother.     For  my  debt 

to  him. 


204 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


This  nightmare   weight    of  gratitude,    I 

know  it; 
Taunt  me  no  more  :  yourself  and  yours 

shall  have 
Free  adit;    we  will  scatter  all  our  maids 
Till   happier  times  each    to   her    proper 

hearth : 
What  use   to   keep    them   here  —  now? 

grant  my  prayer. 
Help,    father,    brother,    help;    speak    to 

the  king : 
Thaw  this  male   nature    to  some    touch 

of  that 
Which  kills  me  with  myself,  and  drags 

me  down 
From  my  fixt  height  to  mob  me  up  with  all 
The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  womankind. 
Poor  weakling  ev'n  as  they  are.' 

Passionate  tears 
Follow'd :    the    king  replied    not :    Cyril 

said: 
'  Your   brother,    Lady,  —  Florian,  —  ask 

for  him 
Of  your  great  Head  —  for  he  is  wounded 

too  — 
That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the 

prince.' 
'  Ay  so,'  said  kla  with  a  bitter  smile, 
'Our  laws  are  broken  :  let  him  enter  too.' 
Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  mournful 

song. 
And  had  a  cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain, 
Petition'd  too  for  him.     '  Ay  so,'  she  said, 
'  I  stagger  in  the  stream :   I  cannot  keep 
My  heart    an   eddy   from   the    brawling 

hour: 
We  break   our  laws  with    ease,  but   let 

it  be.' 
*Ayso?'  said  Blanche:  'Amazed  am  I 

to  hear 
Your    Highness :     but    your    Highness 

breaks  with  ease 
The  law  your  Highness  did  not  make : 

'twas  I. 
I  had  been  wedded  wife,  I  knew  man- 
kind. 
And  block'd   them  out;    but  these   men 

came  to  woo 
Your  Highness  —  verily  I  think  to  win.' 

So  she,  and   turn'd   askance  a  wintry 
eye : 
But  Ida  with  a  voice,  tliat  like  a  bell 


Toll'd  by  an  earthquake  in  a  trembling 

tower, 
Rang  ruin,  answer'd    full    of  grief  and 

scorn. 

*  Fling   our    doors  wide !    all,   all,   not 

one,   but  all. 
Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother's  soul. 
Whatever  man   lies  wounded,  friend   or 

foe. 
Shall  enter,  if  he  will.     Let  our  girls  flit, 
Till  the  storm  die !    but  had  you  stood 

by  us, 
The  roar  that   breaks  the   Pharos    from 

his  base 
Had  left  us  rock.     She  fain  would  sting 

us  too, 
But    shall    not.     Pass,  and   mingle  with 

your  likes. 
We  brook  no  further  insult  but  are  gone.' 

She  turn'd;    the  very  nape  of  her  white 

neck 
Was   rosed   with    indignation :    but   the 

Prince 
Her  brother  came;    the  king  her  father 

charm'd 
Her  wounded  soul  with  words :  nor  did 

mine  own 
Refuse  her  proffer,  lastly  gave  his  hand. 

Then  us  they  lifted  up,  dead  weights, 

and  bare 
Straight  to  the  doors :  to  them  the  doors 

gave  way 
Groaning,  and  in  the  Vestal  entry  shriek'd 
The  virgin  marble  under  iron  heels : 
And  on  they  moved  and  gain'd  the  hall, 

and  there 
Rested :    but   great    the   crush  was,  and 

each  base, 
To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns 

drown'd 
In  silken  fluctuation  and  the  swarm 
Of  female  \\hisperers  :   at  the  further  end 
Was   Ida   hy  the   throne,   the  two  great 

cats 
Close  by  her,  like  supporters  on  a  shield, 
Bow-l)ack'd  with  fear:   but  in  the  centre 

stood 
The    common   men    with    rolling   eyes; 

amazed 
They  glared  upon  the  women,  and  aghast 


THE  PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


205 


The  women  stared    at    these,  all   silent, 

save 
When  armour  clash'd  or  jingled,  while 

the  day, 
Descending,  struck  athwart  the  hall,  and 

shot 
A  flying  splendour  out  of  brass  and  steel, 
That  o'er  the  statues   leapt    from    head 

to  head, 
Now  fired  an  angry  Pallas  on  the  helm, 
Now  set  a  wrathful  Dian's  moon  on  flame, 
And  now  and  then  an  echo  started  up, 
And  shuddering  fled  from  room  to  room, 

and  died 
Of  fright  in  far  apartments. 

Then  the  voice 
Of  Ida  sounded,  issuing  ordinance  : 
And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs, 

and  thro' 
The  long-laid  galleries  past  a  hundred 

doors 
To  one  deep  chamber  shut  from  sound, 

and  due 
To  languid  limbs  and  sickness;   left  me 

in  it; 
And  others  otherwhere  they  laid ;   and  all 
That  afternoon  a  sound  arose  of  hoof 
And    chariot,    many   a    maiden    passing 

home 
Till  happier  times;    but  some  were  left 

of  those 
Held  sagest,  and  the  great  lords  out  and 

in. 
From  those   two   hosts   that   lay  beside 

the  walls, 
Walk'd  at  their  will,  and  everything  was 

changed. 

VII. 

Ask  me  no  more :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and   take 

the  shape 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape; 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  what  answer  should  I  give? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye: 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:   thy  fate  and  mine  are  seal'd: 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain: 


Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main: 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated, 
So  their  fair  college  turn'd  to  hospital; 
At  first  with  all  confusion :  by  and  by 
Sweet  order  lived  again  with  other  laws : 
A  kindlier  influence  reign'd;   and  every- 
where 
Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 
Hung  round  the  sick  :  the  maidens  came, 

they  talk'd. 
They  sang,  they  read :    till  she  not   fair 

began 
To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  be- 
came 
Her  former  beauty  treble ;  and  to  and  fro 
With    books,   with    flowers,  with   Angel 

offices. 
Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious  act, 
And    in    their    own  clear    element,  they 
moved. 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell, 
And  hatred  of  her  weakness,  blent  with 

shame. 
Old    studies    fail'd;    seldom  she   spoke : 

but  oft 
Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone  for 

hours 
On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of  men 
Darkening   her    female    field :   void  was 

her  use, 
And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to  gaze 
O'er   land    and  main,  and  sees  a  great 

black  cloud 
Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a  wall  of 

night. 
Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to 

shore. 
And  suck    the  blinding  splendour  from 

the  sand, 
And    quenching  lake   by  lake  and   tarn 

by  tarn 
Expunge  the  world :  so  fared  she  gazing 

there; 
So   blacken'd    all    her   world   in   secret, 

blank 
And  waste  it  seem'd  and  vain;   till  down 

she  came, 
And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among 

the  sick. 


2o6 


THE   PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


And    twilight    dawn'd;     and  morn  by 

morn  the  lark 
Shot  up  and  shrill'd  in  flickering  gyres, 

but  I 
Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life : 
And  twilight  gloom' d  ;  and  broader-grown 

the  bowers 
Drew  the  great   night   into    themselves, 

and  Heaven, 
Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell;    but  I, 
Deeper   than   those  weird  doubts  could 

reach  me,  lay 
Quite  sunder'd  from  the  moving  Universe, 
Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor  the 

hand 
That    nursed    me,  more   than  infants  in 

their  sleep. 

But  Psyche  tended  Florian :  with  her 

oft, 
Melissa  came;   for  Blanche  had  gone,  but 

left 
Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should 

keep 
Court-favour :   here  and  there  the  small 

bright  head, 
A   light   of  healing,  glanced   about  the 

couch, 
Or  thro'  the  parted  silks  the  tender  face 
Peep'd,  shining  in  upon  the  wounded  man 
"With    blush    and    smile,   a   medicine    in 

themselves 
To  wile  the  length  from  languorous  hours, 

and  draw 
The  sting  from  pain ;  nor  seem'd  it  strange 

that  soon 
He  rose  up  whole,  and  those  fair  charities 
Join'd  at  her  side;   nor  stranger  seem'd 

that  hearts 
So  gentle,  so  employ'd,  should  close  in 

love. 
Than  when  two  dewdrops  on  the  petal 

shake 
To  the  same  sweet  air,  and  tremble  deeper 

down, 
And  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperouslv  the  second  suit  ob- 

tain'd 
At  first  with  Psyche.     Not  tho'  Blanche 

had  sworn 
That    after   that   dark   night   among  the 

fields 


She  needs  must  wed  him  for  her  own 
good  name; 

Not  tho'  he  built  upon  the  babe  restored; 

Nor  tho'  she  liked  him,  yielded  she,  but 
fear'd 

To  incense  the  Head  once  more;  till  on 
a  day 

When  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  behind 

Seen  but  of  Psyche  :  on  her  foot  she  hung 

A  moment,  and  she  heard,  at  which  her 
face 

A  little  flush'd,  and  she  past  on;   but  each 

Assumed  from  thence  a  half- consent  in- 
volved 

In  stillness,  plighted  troth,  and  were  at 
peace. 

Nor  only  these :    Love   in   the  sacred 

halls 
Held  carnival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 
With  showers  of  random  sweet  on  maid 

and  man. 
Nor  did  her  father  cease  to  press  my  claim, 
Nor  did  mine  own,  now  reconciled;    nor 

Did  those  twin  brothers,  risen  again  and 

whole ; 
Nor  Arac,  satiate  with  his  victory. 

But  I  lay  still,  and  with  me  oft  she  sat : 
Then  came  a  change;    for  sometimes  I 

would  catch 
Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe  it  hard, 
And  fling  it  like  a  viper  off,  and  shriek 
'You  are  not  Ida;  '  clasp  it  once  again. 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho'  I  knew  her  not. 
And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony. 
And  call  her  hard  and  cold  which  seem'd 

a  truth  : 
And  still  she  fear'd  that  I  should  lose  my 

mind. 
And  often  she  believed  that  I  should  die  : 
Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care, 
And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary 

noons, 
And  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark,  when 

clocks 
Throbb'd  thunder  thro'  tlie  palace  floors, 

or  call'd 
On    flying   Time    from    all    their    silver 

tt)ngues  — 
And  out  of  memories  of  her  kindlier  days. 
And  sidelong  glances  at  my  father's  grief. 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


207 


And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in  heart  — 
And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken  love, 
And   lonely   listenings    to    my   mutter'd 

dream, 
And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless  hands, 
And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted 

cheek  — 
From  all  a  closer  interest  flourish'd  up, 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last,  to 

these. 
Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung  with 

tears 
By  some  cold  morning  glacier;    frail  at 

first 
And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself. 
But  such  as  gather'd  colour  day  by  day. 

Last  I  woke  sane,  but  well-nigh  close 

to  death 
For   weakness ;    it   was  evening :    silent 

light 
Slept  on  the  painted  walls,  wherein  were 

wrought 
Two  grand  designs;   for  on  one  side  arose 
The  women  up  in  wild  revolt,  and  storm'd 
At  the  Oppian  law.     Titanic  shapes,  they 

cramm'd 
The  forum,  and  half-crush'd  among  the 

rest 
A  dwarf-like  Cato  cower'd.     On  the  other 

side 
Hortensia  spoke  against  the  tax;   behind, 
A  train  of  dames :   by  axe  and  eagle  sat, 
With  all  their  foreheads  drawn  in  Roman 

scowls, 
And  half  the  wolf's-milk  curdled  in  their 

veins, 
The  fierce  triumvirs;    and  before    them 

paused 
Hortensia  pleading :  angry  was  her  face. 

I  saw  the  forms :   I  knew  not  where  I 

was : 
They  did   but  look   like  hollow  shows; 

nor  more 
Sweet  Ida :    palm  to  palm  she  sat :    the 

dew 
Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her  shape 
And  rounder  seem'd  :   I  moved  :  Isigh'd: 

a  touch 
Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon  my 

hand : 
Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 


Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what  life  I 

had. 
And  like  a  flower  that  cannot  all  unfold. 
So  drench'd  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the  sun. 
Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I  on  her 
Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter'd  whisper- 

ingly  : 

'  If  you  be,  what   I    think  you,  some 

sweet  dream, 
I  would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself: 
But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I  knew, 
I  ask  you  nothing :   only,  if  a  dream. 
Sweet   dream,  be   perfect.     I    shall   die 

to-night. 
Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I  die.' 

I  could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in 

trance, 
That  hears    his   burial   talk'd    of  by  his 

friends. 
And  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  nor  make 

one  sign. 
But  lies  and  dreads  his  doom.    She  turn'd ; 

she  paused; 
She  stoop'd;   and  out  of  languor  leapt  a 

cry; 
Leapt    fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of 

death; 
And  I  believed  that  in  the  living  world 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida's  at  the  lips; 
Till  back  I  fell,  and  from  mine  arms  she 

rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame;   and  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a  robe, 
And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  her  mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  when  she 

came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with 

love ; 
And  down  the  streaming  crystal  dropt; 

and  she 
Far- fleeted  by  the  purple  island-sides. 
Naked,  a  double  light  in  air  and  wave. 
To  meet  her  Graces,  where  they  deck'd 

her  out 
For  worship  without  end ;  nor  end  of  mine, 
Stateliest,  for  thee  !  but  mute  she  glided 

forth, 
Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I  sank  and 

slept, 
Fill'd  thro'  and  thro'  with  Love,  a  happy 

sleep. 


208 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


Deep  in  the  night  I  woke  :  she,  near 

me,  held 
A  volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land : 
There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  she 

read, 

'  Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the  white; 
Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  porphyry  font: 
The  fire-fly  wakens:  waken  thou  with  me. 

Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock  like  a  ghost, 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

Now  folds  the  lily  -11  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake: 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me.' 

I  heard  her  turn  the  page;   she  found 
a  small 
Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low,  she 
read  : 

'  Come  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain 
height: 
What  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shepherd  sang) 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendour  of  the  hills? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and  cease 
To  glide  a  sunbeam  by  the  blasted  Pine, 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  down 
And  find  him;   by  the  happy  threshold,  he, 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize, 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats. 
Or  foxlike  in  the  vine;  nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  silver  horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice. 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors: 
P>ut  follow;  let  the  torrent  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley;   let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and  spill 
Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water-smoke, 
That  like  a  broken  purpose  waste  in  air: 
So  waste  not  thou;  but  come;    for  all  the  vales 
Await  thee;  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thoe;   tlie  children  call,  and  I 


Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro'  the  lawn, 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms. 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees.' 

So  she    low-toned;     while    with    shut 

eyes  I  lay 
Listening;   then  look'd.      Pale  was  the 

perfect  face; 
The  bosom  with  long  sighs  labour'd;  and 

meek 
Seem'd  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the  lumi- 
nous eyes. 
And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand. 

She  said 
Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had  fail'd 
In  sweet  humility;    had  fail'd  in  all; 
That  all  her  labour  was  but  as  a  block 
Left  in  the  quarry;  but  she  still  were  loth, 
She  still  were  loth  to  yield  herself  to  one 
That  wholly  scorn'd  to  help  their  equal 

rights 
Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbarous 

laws. 
She  pray'd  me  not  to  judge  their  cause 

from  her 
That  wrong'd  it,  sought  far  less  for  truth 

than  power 
In  knowledge :    something  wild   within 

her  breast, 
A  greater  than  all  knowledge,  beat  her 

down. 
And  she  had  nursed  me  there  from  week 

to  week : 
Much  had  she  learnt  in  little  time.     In 

part 
It  was  ill  counsel  had  misled  the  girl 
To  vex   true  hearts:  yet  was  she  but  a 

girl  — 
*  Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a  Queen  of 

farce ! 
When  comes  another  such  ?  never,  I  think, 
Till  the  Sun  drop,  dead,  from  the  signs.' 

Her  voice 
Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon  her 

hands. 
And  licr  great  heart  thro'  all  the  faultful 

Past 
Went  sorrowing  in  a  pause  I  dared  not 

break; 
Till  notice  of  a  change  in  the  dark  world 
Was  lispt  about  the  acacias,  and  a  bird. 
That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


209 


Sent  from  a  dewy  breast  a  cry  for  light : 
She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume 
fell. 

'Blame  not  thyself  too  much,'  I  said, 

'  nor  blame 
Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  barbarous 

laws ; 
These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the  world 

till  now. 
Henceforth  thou  hast  a  helper,  me,  that 

know 
The  woman's  cause  is  man's :  they  rise 

or  sink 
Together,  dwarf 'd  or  godlike,  bond    or 

free  : 
For  she   that  out   of  Lethe  scales  with 

man 
The  shining  steps  of  Nature,  shares  with 

man 
His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him  to 

one  goal, 
Stays   all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her 

hands  — 
If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miserable, 
How  shall  men  grow?  but  work  no  more 

alone ! 
Our  place  is  much :   as  far  as  in  us  lies 
We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aiding 

her  — 
Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 
That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag  her 

down  — 
Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of 

all 
Within  her  —  let  her  make  herself  her  own 
To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and  be 
All  that  not  harms  distinctive  womanhood. 
For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man. 
But  diverse  :   could  we  make  her  as  the 

man. 
Sweet  Love  were  slain  :  his  dearest  bond 

is  this, 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 
Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow ; 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man ; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height. 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw 

the  world ; 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward 

care, 
Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 

p 


Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words; 

And  so   these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of 
Time, 

Sit  side  by  side,  fuU-summ'd  in  all  their 
powers. 

Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 

Self-reverent  each  and  reverencing  each. 

Distinct  in  individualities, 

But  like  each  other  ev'n  as  those  who  love. 

Then  comes  the   statelier  Eden  back  to 
men  : 

Then   reign   the   world's   great    bridals, 
chaste  and  calm  : 

Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  human- 
kind. 

May  these  things  be  ! ' 

Sighing  she  spoke, '  I  fear 

They  will  not.' 

*  Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 

In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watch- 
word rest 

Of  equal;  seeing  either  sex  alone 

Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 

Nor  equal,  nor  unequal :  each  fulfils 

Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in 
thought. 

Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in   will,    they 
grow, 

The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 

The  two-cell'd   heart    beating,  with  one 
full  stroke, 

Life.' 

And  again  sighing  she  spoke :    '  A 
dream 

That    once    was    mine !     what    woman 
taught  you  this? ' 

*  Alone,'  I  said,  '  from  earlier  than  I 

know, 
Immersed  in  rich  foreshadowings  of  the 

world, 
I  loved  the  woman :  he,  that  doth  not, 

lives 
A  drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet  self. 
Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than 

death, 
Or  keeps  his  wing'd  affections  dipt  with 

crime  : 
Yet  was  there  one  thro'  whom  I  loved 

her,  one 
Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  household 

ways, 
Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender  wants. 


210 


THE  PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 
Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and  men, 
Who  look'd  all  native  to  her  place,  and 

yet 
On  tiptoe  seem'd  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds 

perforce 
Sway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they 

moved, 
And  girdled  her  with  music.     Happy  he 
With  such  a  mother !    faith    in  woman- 
kind 
Beats  with   his  blood,  and   trust  in    all 

things  high 
Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip  and 

fall 
He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay.' 

'  But  I,' 
Said  Ida,  tremulously,  '  so  all  unlike  — 
It  seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself  with 

words  : 
This    mother   is    your    model.       I    have 

heard 
Of  your  strange  doubts :  they  well  might 

be :   I  seem 
A    mockery   to   my   own   self.      Never, 

Prince; 
You  cannot  love  me.' 

'Nay  but  thee,'  I  said, 
'  From  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pictured 

eyes. 
Ere  seen  I  loved,  and  loved  thee  seen, 

and  saw 
Thee   woman    thro'   the    crust    of    iron 

moods 
That  mask'd  thee  from  men's  reverence 

up,  and  forced 
Sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boyhood : 

now, 
Giv'n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro' 

thee, 
Indeed  I  love :  the  new  day  comes,  the 

light 
Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for  faults 
Lived  over:  lift  thine  eyes;    my  doubts 

are  dead, 
My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows :  the 

change, 
This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kill'd  it. 

Dear, 
Look    up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike   on 

mine. 


Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half- 
world  ; 

Approach  and  fear  not;  breathe  upon 
my  brows; 

In  that  fine  air  I  tremble,  all  the  past 

Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour,  and 
this 

Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to- 
come 

Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland 
reels 

Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds. 
Forgive  me, 

I  waste  my  heart  in  signs :  let  be.  My 
bride, 

My  wife,  my  life.  O  we  will  walk  this 
world, 

Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end, 

And  so  thro'  those  dark  gates  across  the 
wild 

That  no  man  knows.  Indeed  I  love 
thee  :   come, 

Yield  thyself  up  :  my  hopes  and  thine 
are  one : 

Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and  thy- 
self; 

Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and  trust 
to  me.' 

CONCLUSION. 

So  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I  give  you 

all 
The  random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it  rose  : 
The  words  are  mostly  mine;    for  when 

we  ceased 
There  came  a  minute's  pause,  and  Wal- 
ter said, 
'  I  wish  she  had   not  yielded  ! '  then  to 

me, 
'  What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically  ! ' 
So  pray'd  the  men,  the  women:  I  gave 

assent : 
Yet  how  to    bind   the   scatter' d  scheme 

of  seven 
Together    in    one   sheaf?      What   style 

could  suit? 
The   men    required    that   I    should    give 

throughout 
The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesque. 
With  which  we  banter'd  little  Lilia  first: 
The    women  —  and    perhaps    they    felt 

their  power, 


THE   PRINCESS;    A    MEDLEY. 


211 


For  something  in  the  ballads  which  they 

sang, 
Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat, 
Had  ever   seem'd    to  wrestle  with    bur- 
lesque. 
And   drove    us,  last,  to   quite  a   solemn 

close  — 
They  hated  banter,  wish'd  for  something 

real, 
A  gallant  fight,  a  noble  princess  —  why 
Not    make    her    true-heroic  —  true-sub- 
lime ? 
Or  all,  they  said,  as  earnest  as  the  close? 
Which  yet  with  such  a  framework  scarce 

could  be. 
Then  rose  a  little  feud  betwixt  the  two. 
Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists  : 
And    I,   betwixt    them    both,    to   please 

them  both, 
And  yet  to  give  the  story  as  it  rose, 
I  moved  as  in  a  strange  diagonal, 
And  maybe  neither  pleased  myself  nor 
them. 

But  Lilia  pleased  me,  for  she  took  no 

part 
In  our  dispute  :  the  sequel  of  the  tale 
Had    touch'd   her  ;     and    she    sat,   she 

pluck'd  the  grass, 
She    flung   it    from  her,  thinking  :    last, 

she  fixt 
A   showery  glance  upon  her    aunt,  and 

said, 
'  You  —  tell  us  what  we  are,'  who  might 

have  told. 
For  she  was  cramm'd  with  theories  out 

of  books, 
But  that  there  rose  a  shout:    the  gates 

were  closed 
At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarming 

now, 
To    take   their  leave,  about  the  garden 

rails. 

So  I  and  some  went  out  to  these :  we 

climb'd 
The    slope  to  Vivian-place,  and  turning 

saw 
The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and  half 
Far-shadowing  from  the  west,  a  land  of 

peace; 
Gray  halls   alone    among   their    massive 

groves; 


Trim  hamlets;    here   and  there  a   rustic 

tower 
Half-lost  in  belts  of  hop  and  breadths  of 

wheat; 
The  shimmering   glimpses  of  a  stream; 

the  seas; 
A  red  sail,  or  a  white;   and  far  beyond. 
Imagined  more  than  seen,  the  skirts  of 

France. 

'  Look  there,  a  garden  I '  said  my  col- 
lege friend, 
The    Tory    member's    elder    son,    '  and 

there ! 
God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which    keeps 

her  off. 
And   keeps    our   Britain,    whole   within 

herself, 
A  nation  yet,  the  rulers  and  the  ruled  — 
Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a  faith, 
Some    reverence   for    the  laws  ourselves 

have  made. 
Some  patient  force  to  change  them  when 

we  will. 
Some    civic    manhood  firm    against    the 

crowd  — 
But  yonder,  whiff!  there  comes  a  sudden 

heat, 
The  gravest  citizen  seems  to  lose  his  head, 
The  king  is  scared,  the  soldier  will  not 

fight, 
The  little  boys  begin  to  shoot  and  stab, 
A  kingdom  topples  over  with  a  shriek 
Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls  the 

world 
In  mock  heroics  stranger  than  our  own; 
Revolts,  republics,  revolutions,  most 
No  graver  than  a  schoolboys'  barring  out ; 
Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they  are, 
Too  solemn    for    the    comic    touches   in 

them. 
Like    our  wild    Princess  with  as  wise  a 

dream 
As  some  of  theirs  —  God  bless  the  narrow 

seas ! 
I  wish  they  were  a  whole  Atlantic  broad.' 

'  Have  patience,'  I  replied,  *  ourselves 
are  full 
Of   social   wrong;     and    maybe   wildest 

dreams 
Are  but  the  needful  preludes  of  the  truth  : 
For  me,  the  genial  day,  the  happy  crowd, 


212 


ODE    ON   THE  DEATH   OF 


The  sport  half-science,  fill  me  with  a  faith. 
This  fine  old  world  of  ours  is  but  a  child 
Yet  in  the   go-cart.     Patience  !  Give   it 

time 
To  learn  its  limbs :  there  is  a  hand  that 

guides.' 

In  such  discourse  we  gain'd  the  garden 

rails, 
And  there  we  saw  Sir  Walter  where  he 

stood. 
Before  a  tower  of  crimson  holly- oaks, 
Among  six  boys,  head  under  head,  and 

look'd 
No  little  lily-handed  Baronet  he, 
A  great  broad-shoulder'd  genial  English- 
man, 
A  lord  of  fat  prize-oxen  and  of  sheep, 
A  raiser  of  huge  melons  and  of  pine, 
A  patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 
A  pamphleteer  on  guano  and  on  grain, 
A  quarter-sessions  chairman,  abler  none; 
Fair-hair'd  and  redder  than  a  windy  morn; 
Now  shaking  hands  with  him,  now  him, 

of  those 
That  stood  the  nearest  —  now  address'd 

to  speech  — 
Who  spoke  few  words  and  pithy,  such  as 

closed 
Welcome,  farewell,  and  welcome  for  the 

year 
To  follow :  a  shout  rose  again,  and  made 
The  long  line  of  the  approaching  rookery 

swerve 
From  the  elms,  and  shook  the  branches 

of  the  deer 
From  slope  to  slope  thro'  distant  ferns, 

and  rang 
Beyond  the  bourn  of  sunset;   O,  a  shout 
More  joyful  than  the  city-roar  that  hails 
Premier  or  king !    Why  should  not  these 

great  Sirs 
Give  up  their  parks  some  dozen  times  a 

year 
To   let  the  people    breathe?    So    thrice 

they  cried, 
I  likewise,  and  in  groups  they  stream'd 

away. 

But  we  went  back  to  the  Abbey,  and 
sat  on. 
So  much  the  gathering  darkness  charm'd  : 
we  sat 


But  spoke  not,  rapt  in  nameless  reverie, 
Perchance    upon    the    future    man :    the 

walls 
Blacken'd  about    us,   bats  wheel'd,    and 

owls  whoop'd, 
And  gradually  the  powers  of  the  night. 
That  range  above  the  region  of  the  wind, 
Deepening  the  courts  of  twilight  broke 

them  up 
Thro'  all  the  silent  spaces  of  the  worlds. 
Beyond  all  thought  into  the  Heaven  of 

Heavens. 

Last  little  Lilia,  rising  quietly. 
Disrobed  the  glimmering  statue    of    Sir 

Ralph 
From  those   rich   silks,  and  home  well- 
pleased  we  went. 


ODE   ON    THE    DEATH    OF    THE 
DUKE   OF  WELLINGTON. 

PUBLISHED    IN    1 852, 
I. 

Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation. 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To   the  noise  of  the  mourning   of  a 
mighty  nation, 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 

11. 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we 

deplore? 
Here,    in    streaming    London's    central 

roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 

III. 

Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe. 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 

And   let   the   sorrowing    crowd  about  it 

grow. 
And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow; 
The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 


THE   DUKE    OF   WELLINGTON. 


213 


IV. 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
Remembering    all    his    greatness    in  the 

Past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 
O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute  : 
Mourn    for    the    man  of  long-enduring 

blood, 
The   statesman-warrior,  moderate,    reso- 
lute, 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence. 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 
O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 
O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men 

drew, 
O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 
O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds 

that  blew  ! 
Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 
The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 
The    great  World-victor's  victor  will  be 
seen  no  more. 


V. 


All  is  over  and  done  : 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
England,  for  thy  son. 
Let  the  bell  be  toU'd. 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
And  render  him  to  the  mould. 
Under  the  cross  of  gold 
That  shines  over  city  and  river. 
There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 
Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 
And  a  reverent  people  behold 
The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds : 
Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd  deeds. 
Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 
Let  the  bell  be  toU'd  : 
And    a    deeper   knell    in    the   heart    be 
knoll'd; 


And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem 

roll'd 
Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross; 
And    the  volleying   cannon  thunder  his 

loss; 
He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 
For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 
His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 
Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom  : 
When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought. 
Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame; 
With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain 

taught 
The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame. 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 
A  man  of  well-temper'd  frame. 
O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 
To  such  a  name  for  ages  long. 
To  such  a  name. 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 
And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 


vr. 


Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honour'd 

guest. 
With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier 

and  with  priest. 
With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on 

my  rest? 
Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous 

man, 
The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 
To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes; 
For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea; 
His  foes  were  thine;   he  kept  us  free* 
O  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 
Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 
And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee; 
For  this  is  England's  greatest  son. 
He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 
Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun; 
This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 
Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won; 
And  underneath  another  sun, 
Warring  on  a  later  day, 


214 


ODE    ON   THE  DEATH   OF 


Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labour'd  rampart-lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamour  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms. 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadowing 

wings, 
And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings; 
Till   one    that   sought    but    Duty's   iron 

crown 
On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler 

down; 
A  day  of  onsets  of  despair  ! 
Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 
Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves 

away ; 
Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew; 
Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray. 
And  down  we  swept    and  charged   and 

overthrew. 
So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo  ! 
Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true. 
And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 
O  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 
O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 
If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine. 
If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 
Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by 

thine  ! 
And  thro'  the  centuries   let    a   people's 

voice 
In  full  acclaim, 
A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 
A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game. 
Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 


With    honour,   honour,   honour,    honour 

to  him, 
Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 

VII. 

A  people's  voice !  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all  men  else   their  nobler    dreams 

forget. 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless 

Powers ; 
Thank    Him    who    isled    us    here,    and 

roughly  set 
His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming 

showers. 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the 

debt 
Of   boundless    love    and    reverence    and 

regret 
To   those    great   men   who    fought,   and 

kept  it  ours. 
And   keep  it  ours,  O   God,   from  brute 

control; 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye, 

the  soul 
Of    Europe,    keep    our    noble    England 

whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom 

sown 
Betwixt    a    people    and    their     ancient 

throne. 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there 

springs 
Our   loyal    passion    for    our    temperate 

kings; 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save   man- 
kind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march 

of  mind. 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns 

be  just. 
But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts; 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the   seaward 

wall; 
Plis  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever;   and  whatever  tempests  lour 
For  ever  silent;    even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent;    yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who 

spoke; 


THE  DUKE    OF   WELLINGTON. 


215 


Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve   the 

hour, 
Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power; 
Who  let  the  turbid   streams  of  rumour 

flow 
Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and 

low ; 
Whose    life  was  work,  whose    language 

rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life; 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe; 
Whose    eighty  winters    freeze  with    one 

rebuke 
All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the 

right : 
Truth-teller   was    our    England's    Alfred 

named; 
Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke; 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

VIII. 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands. 
He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honour  shower'd  all  her  stars. 
And    affluent    Fortune    emptied    all   her 

horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great. 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island- 
story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory : 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  burst- 
ing 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 
On  with   toil    of  heart  and   knees    and 

hands, 
Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has 

won 
His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd, 
Shall   find  the    toppling  crags    of  Duty 
scaled 


Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and 

sun. 
Such  was  he  :   his  work  is  done. 
But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure. 
Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land. 
And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman 

pure : 
Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 
The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved 

from  shame 
For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
And    when    the     long-illumined     cities 

flame, 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame. 
With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to 

him. 
Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 

IX. 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see  : 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung : 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and 

brain 
Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 
Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain  I 
More  than  is  of  man's  degree 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 
Whom  we  see  not  we  revere; 
We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain. 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a  wise  humility 
As  befits  a  solemn  fane : 
We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity. 
Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 
There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to.  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 
For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 


2l6 


THE    THIRD    OF  FEBRUARY,   1832. 


And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will; 
Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads 

roll 
Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our 

trust. 
Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  peo- 
ple's ears : 
The  dark   crowd   moves,  and    there  are 

sobs  and  tears  : 
The    black    earth    yawns:     the    mortal 

disappears; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust; 
He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great.  — 
Gone;   but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  State, 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath   that  man  can  weave 

him. 
Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down. 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him, 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 

1852. 

THE  THIRD   OF   FEBRUARY, 

1852. 

My  Lords,  we  heard  you  speak :  you  told 

us  all 
That  England's   honest   censure  went 

too  far; 
That    our    free    press    should    cease    to 

brawl. 
Not   sting   the   fiery  Frenchman    into 

war. 
It  was  our  ancient  privilege,  my  Lords, 
To  fling  whate'er  we  felt,  not  fearing,  into 

words. 

We  love  not  this  French  God,  the  child 
of  Hell, 
Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse  of 
the  wise; 
But  though  we  love  kind  Peace  so  well, 
We  dare  not  ev'n  by  silence  sanction 
lies. 


It  might  be  safe  our  censures  to  with- 
draw; 

And  yet,  my  Lords,  not  well :  there  is  a 
higher  law. 

As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  speak 

free, 
Tho'  all  the  storm  of  Europe   on   us 

break; 
No  little  German  state  are  we. 

But  the  one  voice  in  Europe  :  we  must 

speak; 
That  if  to-night  our  greatness  were  struck 

dead. 
There  might  be  left  some  record  of  the 

things  we  said. 

If  you  be  fearful,  then  must  we  be  bold. 
Our    Britain    cannot    salve    a    tyrant 
o'er. 
Better  the  waste  x\tlantic  roll'd 

On    her    and    us    and    ours   for    ever- 
more. 
What !  have  we  fought  for  Freedom  from 

our  prime, 
At  last  to  dodge  and  palter  with  a  public 
crime? 

Shall  we  fear  him  ?   our  own  we  never 

fear'd. 
From   our    first   Charles  by   force  we 

wrung  our  claims. 
Prick'd  by  the  Papal  spur,  we  rear'd, 
We  flung  the  burthen  of  the  second 

James. 
I  say,  we  never  feared  !  and  as  for  these, 
We  broke  them  on  the  land,  we  drove 

them  on  the  seas. 

And  you,  my  Lords,  you  make  the  people 
muse 
In  doubt  if  you  be  of  our  Barons'  breed  — 
Were    those    your   sires   who    fought    at 
Lewes  ? 
Is  this  the  manly  strain  of  Runnymede? 
O  fall'n  nobility,  that,  overawed. 
Would  lisp  in  honey'd  whispers  of  this 
monstrous  fraud  ! 

/Ft'  feel,  at  least,  that  silence  here  were 
sin. 
Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have    feeble 
hosts  — 


THE    CHARGE    OF   THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


217 


If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 

Have  left  the  last  free  race  with  naked 

coasts ! 
They  knew  the  precious  things  they  had 

to  guard : 
For  us,  we  will  not  spare  the  tyrant  one 

hard  word. 

Tho'  niggard  throats  of  Manchester  may 

bawl, 
What  England  was,  shall  her  true  sons 

forget? 
We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all, 

But  some  love  England  and  her  honour 

yet. 
And    these    in    our    Thermopylae    shall 

stand, 
And  hold  against  the  world  this  honour 

of  the  land. 


THE   CHARGE   OF  THE   LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 

I. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
'  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns  !  '  he  said  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


'  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! ' 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd: 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
The.irs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

III. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 


Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

IV. 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there. 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not  — 

Not  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

VI. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honour  the  charge  they  made ! 
Honour  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred ! 


ODE  SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING 
OF  THE  INTERNATIONAL  EX- 
HIBITION.    . 

I. 

Uplift  a  thousand  voices  full  and  sweet, 
In  this  wide  hall  with  earth's  invention 

stored, 
And    praise    the    invisible    universal 
Lord, 
Who  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  nations 
meet. 


2l8 


A    WELCOME    TO   ALEXANDRA. 


Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labour  have 
outpour'd 
Their  myriad  horns  of  plenty  at  our  feet. 

II. 

O  silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 
Mourn'd  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee, 
For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks  to 
thee! 

III. 

The  world-compelling  plan  was  thine,  — 

And,  lo  !  the  long  laborious  miles 

Of  Palace;   lo  !  the  giant  aisles. 

Rich  in  model  and  design; 

Harvest-tool  and  husbandry. 

Loom  and  wheel  and  enginery. 

Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine, 

Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wine, 

Fabric  rough,  or  fairy-fine. 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  marvels,  and  a  feast 

Of  wonder,  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and'hues  of  Art  divine  ! 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  use. 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce, 

Brought  from  under  every  star. 
Blown  from  over  every  main. 
And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain, 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of  war. 

IV. 

Is  the  goal  so  far  away? 

Far,  how  far  no  tongue  can  say, 

Let  us  dream  our  dream  to-day. 


O  ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who 

reign. 
From  growing  commerce  loose  her  latest 

chain, 
And  let  the  fair  white-wing'd  peacemaker 

fly 
To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky, 
And   mix   the    seasons    and    the   golden 

hours; 
Till  each  man  find  his  own  in  all  men's 

good, 
And  all  men  work  in  noble  brothcrliood, 
Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and  armed 

towers, 


And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature's  powers. 
And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  earth  and 
crown'd  with  all  her  flowers. 

A   WELCOME  TO   ALEXANDRA. 

MARCH     7,     1863. 

Sea-KINGS'  daughter  from  over  the  sea, 

Alexandra  I 
Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 
But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of 

thee,  Alexandra  1 

Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of  fleet ! 
Welcome   her,  thundering  cheer  of  the 

street ! 
Welcome    her,   all  things    youthful  and 

sweet. 
Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet ! 
Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers ! 
Make  music,  O  bird,  in  the  new-budded 

bowers ! 
Blazon    your   mottoes    of    blessing   and 

prayer ! 
Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is 

ours ! 
Warble,  O  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare ! 
Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and  towers  ! 
Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare  ! 
Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire  ! 
Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March  air  ! 
Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire  ! 
Rush   to    the   roof,  sudden  rocket,   and 

higher 
Melt  into  stars  for  the  land's  desire  ! 
Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice, 
Roll    as    a   ground-swell  dash'd  on   the 

strand. 
Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the 

land. 
And  welcome  her,  welcome   the  land's 

desire. 
The  sea-kings'  daughter  as  happy  as  fair, 
Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir. 
Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the 

sea  — 
O  joy  to  the  people  and  joy  to  the  throne, 
Come  to  us,  love  us  and  make  us  your 

own : 
For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we. 
Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be, 
We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome  of 

thee,  Alexandra ! 


A    WELCOME    TO  ALEXANDROVNA. 


219 


A  WELCOME  TO  HER  ROYAL 
HIGHNESS  MARIE  ALEXAN- 
DROVNA, DUCHESS  OF  EDIN- 
BURGH. 

MARCH    7,    1874. 
I. 

The  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove 
for  power  — 
Whose  will  is  lord  thro'  all  his  world- 
domain  — 
Who  made  the  serf  a  man,  and  burst 
his  chain  — 
Has  given  our  Prince  his  own  imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 
And  welcome,  Russian  flower,  a  people's 
pride, 
To  Britain,  when  her  flowers  begin  to 

blow  I 
From  love  to  love,  from  home  to  home 
you  go. 
From  mother  unto  mother,  stately  bride, 
Marie  Alexandrovna ! 

II. 

The  golden  news  along  the  steppes  is 
blown. 
And  at  thy  name  the  Tartar  tents  are 

stirr'd ; 
Elburz    and    all    the    Caucasus   have 
heard; 
And  all  the  sultry  palms  of  India  known, 

Alexandrovna. 
The  voices  of  our  universal  sea 

On  capes  of  Afric  as  on  cliffs  of  Kent, 
The  Maoris  and  that  Isle  of  Continent, 
And  loyal  pines  of  Canada  murmur  thee, 
Marie  Alexandrovna ! 

III. 

Fair  empires  branching,  both,   in  lusty 

life !  — 
Yet  Harold's  England  fell  to  Norman 

swords; 
Yet    thine    own    land    has    l)Ow'd    to 

Tartar  hordes 


Since  English  Harold  gave  its  throne  a 
wife, 

Alexandrovna ! 
For  thrones  and  peoples  are  as  waifs  that 
swing. 
And  float  or  fall,  in  endless  ebb  and 

flow; 
But  who  love  best  have  best  the  grace 
to  know 
That  Love  by  right  divine   is  deathless 
king, 

Marie  Alexandrovna ! 

IV. 

And  Love  has  led  thee  to  the   stranger 
land, 
Where  men  are  bold  and  strongly  say 

their  say;  — 
See,    empire   upon    empire  smiles  to- 
day, 
As  thou  with  thy  young   lover  hand  in 
hand 

Alexandrovna ! 
So  now  thy  fuller  life  is  in  the  west. 
Whose  hand  at  home  was  gracious  to 

thy  poor: 
Thy  name  was  blest  within  the  narrow 
door; 
Here  also  Marie,  shall  thy  name  be  blest, 
Marie  Alexandrovna ! 


Shall  fears   and    jealous    hatreds    flame 
again  ? 
Or   at    thy   coming,    Princess,    every- 
where. 
The    blue    heaven    break,    and    some 
diviner  air 
Breathe  thro'  the  world  and  change  the 
hearts  of  men, 

Alexandrovna? 
But   hearts   that   change  not,  love    that 
cannot  cease. 
And  peace  be  yours,  the  peace  of  soul 

in  soul ! 
And  howsoever  this  wild  world  may  roll, 
Between  your  peoples  truth  and  manful 
peace, 

Alfred  —  Alexandrovna  I 


220  THE    GRANDMOTHER. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  is  gone,  you  say,  little  Anne? 
Ruddy  and  white,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  he  looks  like  a  man. 
And  Willy's  wife  has  written :  she  never  was  over-wise. 
Never  the  wife  for  Willy :  he  wouldn't  take  my  advice. 

II. 

For,  Annie,  you  see,  her  father  was  not  the  man  to  save, 
Hadn't  a  head  to  manage,  and  drank  himself  into  his  grave. 
Pretty  enough,  very  pretty !  but  I  was  against  it  for  one. 
Eh!  —  but  he  wouldn't  hear  me  —  and  Willy,  you  say,  is  gone. 

III. 

Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  the  flower  of  the  flock ; 

Never  a  man  could  fling  him :  for  Willy  stood  like  a  rock. 

*  Here's  a  leg  for  a  babe  of  a  week  ! '  says  doctor;   and  he  would  be  bound, 

There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes  round. 

IV. 

Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue ! 
I  ought  to  have  gone  before  him :  I  wonder  he  went  so  young. 
I  cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie  :   I  have  not  long  to  stay; 
Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  he  lived  far  away. 

V. 

Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie?  you  think  I  am  hard  and  cold; 
But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me,  I  am  so  old : 
I  cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I  weep  for  the  rest; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

VI. 

For  I  remember  a  quarrel  I  had  with  your  father,  my  dear. 
All  for  a  slanderous  story,  that  cost  me  many  a  tear. 
I  mean  your  grandfather,  Annie :  it  cost  me  a  world  of  woe, 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

VII. 

For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I  knew  right  well 
That  Jenny  had  tript  in  her  time :  I  knew,  but  I  would  not  tell. 
And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me,  the  base  little  liar  ! 
But  the  tongue  is  a  fire  as  you  know,  my  dear,  the  tongue  is  a  fire. 

VIII. 

And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that  week,  and  he  said  likewise, 
That  a  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies. 
That  a  lie  which  is  all  a  lie  may  be  met  and  fought  with  outright, 
But  a  lie  which  is  part  a  truth  is  a  harder  matter  to  fight. 


THE    GRANDMOTHER.  221 


IX. 


And  Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a  week  and  a  day; 
And  all  things  look'd  half-dead,  tho'  it  was  the  middle  of  May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been ! 
But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  oneself  clean. 


X. 


And  I  cried  myself  well-nigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  late 

I  climb'd  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and  stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate. 

The  moon  like  a  rick  on  tire  was  rising  over  the  dale. 

And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me  chirrupt  the  nightingale. 


xr. 


All  of  a  sudden  he  stopt :  there  past  by  the  gate  of  the  farm, 
Willy,  —  he  didn't  see  me,  —  and  Jenny  hung  on  his  arm. 
Out  into  the  road  I  started,  and  spoke  I  scarce  knew  how; 
Ah,  there's  no  fool  like  the  old  one  —  it  makes  me  angry  now. 


XII. 


Willy  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  look'd  the  thing  that  he  meant; 
Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a  mocking  curtsey  and  went. 
And  I  said,  '  Let  us  part :  in  a  hundred  years  it'll  all  be  the  same, 
You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love  not  my  good  name.' 


XIII. 


And  he  turn'd,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine ; 
'  Sweetheart,  I  love  you  so  well  that  your  good  name  is  mine. 
And  what  do  I  care  for  Jane,  let  her  speak  of  you  well  or  ill; 
But  marry  me  out  of  hand :  we  two  shall  be  happy  still.' 


XIV. 


'  Marry  you,  Willy ! '  said  I,  '  but  I  needs  must  speak  my  mind, 
And  I  fear  you'll  listen  to  tales,  be  jealous  and  hard  and  unkind.' 
But  he  turn'd  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer'd,  'No,  love,  no; 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 


XV. 


So  Willy  and  I  were  wedded :  I  wore  a  lilac  gown; 
And  the  ringers  rang  with  a  will,  and  he  gave  the  ringers  a  crown. 
But  the  first  that  ever  I  bare  was  dead  before  he  was  born, 
Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie,  flower  and  thorn. 


XVI. 


That  was  the  first  time,  too,  that  ever  I  thought  of  death. 

There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  that  never  had  drawn  a  breath. 

I  had  not  wept,  little  Anne,  not  since  I  had  been  a  wife; 

But  I  wept  like  a  child  that  day,  for  the  babe  had  fought  for  his  life. 


222  THE    GRANDMOTHER. 


XVII. 

His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or  pain : 

I  look'd  at  the  still  little  body  —  his  trouble  had  all  been  in  vain. 

For  Willy  I  cannot  weep,  I  shall  see  him  another  morn : 

But  I  wept  like  a  child  for  the  child  that  was  dead  before  he  was  born. 

XVIII. 

But  he  cheer'd  me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said  me  nay  : 
Kind,  like  a  man,  was  he;   like  a  man,  too,  would  have  his  way : 
Never  jealous  —  not  he:  we  had  many  a  happy  year; 
And  he  died,  and  I  could  not  weep  —  my  own  time  seem'd  so  near. 

XIX. 

But  I  wish'd  it  had  been  God's  will  that  I,  too,  then  could  have  died  : 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his  side. 
And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more,  if  I  don't  forget : 
But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they're  all  about  me  yet. 

XX. 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie  who  left  me  at  two, 
Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an  Annie  like  you : 
Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her  will, 
While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughing  the  hill. 

XXI. 

And  Harry  and  Charlie,  I  hear  them  too  —  they  sing  to  their  team : 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a  pleasant  kind  of  a  dream. 
They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my  bed  — 
I  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 

XXII. 

And  yet  I  know  for  a  truth,  there's  none  of  them  left  alive; 
For  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at  sixty-five  : 
And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  at  nigh  threescore  and  ten; 
I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they're  elderly  men. 

XXIII. 

For  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  it  is  not  often  I  grieve; 
I  am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  father's  farm  at  eve : 
And  the  neighbours  come  and  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so  do  I; 
I  find  myself  often  laughing  at  things  that  have  long  gone  by. 

XXIV. 

To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins  should  make  us  sad : 
But  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  and  there  is  Grace  to  be  had; 
And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all  when  life  shall  cease; 
And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of  Peace. 


NORTHERN  FARMER.  223 


XXV. 

And  age  is  a  time  of  peace,  so  it  be  free  from  pain, 
And  happy  has  been  my  hfe;   but  I  would  not  live  it  again. 
I  seem  to  be  tired  a  little,  that's  all,  and  long  for  rest; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

XXV]. 

So  Willy  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  my  flower; 
But  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for  an  hour,  — 
Gone  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the  next; 
I,  too,  shall  go  in  a  minute.     What  time  have  I  to  be  vext? 

XXVII. 

And  Willy's  wife  has  written,  she  never  was  over-wise. 

Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie  :  thank  God  that  I  keep  my  eyes. 

There  is  but  a  trifle  left  you,  when  I  shall  have  past  away. 

But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now :  you  cannot  have  long  to  stay. 


NORTHERN   FARMER. 

OLD    STYLE. 


Wheer  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin'  'ere  aloan? 
Noorse?  thourt  nowt  o'  a  noorse:   whoy.  Doctor's  abean  an'  agoan : 
Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  aale  :  but  I  beant  a  fool  : 
Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  I  beant  a-gawin'  to  break  my  rule. 


Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  a  says  what's  nav/ways  true : 
Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things  that  a  do. 
I've  'ed  my  point  o'  aale  ivry  noight  sin'  I  bean  'ere. 
An'  I've  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight  for  foorty  year. 

III. 

Parson's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin'  'ere  o'  my  bed. 

*  The  amoighty's  a  taakin  o'  you  ^  to  'issen,  my  friend,'  a  said. 

An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an's  toithe  were  due,  an'  I  gied  it  in  hond; 

I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um,  as  I  'a  done  boy  the  lond. 

IV. 

Larn'd  a  ma'  bea.     I  reckons  I  'annot  sa  mooch  to  lam. 

But  a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,  'bout  Bessy  Marris's  barne. 

Thaw  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire  an'  choorch  an'  staate, 

An'  i'  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  niver  agin  the  raate. 

1  ou  as  in  hour. 


224  NORTHERN  FARMER. 


V. 

An'  I  hallus  coom'd  to  's  chooch  afoor  moy  Sally  wur  dead, 
An'  'card  'um  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a  buzzard-clock  ^  ower  my  'ead, 
An'  1  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I  thowt  a  'ad  summut  to  saay, 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said  an'  I  coom'd  awaay. 

VI. 

Bessy  Harris's  barne  !   tha  knaws  she  laaid  it  to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  un,  shea. 
'Siver,  I  kep  'um,  I  kep  'um  my  lass,  tha  mun  understond; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um  as  I  'a  done  boy  the  lond. 

VII. 

But  Parson  a  cooms  an'  a  goas,  an'  a  says  it  easy  an'  freea 

'The  amoighty's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,'  says  'ea. 

I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summun  said  it  in  'aaste : 

But  'e  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  I  'a  stubb'd  Thurnaby  waaste. 

VIII. 

D'ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass?  naw,  naw,  tha  was  not  born  then; 

Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'eard  'um  mysen; 

Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,^  fur  I  'eard  'um  about  an'  about. 

But  I  stubb'd  'um  oop  wi'  the  lot,  an'  raaved  an'  rembled  'um  out. 

IX. 

Reaper's  it  wur;   fo'  they  fun  'um  theer  a-laaid  of  'is  faace 
Down  i'  the  woild  'enemies  ^  afoor  I  coom'd  to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby  —  toaner  *  'ed  shot  'um  as  dead  as  a  naail. 
Noaks  wur  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soize  — but  git  ma  my  aale. 


Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste:    theer  warn't  not  feead  for  a  cow; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  loook  at  it  now  — 
Warnt  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer's  lots  o'  feead, 
Fourscoor  ^  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it  down  i'  seead.^ 

XI, 

Nobbut  a  bit  on  it's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a  stubb'd  it  at  fall, 

Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd  plow  thruff  it  an'  all, 

If  godamoighty  an'  parson  'ud  nobbut  let  ma  aloan, 

Mea,  wi'  haate  hoonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's,  an'  lond  o'  my  oan. 

XII. 

Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a's  doing  a-taakin'  o'  mea? 

I  beant  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an'  yonder  a  pea; 

An'  Squoire  'ull  be  sa  mad  an'  all  —  a'  dear  a'  dear  ! 

And  I  'a  managed  for  Squoire  coom  Michaelmas  thutty  year. 

^  Cockchafer.  ^  Bittern.  ^  Anemones.  *  One  or  other.  •''•  ou  as  in  hour.  ^  Clover 


NORTHERN  FARMER.  225 


XIII, 

A  mowt  'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  'ant  not  a  'aapoth  o'  sense, 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taaen  young  Robins  —  a  niver  mended  a  fence  : 
But  godamoighty  a  moost  taake  mea  an'  taake  ma  now 
Wi'  aaf  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thurnaby  hoalms  to  plow ! 

XIV. 

Loook  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  seeas  ma  a  passin'  boy, 
Says  to  thessen  naw  doubt  '  what  a  man  a  bea  sewer-loy  !  ' 
Fur  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a  coom'd  to  the  'AH; 
I  done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  moy  duty  boy  hall. 

XV. 

Squoire's  i'  Lunnon,  an'  summun  I  reckons  'ull  'a  to  wroite, 
For  whoa's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot  muddles  ma  quoit; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea,  thot  a  weant  niver  give  it  to  Joanes, 
Naw,  nor  a  moant  to  Robins — a  niver  rembles  the  stoans. 

XVI. 

But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi'  'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds  wi'  the  Divil's  oan  team. 
Sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  thaw  loife  they  says  is  sweet, 
But  sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn  abear  to  see  it. 

XVII. 

What  atta  stannin'  theer  fur,  an'  doesn  bring  ma  the  aale? 
Doctor's  a  'toattler,  lass,  an  a's  hallus  i'  the  owd  taale; 
I  weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a  knaws  naw  moor  nor  a  floy; 
Git  ma  my  aale  I  tell  tha,  an'  if  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy. 


NORTHERN   FARMER. 

NEW   STYLE. 
I. 

Dosn't  thou  'ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as  they  canters  awaay? 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  —  that's  what  I  'ears  'em  saay. 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — Sam,  thou's  an  ass  for  thy  paalns: 
Theer's  moor  sense  i'  one  o'  'is  legs  nor  in  all  thy  braains. 

II. 

Woa  —  theer's  a  craw  to  pluck  wi'  tha,  Sam :  yon's  parson's  'ouse  • 
Dosn't  thou  knaw  that  a  man  mun  be  eather  a  man  or  a  mouse? 
Time  to  think  on  it  then;   for  thou'U  be  twenty  to  weeak.^ 
Proputty,  proputty  — woa  then  woa  —  let  ma  'ear  mysen  speak. 

^  This  week. 


226  NORTHERN  FARMER. 


III. 


Me  an'  thy  niuther,  Sammy,  'as  bean  a-talkin'  o'  thee; 
Thou's  bean  talkin'  to  muther,  an'  she  bean  a  tellin'  it  me. 
Thou'll  not  marry  for  munny  —  thou's  sweet  upo'  parson's  lass  — 
JSToa  —  thou'll  marry  for  luvv  —  an'  we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 

IV. 

Seea'd  her  todaay  goa  by  —  Saaint's-daay  —  they  was  ringing  the  bells. 
She's  a  beauty  thou  thinks  —  an'  soa  is  scoors  o'  gells, 
Them  as  'as  munny  an'  all  —  wot's  a  beauty? —  the  flower  as  blaws. 
But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an'  proputty,  proputty  graws. 

V. 

Do'ant  be  stunt :  ^  taake  time  :  I  knaws  what  maakes  tha  sa  mad. 
Warn't  I  craazed  fur  the  lasses  mysen  when  I  wur  a  lad  ? 
But  I  knaw'd  a  Quaaker  feller  as  often  'as  towd  ma  this : 
*  Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goa  wheer  munny  is  I ' 

VI. 

An'  I  went  wheer  munny  war :   an'  thy  muther  coom  to  'and, 
Wi'  lots  o'  munny  laaid  by,  an'  a  nicetish  bit  o'  land. 
Maaybe  she  warn't  a  beauty :  —  I  niver  giv  it  a  thowt  — 
But  warn't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an'  kiss  as  a  lass  as  'ant  newt? 

VII. 

Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weant  'a  nowt  when  'e's  dead, 
Mun  be  a  guvness,  lad,  or  suramut,  and  addle-  her  bread: 
Why?  fur  'e's  nobbut  a  curate,  an'  weant  niver  git  hissen  clear, 
An'  'e  maade  the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on  afoor  'e  coom'd  to  the  shere. 

VIII. 

'An  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi'  lots  o'  Varsity  debt, 
Stook  to  his  taail  they  did,  an'  'e  'ant  got  shut  on  'em  yet. 
An'  'e  ligs  on  'is  l^ack  i'  the  grip,  wi'  noan  to  lend  'im  a  shuvv, 
Woorse  nor  a  far-welter'd  ^  yowe :  fur,  Sammy,  'e  married  fur  luvv. 

IX. 

Luw?  what's  luvv?  thou  can  luvv  thy  lass  an'  'er  munny  too, 
Maakin'  'em  goa  togither  as  they've  good  right  to  do. 
Couldn  I  luvv  thy  niuther  by  cause  o'  'er  munny  laaid  by? 
Naay  —  fur  I  luvv'd  'er  a  vast  sight  moor  fur  it :  reason  why. 

X. 

Ay  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to  marry  the  lass, 
Cooms  of  a  gentleman  burn  :  an'  we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 
Woa  then,  proputty,  wiltha?  —  an  ass  as  near  as  mays  nowt*  — 
Woa  then,  wiltha?  dangtha !  —  the  bees  is  as  fell  as  owt.^ 

^  Obstinate.  ^  Eam.  ^  Qr  fow-welter'd,  —  said  of  a  sheep  lying  on  its  back. 

*  Makes  nothing.  °  The  flies  are  as  fierce  as  anything. 


NORTHERN  FARMER— THE   DAISY 


227 


XI. 


Break  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'ead,  lad,  out  o'  the  fence  I 
Gentleman  burn  !   what's  gentleman  burn?  is  it  shillins  an'  pence? 
Proputty,  proputty's  ivrything  'ere,  an',  Sammy,  I'm  blest 
If  it  isn't  the  saame  oop  yonder,  fur  them  as  'as  it's  the  best. 


XII. 


Tis'n  them  as  'as  munny  as  breaks  into  'ouses  an'  steals, 
Them  as  'as  coats  to  their  backs  an'  taakes  their  regular  meals. 
Noa,  but  it's  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer  a  meal's  to  be  'ad. 
Taake  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor  in  a  loomp  is  bad. 


XIII. 


Them  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  'a  bean  a  laazy  lot. 

Fur  work  mun  'a  gone  to  the  gittiu'  whiniver  munny  was  got. 

Feyther  'ad  ammost  nowt;    leastways  'is  munny  was  'id. 

But  'e  tued  an'  moil'd  'issen  dead,  an'  'e  died  a  good  un,  'e  did. 


XIV. 


Loook  thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck  cooms  out  by  the  'ill ! 
Feyther  run  oop  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs  oop  to  the  mill; 
An'  I'll  run  oop  to  the  brig,  an'  that  thou'U  live  to  see; 
And  if  thou  marries  a  good  un  I'll  leave  the  land  to  thee. 


XV. 


Thim's  my  noations,  Sammy,  wheerby  I  means  to  stick; 
But  if  thou  marries  a  bad  un,  I'll  leave  the  land  to  Dick. — 
Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty  —  that's  what  I  'ears  'im  saay  — 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  —  canter  an'  canter  awaay. 


THE  DAISY. 

WRITTEN   AT   EDINBURGH. 

O    LOVE,  what    hours    were    thine    and 

mine. 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  show'd 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow'd. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heaved  with  a  summer  swell. 


What  slender  campanili  grew 
By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue; 
Where,    here    and    there,    on    sandy 
beaches 
A  milky-bell'd  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem'd  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain  cor- 
nice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove, 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim; 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stay'd  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most, 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast; 


228 


THE  DAISY. 


But  distant  colour,  happy  hamlet, 
A  moulder'd  citadel  on  the  coast, 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine, 

Where  oleanders  flush' d  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a  mountain  head. 

We  loved  that  hall,  tho'  white  and  cold, 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 

A  princely  people's  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours. 
In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascine, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 

In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter'd, 
Thro'  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plague  of  rain  ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look'd  the  Lombard  piles; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires, 
The  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires, 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  the 
glory ! 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires  ! 

1  climb'd  the  roofs  at  break  of  day 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly-flush'd,  how  phantom-fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-pencill'd  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 


Remember  how  we  came  at  last 
To  Como;   shower  and  storm  and  blast 
Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded;   and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray. 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day. 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way, 

Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept. 
As  on  the  Lariano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 

The   moonlight   touching   o'er   a   ter- 
race 
One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 

What  more?  we  took  our  last  adieu. 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew. 

But  ere  we  reach'd  the  highest  sum- 
mit 
I  pluck'd  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me, 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea; 

So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  the'  crush'd  to  hard  and  dry. 
This  nurseling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me. 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by : 

And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 
The    gloom    that    saddens    Heaven    and 
Earth, 
The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain, 
Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  beside 
me. 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


TO    THE   REV.   F.   D.    MAURICE— WILL. 


229 


TO    THE    REV.    F.    D.    MAURICE. 

Come,  when  no  graver  cares  employ, 
Godfather,  come  and  see  your  boy : 

Your  presence  will  be  sun  in  winter, 
Making  the  little  one  leap  for  joy. 

For,  being  of  that  honest  few. 
Who  give  the  Fiend  himself  his  due, 
Should  eighty-thousand  college-coun- 
cils 
Thunder  '  Anathema,'  friend,  at  you; 

Should  all  our  churchmen  foam  in  spite 
At  you,  so  careful  of  the  right. 

Yet   one   lay-hearth   would    give    you 
welcome 
(Take  it  and  come)  to  the  Isle  of  Wight; 

Where,  far  from  noise  and  smoke  of  town, 
I  watch  the  twilight  falling  brown 

All  round  a  careless-order'd  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a  noble  down. 

You'll  have  no  scandal  while  you  dine, 
But  honest  talk  and  wholesome  wine. 

And  only  hear  the  magpie  gossip 
Garrulous  under  a  roof  of  pine  : 

For  groves  of  pine  on  either  hand, 
To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand  ; 

And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a  billow  on  chalk  and  sand; 

Where,  if  below  the  milky  steep 
Some  ship  of  battle  slowly  creep. 

And  on  thro'  zones  of  light  and  shadow 
Glimmer  away  to  the  lonely  deep. 

We  might  discuss  the  Northern  sin 
Which  made  a  selfish  war  begin; 

Disputethe  claims,  arrange  the  chances; 
Emperor,  Ottoman,  which  shall  win  : 

Or  whether  war's  avenging  rod 
Shall  lash  all  Europe  into  blood; 

Till  you  should  turn  to  dearer  matters. 
Dear  to  the  man  that  is  dear  to  God; 

How  best  to  help  the  slender  store. 
How  mend  the  dwellings,  of  the  poor; 

How  gain  in  life,  as  life  advances, 
Valour  and  charity  more  and  more. 


Come,  Maurice,  come :  the  lawn  as  yet 
Is  hoar  with  rime,  or  spongy-wet; 

But  when   the   wreath  of   March   has 
blossom'd. 
Crocus,  anemone,  violet, 

Or  later,  pay  one  visit  here. 

For  those  are  few  we  hold  as  dear; 

Nor  pay  but  one,  but  come  for  many, 
Many  and  many  a  happy  year. 

Jamiary,  1854. 

WILL. 


O  WELL  for  him  whose  will  is  strong ! 
He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long; 
He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong : 
For    him    nor    moves    the    loud    world's 

random  mock, 
Nor  all  Calamity's  hugest  waves  confound. 
Who  seems  a  promontory  of  rock, 
That,    compass'd    round   with    turbulent 

sound. 
In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock, 
Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crown'd. 


But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with 
time. 

Corrupts  the  strength  of  heaven-de- 
scended W'ill, 

And  ever  weaker  grows  thro' acted  crime. 

Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault. 

Recurring  and  suggesting  still ! 

He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps  halt, 

Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand, 

And  o'er  a  weary  sultry  land, 

Far  beneath  a  blazing  vault, 

Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  monstrous  hill, 

The  c-ty  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 

IN  THE  VALLEY   OF 
CAUTERETZ. 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest 

white, 
Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening 

of  the  night, 
All    along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters 

flow, 


230      IN   THE   GARDEN  AT  SWAINSTON— THE  SAILOR  BOY. 


I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and  thirty 

years  ago. 
All  along  the  valley,  while  I  walk'd  to- 
day, 
The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist  that 

rolls  away; 
For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky 

bed, 
Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice 

of  the  dead, 
And    all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and 

cave  and  tree. 
The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice 

to  me. 


IN    THE  GARDEN   AT 
SWAINSTON. 

Nightingales  warbled  without, 
Within  was  weeping  for  thee  : 

Shadows  of  three  dead  men 
Walk'd  in  the  walks  w  ith  me, 
Shadows  of  three  dead  men  and  thou 
wast  one  of  the  three. 

Nightingales  sang  in  his  woods  : 

The  Master  was  far  away  : 
Nightingales  warbled  and  sang 

Of  a  passion  that  lasts  but  a  day  ; 

Still  in  the  house  in  his  coffin  the  Prince 
of  courtesy  lay. 

Two  dead  men  have  I  known 
In  courtesy  like  to  thee  : 

Two  dead  men  have  I  loved 
With  a  love  that  will  ever  be  : 
Three  dead  men  have  I  loved  and  thou 
art  last  of  the  three. 


THE   FLOWER. 

Once  in  a  golden  hour 
I  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 

Up  there  came  a  flower, 
The  people  said,  a  weed. 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro'  my  garden-bower. 

And  muttering  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  flower. 


Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a  crown  of  light. 

But  thieves  from  o'er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 

Sow'd  it  far  and  wide 

By  every  town  and  tower, 

Till  all  the  people  cried, 
'  Splendid  is  the  flower.' 

Read  my  little  fable  : 
He  that  runs  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough. 
And  some  are  poor  indeed; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a  weed. 


REQUIESCAT. 

Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place. 

Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly  slowly 
glides. 
It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 

Dream  in  the  sliding  tides. 

And  fairer  she,  but  ah  how  soon  to  die ! 

Her  quiet  dream  of  life  this  hour  may 
cease. 
Her  peaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 

To  some  more  perfect  peace. 


THE   SAILOR   BOY. 

He  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope. 
Shot  o'er  the  seething  harbour-bar, 

And    reach'd   the    ship    and  caught  the 
rope, 
And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a  fierce  mermaiden  cry, 

'  O  hoy,  tho'  thou  art  young  and  proud, 
I  see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 

'  Tlie  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 
In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 

And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks, 
And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall  play.' 


THE  ISLE  T—  CHILD-SONGS. 


231 


'  Fool,'  he  answer'd,  '  death  is  sure 

To  those  that  stay  and  those  that  roam, 

But  I  will  nevermore  endure 

To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

'  My  mother  clings  about  my  neck, 
My  sisters  crying,  "  Stay  for  shame;  " 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck, 
They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to 
blame. 

'  God  help  me  !  save  I  take  my  part 
Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 

A  devil  rises  in  my  heart. 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me.' 


THE   ISLET. 

'  Whither,  O  whither,  love,  shall  we  go,' 
For  a  score  of  sweet  little  summers  or  so  ? 
The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said. 
On  the  day  that  foUow'd  the  day  she  was 
wed, 

*  Whither,  O  whither,  love,  shall  we  go?  ' 
And  the  singer  shaking  his  curly  head 
Turn'd  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a  sudden  crash. 
Singing.  '  And  shall  it  be  over  the  seas 
W^ith    a    crew  that   is   neither  rude   nor 

rash, 
But  a  bevy  of  Eroses  apple-cheek'd. 
In  a  shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak'd, 
With  a  satin  sail  of  a  ruby  glow. 
To  a  sweet  little  Eden  on  earth  that  I 

know, 
A  mountain  islet  pointed  and  peak'd? 
Waves  on  a  diamond  shingle  dash. 
Cataract  brooks  to  the  ocean  run, 
Fairily-delicate  palaces  shine 
Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine, 
And  overstream'd  and  silvery-streak'd 
With  many  a   rivulet   high    against   the 

Sun 
The  facets  of  the  glorious  mountain  flash 
Above  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine.' 

'  Thither,  O  thither,  love,  let  us  go.' 

*  No,  no.  no  I 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  isle,  my  dear, 
There   is   but    one    bird  with  a  musical 
throat, 


And  his  compass  is  but  of  a  single  note, 
That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear.' 

*  Mock  me  not  1  mock  me  not  1   love,  let 
us  go.' 

'  Xo,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom  on 

the  tree, 
And  a  storm  never  wakes  on  the  lonely 

sea, 
And  a  worm  is  there  in  the  lonely  wood  ; 
That  pierces  the  liver  and  blackens  the 

blood; 
And  makes  it  a  sorrow  to  be.' 


CHILD-SONGS. 

I. 

THE  CITY  CHILD. 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would  you 
wander  ? 
Whither  from    this    pretty  home,   the 
home  where  mother  dwells? 
*  Yzx  and  far  away,'  said  the  dainty  little 

maiden, 
'  All     among     the     gardens,     auriculas, 
anemones, 
Roses  and  lilies  and  Canterbury-bells.' 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would  you 
wander? 
Whither  from   this  pretty  house,  this 
city-house  of  ours? 

'  Far  and  far  away,'  said  the  dainty  little 
maiden, 

'  All  among  the  meadows,  the  clover  and 
the  clematis, 
Daisies  and  kingcups  and  honeysuckle- 
flowers.' 

II. 
MINNIE  AND   WINNIE. 

Minnie  and  Winnie 

Slept  in  a  shell. 
.Sleep,  little  ladies ! 

And  they  slept  well. 

Pink  was  the  shell  within. 
Silver  without; 


232 


THE   SPITEFUL  LETTER—  THE    VICTLM. 


Sounds  of  the  great  sea 
Wander'd  about. 

Sleep,  little  ladies ! 

Wake  not  soon ! 
Echo  on  echo 

Dies  to  the  moon. 

Two  bright  stars 

Peep'd  into  the  shell. 

*  "What  are  they  dreaming  of? 
Who  can  tell?' 

Started  a  green  linnet 

Out  of  the  croft; 
Wake,  little  ladies, 

The  sun  is  aloft ! 


THE   SPITEFUL   LETfER. 

Here,  it  is  here,  the  close  of  the  year, 

And  with  it  a  spiteful  letter. 
My  name  in  song  has  done  him  much 
wrong, 

For  himself  has  done  much  better. 

0  little  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard, 
If  men  neglect  your  pages? 

1  think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine, 

I  hear  the  roll  of  the  ages. 

Rhymes  and  rhymes  in  the  range  of  the 
times ! 

Are  mine  for  the  moment  stronger? 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide  your  lot, 

I  last  but  a  moment  longer. 

This  faded  leaf,  our  names  are  as  brief; 

What  room  is  left  for  a  hater? 
Yet  the  yellow   leaf  hates  the  greener 
leaf. 

For  it  hangs  one  moment  later. 

Greater  than  I  —  is  that  your  cry? 

And  men  will  live  to  see  it. 
Well  —  if  it  be  so  —  so  it  is,  you  know; 

And  if  it  be  so,  so  be  it. 

Brief,  brief  is  a  summer  leaf, 
But  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 

O  hollies  and  ivies  and  evergreens, 
How  I  hate  the  spites  and  the  follies ! 


LITERARY   SQUABBLES. 

Ah  God  !  the  petty  fools  of  rhyme 
That  shriek  and  sweat  in  pigmy  wars 

Before  the  stony  face  of  Time, 
And  look'd  at  by  the  silent  stars : 

Who  hate  each  other  for  a  song. 
And  do  their  little  best  to  bite 

And  pinch  their  brethren  in  the  throng, 
And  scratch  the  very  dead  for  spite : 

And  strain  to  make  an  inch  of  room 
For  their  sweet  selves,  and  cannot  hear 

The  sullen  Lethe  rolling  doom 

On  them  and  theirs  and  all  things  here  : 

W^hen  one  small  touch  of  Charity 

Could  lift  them  nearer  God-like  state 

Than  if  the  crowded  Orb  should  cry 
Like  those  who  cried  Diana  great : 

And  I  too,  talk,  and  lose  the  touch 

I  talk  of.     Surely,  after  all. 
The  noblest  answer  unto  such 

Is  perfect  stillness  when  they  brawl. 

THE  VICTIM. 


A  PLAGUE  upon  the  people  fell, 
A  famine  after  laid  them  low. 
Then  thorpe  and  byre  arose  in  fire. 

For  on  them  brake  the  sudden  foe; 
So  thick  they  died  the  people  cried, 

'  The  Gods  are  moved  against  the  land.' 
The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 
To  Thor  and  Odin  lifted  a  hand  : 
'  Help  us  from  famine 
And  plague  and  strife  ! 
What  would  you  have  of  us? 
Human  life  ? 
Were  it  our  nearest. 
Were  it  our  dearest, 
(Answer,  O  answer) 
We  give  you  his  life.* 


But  still  the  foeman  spoil'd  and  burn'd. 
And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood. 

And  bird  in  air,  and  fishes  turn'd 
And  whiten'd  all  the  rolling  flood; 


THE    VICTIM— WAGES. 


233 


And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way, 
Or    down    in    a    furrow   scathed   with 
flame : 
And  ever  and  aye  the  Priesthood  moan'd. 
Till  at  last  it  seem'd  that  an  answer 
came. 
'The  King  is  happy 
In  child  and  wife; 
Take  you  his  dearest, 
Give  us  a  life.' 

III. 

The  Priest  went  out  by  heath  and  hill; 

The  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild; 
They  found  the  mother  sitting  still; 

She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 
The  child  was  only  eight  summers  old, 
His    beauty    still    with    his    years    in- 
creased. 
His  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold, 
He  seem'd  a  victim  due  to  the  priest. 
The  Priest  beheld  him, 
And  cried  with  joy, 
*  The  Gods  have  answer'd  : 
We  give  them  the  boy.' 

IV. 

The  King  return'd  from  out  the  wild. 

He  bore  but  little  game  in  hand; 
The  mother  said,  'They  have  taken  the 
child 

To  spill  his  blood  and  heal  the  land : 
The  land  is  sick,  the  people  diseased, 

And    blight    and    famine    on    all    the 
lea : 
The  holy  Gods,  they  must  be  appeased, 

So  I  pray  you  tell  the  truth  to  me. 


They  have  taken  our  son, 
They  will  have  his  life. 
Is  he  your  dearest? 
Or  I,  the  wife?' 


The  King  bent  low,  with  hand  on  brow, 

He  stay'd  his  arms  upon  his  knee  : 
'  O  wife,  what  use  to  answer  now? 

For  now  the  Priest  has  judged  for  me.' 
The  King  was  shaken  with  holy  fear; 
'  The  Gods,'  he  said, '  would  have  chosen 
well; 
Yet  both  are  near,  and  both  are  dear, 
And  which  the  dearest  I  cannot  tell !  ' 
But  the  Priest  was  happy, 
His  victim  won : 
'  We  have  his  dearest, 
His  only  son  !  ' 

VI. 

The  rites  prepared,  the  victim  bared. 
The  knife  uprising  toward  the  blow 
To  the  altar-stone  she  sprang  alone, 

*  Me,  not  my  darling,  no  !  ' 
He  caught  her  away  with  a  sudden  cry; 

Suddenly  from  him  brake  his  wife, 
And  shrieking  '  /  am  his  dearest,  I  — 
/    am   his   dearest !  '    rush'd    on    the 
knife. 
And  the  Priest  was  happy, 
'O,  Father  Odin, 
We  give  you  a  life. 
Which  was  his  nearest? 
Who  was  his  dearest? 
The  Gods  have  answer'd  ; 
We  give  them  the  wife ! ' 


WAGES. 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song. 

Paid  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost  on  an  endless  sea  — 

Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right  the  wrong  — 
Nay,  but  she  aim'd  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of  glory  she : 

Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death  :  if  the  wages  of  Virtue  be  dust. 

Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life  of  the  worm  and  the  fly? 

She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats  of  the  just, 
To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a  summer  sky: 

Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 


234 


THE   HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 


THE   HIGHER   PANTHEISM. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and  the  plains  — 
Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who  reigns? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He?  tho'  He  be  not  that  which  He  seems? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not  live  in  dreams? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and  limb. 
Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division  from  Him? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee :  thyself  art  the  reason  why; 

For  is  He  not  all  but  that  which  has  power  to  feel  '  I  am  I '  ? 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee;   and  thou  fulfillest  thy  doom 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled  splendour  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with  Spirit  can  meet  — 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands  and  feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise;   O  Soul,  and  let  us  rejoice. 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His  voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some :  no  God  at  all,  says  the  fool; 

For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight  staff  bent  in  a  pool; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of  man  cannot  see; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision  —  were  it  not  He? 


THE  VOICE   AND   THE   PEAK. 


The  voice  and  the  Peak 

Far  over  summit  and  lawn. 
The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 

Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn ! 

II. 

All  night  have  I  heard  the  voice 

Rave  over  the  rocky  bar, 
But  thou  wert  silent  in  heaven. 

Above  thee  glided  the  star. 

Ill, 

Hast  thou  no  voice,  O  Peak, 
That  standest  high  above  all? 

'I  am  the  voice  of  the  Peak, 
1  roar  and  rave  for  I  fall. 


IV. 


'  A  thousand  voices  go 

To  North,  South,  East,  and  West; 
They  leave  the  heights  and  are  troubled. 

And  moan  and  sink  to  their  rest. 

V. 

'  The  fields  are  fair  beside  them, 
The  chestnut  towers  in  his  bloom ; 

But   they  —  they  feel  the    desire  of  the 
deep  — 
Fall,  and  follow  their  doom. 

VI. 

'The  deep  has  power  on  the  height. 
And    the    height    has    power    on    the 
deep ; 

They  are  raised  for  ever  and  ever. 
And  sink  again  into  sleep.' 


THE    VOICE  AND    THE  PEAK— BOADIC&A. 


235 


VII. 


Not  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 
But  when  their  cycle  is  o'er, 

The  valley,  the  voice,  the  peak,  the  star 
Pass,  and  are  found  no  more. 


VIII. 


The  Peak  is  high  and  flush'd 
At  his  highest  with  sunrise  fire; 

The  Peak  is  high,  and  the  stars  are  high. 
And  the  thought  of  a  man  is  higher. 


IX. 


A  deep  below  the  deep, 

And  a  height  beyond  the  height  I 
Our  hearing  is  not  hearing, 

And  our  seeing  is  not  sight. 


The  voice  and  the  Peak 

Far  into  heaven  withdrawn. 
The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 

Green-rushing  from  the    rosy  thrones 
of  dawn  I 


Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 
I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 


I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  flower  —  but  if\  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


A   DEDICATION. 

Dear,  near    and  true  —  no    truer   Time 

himself 
Can  prove  you,  tho'  he  make  you  ever- 
more 
Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of  life 
Shoots  to  the  fall  —  take  this  and  pray 

that  he 
Who  wrote  it,  honouring  your  sweet  faith 

in  him, 
May  trust  himself;    and  after  praise  and 

scorn, 
As    one    who    feels'   the    immeasurable 

world, 
Attain  the  wise  indifference  of  the  wise; 
And  after  Autumn  past  —  if  left  to  pass 
His  autumn  into  seeming-leafless  days  — 
Draw  toward  the  long  frost  and  longest 

night, 
W^earing    his   wisdom    lightly,   like    the 

fruit 
Which  in  our  winter  woodland  looks  a 

flower.^ 

^  The   fruit   of  the   Spindle-tree  {Euonymus 
EuropcEus) . 


EXPERIMENTS. 


BOADICEA. 

While  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Neronian  legionaries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of  the  Druid  and  Druidess, 
Far  in  the  East  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted, 
Mad  and  maddening  all  that  heard  her  in  her  fierce  volubility, 
Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near  the  colony  Camuloddne, 
Yell'd  and  shriek'd  between  her  daughters  o'er  a  wild  confederacy. 

*  They  that  scorn  the  tribes  and  call  us  Britain's  barbarous  populaces, 
Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen,  did  they  pity  me  supplicating? 
Shall  I  heed  them  in  their  anguish?  shall  I  brook  to  be  supplicated? 
Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 
Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle's  beak  and  talon  annihilate  us? 
Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it  gorily  quivering? 
Bark  an  answer,  Britain's  raven  !  bark  and  blacken  innumerable. 


236  BOADICAa. 

Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make  the  carcase  a  skeleton, 

Kite  and  kestrel,  wolf  and  wolfkin,  from  the  wilderness,  wallow  in  it, 

Till  the  face  of  Bel  be  brighten'd,  Taranis  be  propitiated. 

Lo  their  colony  half-defended !  lo  their  colony,  Camuloddne  ! 

There  the  horde  of  Roman  robbers  mock  at  a  barbarous  adversary. 

There  the  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  an  emperor-idiot. 

Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity :   hear  it,  Spirit  of  Cassivelaiin  ! 

*  Hear  it,  Gods  !   the  Gods  have  heard  it,  O  Icenian,  O  Coritanian  ! 
Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer'd,  Catieuchlanian,  Trinobant. 
These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in  miraculous  utterances, 
Thunder,  a  flying  fire  in  heaven,  a  murmur  heard  aerially. 
Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending,  moan  of  an  enemy  massacred, 
Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children,  multitudinous  agonies. 
Bloodily  flow'd  the  Tamesa  rolling  phantom  bodies  of  horses  and  men; 
Then  a  phantom  colony  smoulder'd  on  the  refluent  estuary  ; 
Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  giddily  tottering  — 

There  was  one  who  watch'd  and  told  me  —  down  their  statue  of  Victory  fell. 
Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo  the  colony  Camuloddne, 
Shall  we  teach  it  a  Roman  lesson?  shall  we  care  to  be  pitiful? 
Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant?  shall  we  dandle  it  amorously? 

'  Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 
While  I  roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  meditating, 
There  I  heard  them  in  the  darkness,  at  the  mystical  ceremony, 
Loosely  robed  in  flying  raiment,  sang  the  terrible  prophetesses, 
"  Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery  parapets  ! 
Tho'  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho'  the  gathering  enemy  narrow  thee, 
Thou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the  mighty  one  yet ! 
Thine  the  liberty,  thine  the  glory,  thine  the  deeds  to  be  celebrated, 
Thine  the  myriad-rolling  ocean,  light  and  shadow  illimitable, 
Thine  the  lands  of  lasting  summer,  many-blossoming  Paradises, 
Thine  the  North  and  thine  the  South  and  thine  the  battle-thunder  of  God," 
So  they  chanted:  how  shall  Britain  light  upon  auguries  happier? 
So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and  there  cometh  a  victory  now. 

'  Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 
Me  the  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the  lover  of  liberty. 
Me  they  seized  and  me  they  tortured,  me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated, 
Me  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,  mine  of  ruffian  violators  ! 
See  they  sit,  they  hide  their  faces,  miserable  in  ignominy ! 
Wherefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by  blood  to  be  satiated. 
Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  colony  Camuloddne  I 
There  they  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted  all  the  fltiurishing  territory. 
Thither  at  their  will  they  haled  the  yellow-ringleted  Britoness  — 
Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe,  unexhausted,  inexorable. 
Shout  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  shout  Coritanian,  Trinobant, 
Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn  to  hurry  precipitously 
Like  the  leaf  in  a  roaring  whirlwind,  like  the  smoke  in  a  hurricane  whirl'd. 
Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the  city  of  Cdnobeline  ! 
There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald,  there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay. 
Rolling  on  their  purple  couches  in  their  tender  effeminacy. 
There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted;   there --there  —  they  dwell  no  more. 


B  OADICAa  —  IxV   Q  UANTI T  V. 


237 


Burst  the  gates,  and  burn  the  palaces,  break  the  works  of  the  statuary, 

Take  the  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter  it,  hold  it  abominable. 

Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  his  lust  and  voluptuousness, 

Lash  the  maiden  into  swooning,  me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated. 

Chop  the  breasts  from  off  the  mother,  dash  the  brains  of  the  little  one  out, 

Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my  chargers,  trample  them  under  us.' 

So  the  Queen  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted, 
Brandishing  in  her  hand  a  dart  and  rolling  glances  lioness-like, 
Yell'd  and  shriek'd  between  her  daughters  in  her  fierce  volubility. 
Till  her  people  all  around  the  royal  chariot  agitated. 
Madly  dash'd  the  darts  together,  writhing  barbarous  lineaments, 
Made  the  noise  of  frosty  woodlands,  when  they  shiver  in  January, 
Roar'd  as  when  the  roaring  breakers  boom  and  blanch  on  the  precipices, 
Yell'd  as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear  an  oak  on  a  promontory. 
So  the  silent  colony  hearing  her  tumultuous  adversaries 
Clash  the  darts  and  on  the  buckler  beat  with  rapid  unanimous  hand, 
Thought  on  all  her  evil  tyrannies,  all  her  pitiless  avarice. 
Till  she  felt  the  heart  within  her  fall  and  flutter  tremulously, 
Then  her  pulses  at  the  clamouring  of  her  enemy  fainted  away. 
Out  of  evil  evil  flourishes,  out  of  tyranny  tyranny  buds. 
Ran  the  land  with  Roman  slaughter,  multitudinous  agonies. 
Perish'd  many  a  maid  and  matron,  many  a  valorous  legionary. 
Fell  the  colony,  city,  and  citadel,  London,  Verulam,  Camuloddne. 


IN   QUANTITY. 

ON   TRANSLATIONS   OF  HOMER. 
Hexameters  and  Pentameters. 

These  lame  hexameters  the  strong-wing'd  music  of  Homer  ! 

No — but  a  most  burlesque  barbarous  experiment. 
When  was  a  harsher  sound  ever  heard,  ye  Muses,  in  England? 

When  did  a  frog  coarser  croak  upon  our  Helicon? 
Hexameters  no  worse  than  daring  Germany  gave  us, 

Barbarous  experiment,  barbarous  hexameters. 


MILTON. 

Alcaics. 

O    mighty-mouth'd    inventor    of    har- 
monies, 
O  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages; 
Whose   Titan    angels,    Gabriel,    Abdiel, 
Starr'd     from    Jehovah's     gorgeous    ar- 
mouries. 


Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset  — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness. 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring. 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean. 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle. 
And    crimson-hued  the   stately  palm- 
woods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 


2-,8 


TRANSLATION  OF   THE  ILIAD. 


Hendecasyllabics. 

O  YOU  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers, 
Irresponsible,  indolent  reviewers, 
Look,  I  come  to  the  test,  a  tiny  poem 
All  composed  in  a  metre  of  Catullus, 
All  in  quantity,  careful  of  my  motion, 
Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly  bears 

him, 
Lest  I  fall  unawares  before  the  people. 
Waking  laughter  in  indolent  reviewers. 
Should  I  flounder  awhile  without  a  tumble 
Thro'  this  metrification  of  Catullus, 
They  should  speak  to  me  not  without  a 

welcome, 
All  that  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 
Hard,    hard,    hard    is    it,    only    not    to 

tumble. 
So  fantastical  is  the  dainty  metre. 
Wherefore    slight    me    not   wholly,    nor 

believe  me 
Too  presumptuous,  indolent  reviewers, 
O  blatant  Magazines,  regard  me  rather  — 
Since   I    blush  to  belaud  myself  a  mo- 
ment— 
As  some  rare  little  rose,  a  piece  of  inmost 
Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 
Maiden,  not  to  be  greeted  unbenignly. 

SPECIMEN  OF  A  TRANSLATION 
OF  THE  ILIAD  IN  BLANK 
VERSE. 

So    Hector  spake;    the   Trojans    roar'd 

applause; 
Then  loosed  their  sweating  horses  from 

the  yoke, 


And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  his 

own; 
And    oxen    from    the    city,    and    goodly 

sheep 
In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearted 

wine 
And  bread  from  out  the  houses  brought, 

and  heap'd 
Their  firewood,  and  the  winds  from  oft" 

the  plain 
Roll'd    the    rich    vapour    far    into    the 

heaven. 
And  these  all  night  upon  the  bridge  ^  of 

war 
Sat  glorying;    many  a  fire  before   them 

blazed : 
As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the 

moon 
Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are 

laid. 
And  every  height  comes  out,  and  jutting 

peak 
And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heavens 
Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the 

stars 
Shine,  and  the  Shepherd  gladdens  in  his 

heart : 
So  many  a  fire  between  the   ships  and 

stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of 

Troy, 
A  thousand  on  the  plain;   and  close  by 

each 
Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning  fire; 
And  eating  hoary  grain  and   pulse   the 

steeds, 
Fixt    by  their   cars,   waited   the   golden 

dawn.  Iliad  Mil.  542-561. 


1  Or,  ridge. 


THE    WINDOW. 


239 


THE    WINDOW; 

OR,   THE    SONG   OF   THE   WRENS. 

Four  years  ago  Mr.  Sullivan  requested  me  to  write  a  little  song-cycle,  German  fashion,  for  him  to 
exercise  his  art  upon.  He  had  been  very  successful  in  setting  such  old  songs  as  '  Orpheus  with  his 
lute,'  and  I  drest  up  for  him,  partly  in  the  old  style,  a  puppet,  whose  almost  only  merit  is,  perhaps, 
that  it  can  dance  to  Mr.  Sullivan's  instrument.  I  am  sorry  that  my  four-year-old  puppet  should 
have  to  dance  at  all  in  the  dark  shadow  of  these  days;  but  the  music  is  now  completed,  and  I  am 
boimd  by  my  promise. 

December,  1870.  A.  Ten.nvson. 

THE   WINDOW. 


ON   THE   HILL. 

The  lights  and  shadows  fly ! 
Yonder  it  brightens  and  darkens  down 
on  the  plain. 
A  jewel,    a  jewel    dear    to    a   lover's 
eye ! 
Oh  is   it  the  brook,  or   a   pool,  or  her 
window-pane, 
When    the    winds    are    up    in    the 
morning? 

Clouds  that  are  racing  above. 
And  winds  and  lights  and  shadows  that 
cannot  be  still. 
All  running  on  one  way  to  the  home 
of  my  love, 
You  are  all  running  on,  and  I  stand  on 
the  slope  of  the  hill. 
And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ing! 

Follow,  follow  the  chase  ! 
And  my  thoughts  are  as  quick  and  as 
quick,  ever  on,  on,  on. 
O  lights,  are  you  flying  over  her  sweet 
little  face? 
And  my  heart  is  there  before  you  are 
come,  and  gone. 
When    the    winds    are    up    in   the 
morning ! 

Follow  them  down  the  slope  ! 
And  I  follow  them  down  to  the  window- 
pane  of  my  dear. 
And    it    brightens    and    darkens   and 
brightens  like  my  hope. 
And  it  darkens  and  brightens  and  darkens 
like  my  fear, 
And     the     winds     are    up    in    the 
morning. 


AT   THE   WINDOW. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine. 
Clasp  her  window,  trail  and  twine  ! 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis. 
Trail  and  twine  and  clasp  and  kiss. 
Kiss,  kiss;   and  make  her  a  bower 
All  of  flowers,  and  drop  me  a  flower, 
Drop  me  a  flower. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 
Cannot  a  flower,  a  flower,  be  mine? 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis. 
Drop  me  a  flower,  a  flower,  to  kiss, 
Kiss,  kiss  —  and  out  of  her  bower 
All  of  flowers,  a  flower,  a  flower, 
Dropt,  a  flower. 


GONE. 

till  the  end  of  the  year, 
and  the  light  gone  with  her,  and 
left  me  in  shadow  here  I 
Gone  —  flitted  away, 

the  stars  from  the  night  and  the 
sun  from  the  day  ! 
and  a  cloud    in  my  heart,  and  a 
storm  in  the  air ! 

to  the  east  or  the  west,  flitted  I 
know  not  M'here  ! 
in  the  south  is  a  flash  and  a  groan  : 
she  is  there  I  she  is  there  ! 

WINTER. 


The  frost  is  here. 

And  fuel  is  dear. 

And  woods  are  sear. 

And  fires  burn  clear, 

And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going  year. 


Gone ! 
Gone, 
Gone, 


Taken 
Gone, 
Flown 
Down 


240 


THE    WINDOW. 


Bite,  frost,  bite  ! 

You  roll  up  away  from  the  light 

The    blue   wood-louse,    and    the    plump 

dormouse, 
And  the  bees  are  still'd,  and  the  flies  are 

kiU'd, 
And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  of  the 

house, 
But  not  into  mine. 

Bite,  frost,  bite ! 

The  woods  are  all  the  searer, 

The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer, 

The  fires  are  all  the  clearer. 

My  spring  is  all  the  nearer, 

You   have   bitten  into  the  heart  of  the 

earth, 
But  not  into  mine. 

SPRING. 

Birds'  love  and  birds'  song 

Flying  here  and  there, 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love. 

And  you  with  gold  for  hair  ! 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love, 

Passing  with  the  w^eather, 
Men's  song  and  men's  love, 

To  love  once  and  for  ever. 

Men's  love  and  birds'  love, 

And  women's  love  and  men's  ! 
And  you  my  wren  with  a  crown  of  gold, 

You  my  queen  of  the  wTcns ! 
You  the  queen  of  the  wrens  — 

We'll  be  birds  of  a  feather, 
I'll  be  King  of  the  Queen  of  the  wrens. 

And  all  in  a  nest  together. 

THE   LETTER. 

Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet, 
Fine  of  the  fine,  and  shy  of  the  shy? 

Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet  — 
Dewy  blue  eye. 

Shall  I  write  to  her?  shall  I  go? 
Ask  her  to  marry  me  by  and  by? 

Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no; 
Somebody  knows  that  she'll  say  ay ! 

Ay  or  no,  if  ask'd  to  her  face? 

Ay  or  no,  from  shy  of  the  shy? 
Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace, 
Fly; 


Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below  — 
Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye  : 

Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no; 
Somebody  knows  that  she'll  say  ay ! 

NO   ANSWER. 

The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and  the 
rain  ! 
Is  it  ay  or  no?  is  it  ay  or  no? 
And  never  a  glimpse  of  her  window-pane  ! 
And  I  may  die  but  the  grass  will  grow, 
And  the  grass  will  grow^  when  I  am  gone, 
And  the  wet  west  wind  and  the  world 
will  go  on. 

Ay  is  the  song  of  the  wedded  spheres, 
No  is  trouble  and  cloud  and  storm. 

Ay  is  life  for  a  hundred  years, 

No  will  push  me  down  to  the  worm, 

And  when  I  am  there  and  dead  and  gone. 

The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will 
go  on. 

The  wind  and  the  wet,  the  wind  and  the 
wet ! 
Wet  west  wind  how  you  blow,  you  blow ! 
And  never  a  line  from  my  lady  yet ! 

Is  it  ay  or  no?  is  it  ay  or  no? 
Blow  then,  blow,  and  when  I  am  gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  may 
go  on. 

NO   ANSWER. 

W^inds  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb. 
Take  my  love,  for  love  will  come, 

Love  will  come  but  once  a  life. 
Winds  are  loud  and  winds  will  pass ! 
Spring  is  here  with  leaf  and  grass: 

Take  my  love  and  be  my  wife. 
After-loves  of  maids  and  men 
Are  but  dainties  drest  again  : 
Love  me  now,  you'll  love  me  then : 

Love  can  love  but  once  a  life. 

THE   ANSWER. 

Two  little  hands  that  meet, 
Claspt  on  her  seal,  my  sweet! 
Must  I  take  you  and  break  you. 
Two  little  hands  that  meet? 
I  must  take  you,  and  break  you, 
And  loving  hands  must  part  — 


THE    WINDOW, 


241 


Take,  take  —  break,  break  — 
Break  —  you  may  break  my  heart. 
Faint  heart  never  won  — 
Break,  break,  and  all's  done. 


AY. 

Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day, 

Be  merry  on  earth  as  you  never  were 
merry  before, 
Be   merry  in  heaven,  O    larks,  and    far 
away. 
And  merry  for  ever  and  ever,  and  one 
day  more. 

Why? 
For  it's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 
Look,  look,  how  he  flits, 

The  fire-crown'd    king   of  the  wrens, 
from  out  of  the  pine  ! 
Look  how  they  tumble  the  blossom,  the 
mad  little  tits  ! 
*  Cuck-oo  !    Cuck-oo  I '  was  ever  a  May 
so  fine  ? 

Why? 
For  it's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 
O  merry  the  linnet  and  dove. 

And  swallow  and  sparrow  and  throstle, 
and  have  your  desire  ! 
O  merry  my  heart,  you  have  gotten  the 
wings  of  love, 
And  flit  like  the  king  of  the  wrens  with 
a  crown  of  fire. 

Why? 
For  it's  ay  ay,  ay  ay. 

WHEN. 


Sun  comes,  moon  comes, 
Time  slips  away. 

Sun  sets,  moon  sets, 
Love,  fix  a  day. 


*  A  year  hence,  a  year  hence.' 
'  We  shall  both  be  gray.' 

*A  month  hence,  a  month  hence, 
'  Far,  far  away.' 

'  A  week  hence,  a  week  hence.' 

'Ah,  the  long  delay.' 
'  Wait  a  little,  wait  a  little, 

You  shall  fix  a  day.' 

'To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow, 
And  that's  an  age  away.' 

Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun, 
And  honour  all  the  day. 

MARRIAGE   MORNING. 

Light,  so  low  upon  earth, 

You  send  a  flash  to  the  sun. 
Here  is  the  golden  close  of  love, 

All  my  wooing  is  done. 
Oh,  the  woods  and  the  meadows, 

Woods  where  we  hid  from  the  wet, 
Stiles  where  we  stay'd  to  be  kind, 

Meadows  in  which  we  met ! 

Light,  so  low  in  the  vale 

You  flash  and  lighten  afar. 
For  this  is  the  golden  morning  of  love. 

And  you  are  his  morning  star. 
Flash,  I  am  coming,  I  come. 

By  meadow  and  stile  and  wood, 
Oh,  lighten  into  my  eyes  and  my  heart. 

Into  my  heart  and  my  blood ! 

Heart,  are  you  great  enough 

For  a  love  that  never  tires? 
O  heart,  are  you  great  enough  for  love? 

I  have  heard  of  thorns  and  briers. 
Over  the  thorns  and  briers. 

Over  the  meadows  and  stiles, 
Over  the  world  to  the  end  of  it 

Flash  for  a  million  miles. 


IN    MEMORIAM    A.   H.    H. 


OBIIT   MDCCCXXXIII. 


Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 

Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen   thy 

face. 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 
Believing  where  we  cannot  prove; 
R 


Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute; 

Thou  madest    Death;     and   lo,   thy 
foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 


242 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 

Thou   madest    man,   he   knows   not 

why, 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die; 

And  thou  hast  made  him :   thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou : 
Our   wills  are    ours,   we    know  not 
how; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be  : 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith :  we  cannot  know; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness :  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more. 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well. 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me; 

What    seem'd    my   worth    since    I 
began ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 
And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 

Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries. 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth; 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth. 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


I  HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 


But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match? 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown'd, 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss : 
Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss. 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground. 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  Love,  and  boast, 
'  Behold   the    man    that    loved   and 
lost. 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn.' 

II. 

Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  under-lying  dead, 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head, 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again. 

And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock; 
And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

O  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom. 
Who  changest  not  in  any  gale. 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom : 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree, 

Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 

And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 

III. 

O  Sorrow,  cruel  fellowship, 

O  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath. 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip? 

'The  stars,'  she  whispers,  'blindly  run; 

A  web  is  wov'n  across  the  sky; 

From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 
And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun  : 

'And  all  the  phantom,  Nature,  stands  — 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own,  — 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands.' 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


243 


And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind, 

Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind? 

IV. 

To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark; 

I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark, 
And  with  my  heart  I  muse  and  say : 

O  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 

That   thou   should'st  fail   from    thy 

desire, 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire, 

*  What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low? ' 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost, 

Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 
Break,   thou  deep  vase   of  chilling 
tears, 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darken'd  eyes; 
With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and 
cries, 

*  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss.' 


I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise. 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,. like  weeds,  I'll  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like    coarsest   clothes   against    the 

cold: 
But    that    large    grief  which    these 
enfold 
Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

VI. 

One  writes,  that  'Other  friends  remain,' 
That '  Loss  is  common  to  the  race  ' — 
And  common  is  the  commonplace, 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  srain. 


That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more  : 
Too  common  I   Never  morning  wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O  father,  wheresoe'er  thou  be, 

Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done. 

Hath  still'd  the  Hfe  that  beat  from  thee. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor,  —  while  thy  head  is  bow'd, 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell, 

And   something  written,  something 
thought; 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home; 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking, '  here  to-day,' 

Or  '  here  to-morrow  will  he  come.' 

O  somewhere,  meek,  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  ! 

For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest; 

And  thinking,  '  this  will  please  him 
best,' 
She  takes  a  riband  or  a  rose; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night; 

And  with  the  thought  her  colour 
burns; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right; 

And,  even  when  she  turn'd,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  Lord 
Was  drown'd  in  passing  thro'   the 
ford. 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good? 

To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood, 
And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 


244 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


VII. 

Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street, 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to 
beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more  — 
Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep, 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here;   but  far  away 

The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzling  rain 

On   the    bald    street    breaks   the    blank 
day. 

VIII. 

A  happy  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well. 
Who  'lights  and  rings  the  gateway 
bell, 

And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from  home; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 

Dies  off  at  once   from   bower  and 

hall. 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight : 

So  find  I  every  pleasant  spot 

In    which    we    two    were    wont    to 

meet. 
The    field,    the    chamber    and    the 
street, 
For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 

In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A  flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 

Which  once  she  foster'd  up  with  care; 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret, 

0  my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet. 

But  since  it  pleased  a  vanish'd  eye, 

1  go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb. 
That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom. 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 


IX. 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With    my    lost    Arthur's    loved    re- 
mains. 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain;   a  favourable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above; 

Sleep,    gentle    heavens,    before    the 

prow ; 
Sleep,   gentle  winds,    as   he   sleeps 
now. 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son. 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 

X. 

I  hear  the  noise  about  thy  keel; 

I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night : 
I  see  the  cabin-window  bright; 

I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bring'st  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 

And    travell'd     men     from     foreign 

lands; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

So  bring  him :  we  have  idle  dreams : 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies :  O  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  l)eneath  the  clover  sod, 

That    takes    the    sunshine    and    the 

rains. 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


245 


Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 

Should    gulf    him    fathom-deep    in 

brine; 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine, 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 

XI. 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 
And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the 

furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold : 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That   sweeps   with    all    its    autumn 

bowers, 
And  crowded   farms  and    lessening 
towers. 
To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air. 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair: 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in 

rest. 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 

XII. 

Lo,  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs 

To  bear  thro'  Heaven  a  tale  of  woe, 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 

The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings; 

Like  her  I  go;    I  cannot  stay; 

I  leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 

A  weight  of  nerves  without  a  mind, 

And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O'er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large, 

And    reach    the    glow    of  southern 

skies. 
And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise, 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge, 


And  saying :   '  Comes  he  thus,  my  friend  ? 
Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care? ' 
And  circle  moaning  in  the  air  : 

'Is  this  the  end?     Is  this  the  end?' 

And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 

About  the  prow,  and  back  return 
To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn 

That  I  have  been  an  hour  away. 

XIII. 

Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A  late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals, 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms,  and 
feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these; 

Which  weep  a  loss  for  ever  new, 

A  void  where  heart  on  heart  reposed ; 
And,  where  warm  hands  have  prest 
and  closed. 

Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too. 

Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my  choice. 
An  awful  thought,  a  life  removed, 
The  human-hearted  man  I  loved, 

A  Spirit,  not  a  breathing  voice. 

Come  Time,  and  teach  me,  many  years, 
I  do  not  suffer  in  a  dream; 
For  now  so  strange  do  these  things 
seem, 

]\Iine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears; 

]\Iy  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing. 

And  glance  about  the  approaching 

sails, 
As  tho'  they  brought  but  merchants' 
bales, 
And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 

XIV. 

If  one  should  bring  me  this  report. 

That  thou  hadst  touch'd  the  land 

to-day, 
And  I  went  down  unto  the  quay, 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with  woe, 
Should  see  thy  passengers  in  rank 
Come     stepping    lightly    down    the 
plank. 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know; 


246 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  if  along  with  these  should  come 
The  man  I  held  as  half-divine; 
Should  strike  a  sudden  hand  in  mine, 

And  ask  a  thousand  things  of  home; 

And  I  should  tell  him  all  my  pain, 

And  how  my  life  had  droop'd  of  late, 
And  he  should  sorrow  o'er  my  state 

And  marvel  what  possess'd  my  brain; 

And  I  perceived  no  touch  of  change. 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame. 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the  same, 

I  should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 

XV. 

To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise 

And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day : 
The  last  red  leaf  is  whirl'd  away, 

The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies; 

The  forest  crack'd,  the  waters  curl'd. 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea; 
And  wildly  dash'd  on  tower  and  tree 

The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world  : 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 

That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a  plane  of  molten  glass, 

I  scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and  stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches  loud; 
And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so. 
The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 

Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 

That  rises  upward  always  higher, 

And  onward  drags  a  labouring  breast, 
And  topples  round  the  dreary  west, 

A  looming  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 

XVI. 

What  words  are  these  have  fall'n  from  me  ? 
Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 
Be  tenants  of  a  single  breast. 

Or  sorrow  such  a  changeling  be? 

Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 

The  touch  of  change  in  calm  or 
storm ; 

But  knows  no  more  of  transient  form 
In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 


That  holds  the  shadow  of  a  lark 

Hung  in  the  shadow  of  a  heaven? 
Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly  given. 

Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a  craggy  shelf. 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she  sink  ? 
And  stunn'd  me  from  my  power  to 
think 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself; 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 

Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  new, 
And  flashes  into  false  and  true, 

And  mingles  all  without  a  plan  ? 

XVII. 

Thou   comest,   much  wept  for :    such  a 
breeze 
CompellM  thy  canvas,  and  my  prayer 
Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 

To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I  in  spirit  saw  thee  move 

Thro'  circles  of  the  bounding  sky, 
Week  after  week  :   the  days  go  by  : 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  I  love. 

Henceforth,  wherever  thou  may'st  roam, 
My  blessing,  like  a  line  of  light, 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night. 

And  like  a  beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 

Mid-ocean,  spare  thee,  sacred  bark; 
And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 

Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars. 

So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done, 

Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee; 
The  dust  of  him  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run. 

XVIII. 

'Tis  well;  'tis  something;   we  may  stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid. 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

'Tis  little ;    but  it  looks  in  truth 

As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


247 


Come  then,   pure    hands,   and   bear   the 
head 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask    of 

sleep, 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep. 
And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev'n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 
I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart. 
Would  breathing  thro'  his  lips  im- 
part 

The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain. 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind. 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 

XIX. 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The    darken'd   heart   that   beat   no 

more ; 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore. 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along. 
And  hush'd  my  deepest  grief  of  all. 
When   fill'd  with  tears  that  cannot 
fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls; 
My  deeper  anguish  also  falls, 

And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 

XX. 

The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said, 

That  breathe  a  thousand  tender  vows, 
Are  but  as  servants  in  a  house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead; 

Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is. 

And    weep    the    fulness    from    the 

mind: 
'  It  will  be  hard,'  they  say,  '  to  find 

Another  service  such  as  this.' 


My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these. 
That  out  of  words  a  comfort  win ; 
But  there  are  other  griefs  within, 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain  freeze ; 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 

Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of  Death, 
And     scarce    endure    to    draw    the 
breath. 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit : 

But  open  converse  is  there  none, 
So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and  think, 

'  How    good !     how    kind !     and    he    is 
gone.' 

XXI. 

I  sing  to  him  that  rests  below. 

And,  since    the   grasses   round   me 
wave, 

I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave. 
And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then, 
And     sometimes     harshly    will     he 

speak : 
'  This  fellow  would  make  weakness 
weak, 
And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men.' 

Another  answers,  '  Let  him  be, 

He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy.' 

A  third  is  wroth  :  *  Is  this  an  hour 

For  private  sorrow's  barren  song, 
When  more  and  more    the    people 
throng 

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power? 

*A  time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon, 

When    Science   reaches    forth    her 

arms 
To   feel   from  world  to  world,  and 
charms 
Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon? ' 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing: 

Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust : 
I  do  but  sing  because  I  must. 

And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing : 


248 


IN  MEM  OKI  AM. 


And  one  is  glad;   her  note  is  gay, 

For  now  her  Uttle  ones  have  ranged; 
And  one  is  sad ;  her  note  is  changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stol'n  away. 

XXII. 

The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 

Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us 

well. 
Thro'  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell. 

From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow  : 

And  we  with  singing  cheer'd  the  way. 
And,  crown'd  with    all    the    season 

lent, 
From  April  on  to  April  went. 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May  : 

But  where  the  path  we  walk'd  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope, 
As  we  descended  following  Hope 

There  sat  the  Shadow  fear'd  of  man; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship. 

And   spread   his   mantle   dark   and 

cold, 
And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold. 

And  dull'd  the  murmur  on  thy  lip. 

And  bore  thee  where  I  could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho'  I  walk  in  haste, 
And  think,  that  somewhere  in  the 
waste 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 

XXIII. 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut. 
Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits, 
Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits. 

The  Shadow  cloak'd  from  head  to  foot, 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame. 
And  looking  back  to  whence  I  came. 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads; 

And  crying,  How  changed  from  where  it 
ran 
Thro'    lands  where    not    a  leaf  was 

dumb; 
But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 
The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan  : 


W^hen  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 
And      Fancy     light     from      Fancy 

caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with 
Thought 
Ere     Thought     could    wed     itself    with 
Speech; 

And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good. 

And  all  was  good  that  Time  could 

bring, 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood; 

And  many  an  old  philosophy 

On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang. 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady. 

XXIV. 

And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  pure  and  perfect  as  I  say? 
The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 

Is  dash'd  with  wandering  isles  of  night. 

If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met. 

This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look'd  to  human  eyes 

Since  our  first  Sun  arose  and  set. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes    former    gladness    loom   so 

great? 
The  lowness  of  the  present  state, 

That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief? 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 
A  glory  from  its  being  far; 
And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 

We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein? 

XXV. 

I  know  that  this  was  Life,  —  the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared; 
And    then,    as   now,    the    day   pre- 
pared 

The  daily  l)urden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air; 
I  loved  the  weight  I  had  to  bear. 

Because  it  needed  help  of  Love : 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


249 


Nor  could  I  weary,  heart  or  limb, 

When  mighty  Love  would  cleave  in 

twain 
The  lading  of  a  single  pain, 

And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 

XXVI. 

Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way; 
I  with  it;   for  I  long  to  prove 
No    lapse    of    moons    can    canker 
Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 

And  goodness,  and  hath  power  to 

see 
Within    the    green    the    moulder'd 
tree, 
And  towers  fall'n  as  soon  as  built  — 

Oh,  if  indeed  that  eye  foresee 

Or  see  (in  Him  is  no  before) 
In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more 

And  Love  the  indifference  to  be. 

Then  might  I  find,  ere  yet  the  morn 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas. 
That     Shadow    waiting    with     the 
keys. 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 

XXVII. 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage. 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods : 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 

His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest. 

The  heart  that  never  pHghted  troth 
But    stagnates     in     the    weeds     of 
sloth ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most; 

'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 


XXVIII. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ : 
The  moon  is  hid;  the  night  is  still; 
The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 

Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round. 

From  far  and  near,   on   mead   and 

moor. 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound  : 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind. 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease. 
Peace  and  goodwill,   goodwill   and 
peace, 

Peace  and  goodwill,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake. 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again : 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 

For  they  controll'd  me  when  a  boy; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch'd  with 

joy. 

The  merry  merry  bells  of  Yule. 

XXIX. 

With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace. 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease. 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve; 

Which  brings  no  more  a  welcome  guest 
To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the  night 
With  shower'd  largess  of  delight 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest? 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly  boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font, 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use  and 
Wont, 

That  guard  the  portals  of  the  house; 

Old  sisters  of  a  day  gone  by. 

Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new; 
Why  should  they  miss  their  yearly 
due 

Before  their  time?     They  too  will  die. 


250 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


XXX. 

With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The     holly    round     the     Christmas 

hearth ; 
A  rainy  cloud  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gamboll'd,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We  paused  :  the  winds  were  in  the  beech  : 
We    heard   them  sweep  the  winter 

land; 
And  in  a  circle  hand-in-hand 

Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang; 

We  sung,  tho'  every  eye  was  dim, 
A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year :  impetuously  we  sang : 

We  ceased  :  a  gentler  feeling  crept 
Upon  us  :  surely  rest  is  meet : 
*  They  rest,'  we  said,  '  their  sleep  is 
sweet,' 

And  silence  follow'd,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a  higher  range; 

Once  more  we  sang :  *  They  do  not 
die 

Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 
Nor  change  to  us,  altho'  they  change; 

*  Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 

With  gather'd  power,  yet  the  same. 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil.' 

Rise,  happy  morn,  rise,  holy  morn, 

Draw  forth  the    cheerful    day  from 

night : 
O  Father,  touch  the  east,  and  light 
The    light    that  shone  when    Hope  was 
born. 

XXXI. 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 

And  home  to  Mary's  house  return'd, 
Was  this  demanded  —  if  he  yearn'd 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave? 


'  Where    wert    thou,   brother,  those  four 
days  ? ' 
There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 
Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 

Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

From  every  house  the  neighbours  met, 
The   streets   were   fiU'd  with  joyful 

sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown'd 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a  man  raised  up  by  Christ  I 
The  rest  remaineth  unreveal'd; 
He  told  it  not;    or  something  seal'd 

The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer. 

Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits, 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears. 

Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete, 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's 
feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice   blest    whose    lives    are    faithful 
prayers. 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure; 
What    souls   possess    themselves  so 
pure. 
Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs? 

XXXIII. 

O  thou  that  after  toil  and  storm 

Mayst  seem  to  have  reach'd  a  purer 

air, 
Whose  faith  has  centre  everywhere, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thou  thy  sister  when  she  prays, 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views; 
Nor  thou  with  shadow'd  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


251 


Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good  : 
Oh,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine  I 

See  thou,  that  countest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within, 
Thou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  sin, 

And  ev'n  for  want  of  such  a  type. 

XXXIV. 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this, 
That  life  shall  live  for  evermore. 
Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 

And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is; 

This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame. 
Fantastic  beauty;   such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 

Without  a  conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I  ? 

'Twere    hardly  worth   my  while    to 
choose 

Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 
A  little  patience  ere  I  die; 

'Twere  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace. 

Like    birds    the    charming    serpent 

draws. 
To  drop  head-foremost  in  the  jaws 

Of  vacant  darkness  and  to  cease. 

XXXV. 

Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust 
Should     murmur    from    the    narrow 

house, 
'The    cheeks    drop    in;     the    body 
bows ; 
Man  dies  :■  nor  is  there  hope  in  dust : ' 

Might  I  not  say?  '  Yet  even  here, 

But  for  one  hour,  O  Love,  I  strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a  thing  alive  :  ' 

But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  meanings  of  the  homeless  sea. 

The  sound  of  streams  that  swift  or 

slow 
Draw  down  .Lonian  hills,  and  sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be; 


And  Love  would  answer  with  a  sigh, 
'  The  sound  of  that  forgetful  shore 
Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and 
more, 

Half-dead  to  know  that  I  shall  die.' 

O  me,  what  profits  it  to  put 

An  idle  case?     If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  been, 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut, 

Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods, ' 
Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 
Had  bruised  the   herb  and  crush'd 
the  grape, 

And  bask'd  and  batten'd  in  the  woods. 

XXXVI. 

Tho'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join. 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame, 
We  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 

Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin; 

For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 
Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall 

fail, 
When  truth  embodied  in  a  tale 

Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 

And    so    the    Word    had    breath,    and 
wrought 
With    human    hands    the    creed    of 

creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds, 
More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought; 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  sheaf. 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave. 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the 
wave 

In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 

XXXVII, 

Urania  speaks  with  darken'd  brow : 

'  Thou  pratest  here  where  thou  art 

least ; 
This  faith  has  many  a  purer  priest. 

And  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

'Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill, 
On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet. 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 

About  the  ledges  of  the  hill.' 


252 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  my  Melpomene  replies, 

A  touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek : 
*  I  am  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak 

Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries; 

'  For  I  am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 
And  owning  but  a  little  art 
To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart, 

And  render  human  love  his  dues; 

'  But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead, 
And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 
(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 

To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said), 

*  I  murmur'd,  as  I  came  along, 

Of  comfort  clasp'd  in  truth  reveal'd; 
And  loiter'd  in  the  master's  field. 

And  darken'd  sanctities  with  song.' 

XXXVIII. 

"With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 

Tho'  always  under  alter'd  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies, 

My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives, 
The  herald  melodies  of  spring. 
But  in  the  songs  I  love  to  sing 

A  doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 

If  any  care  for  what  is  here 

Survive  in  spirits  render'd  free, 
Then  are  these  songs  I  sing  of  thee 

Not  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 

XXXIX. 

Old  warder  of  these  buried  bones. 

And    answering    now    my    random 

stroke 
With  fruitful  cloud  and  living  smoke. 

Dark  yew,  that  graspest  at  the  stones 

And  dippest  toward  the  dreamless  head. 
To  thee  too  comes  the  golden  hour 
When  flower  is  feeling  after  flower; 

But  Sorrow  —  fixt  upon  the  dead, 

And  darkening  the  dark  graves  of  men,  — 
What  whisper'd  from  her  lying  lips? 
Thy  gloom  is  kindled  at  the  tips, 

And  passes  into  gloom  again. 


XL. 

Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour 

And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When  first  she  wears  her  orange-flower ! 

When   crown'd  with  blessing  she   doth 
rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 
And   hopes   and   light  regrets  that 
come 
Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  move. 

And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face, 
As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 

She  enters  other  realms  of  love; 

Her  oftice  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 
Becoming  as  is  meet  and  fit 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  with  each; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  those  great  offices  that  suit 

The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  difference  I  discern ! 

How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheer'd  with  tidings  of  the  bride, 

How  often  she  herself  return. 

And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told, 
And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her 

boast, 
Till    even    those    that    miss'd    her 
most 
Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old : 

But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  hands. 
Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low; 
My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I  know, 

And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 

XLI. 

Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss 

Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher; 

As   mounts    the    heavenward    altar- 
fire, 
As  flies  the  lighter  thro'  the  gross. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


253 


But  thou  art  turn'd  to  something  strange, 
And  I  have  lost  the  Hnks  that  bound 
Thy  changes;  here  upon  the  ground, 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 

Deep  folly  !  yet  that  this  could  be  — 

That    I    could    wing    my   will   with 

might 
To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and  light. 

And  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee. 

For  tho'  my  nature  rarely  yields 

To  that  vague  fear  implied  in  death ; 
Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath, 

The  howlings  from  forgotten  fields; 

Yet  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 
An  inner  trouble  I  behold, 
A  spectral  doubt  which  makes  me 
cold. 

That  I  shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

Tho'  following  with  an  upward  mind 

The    wonders    that    have    come   to 

thee, 
Thro'  all  the  secular  to-be, 

But  evermore  a  life  behind. 

XLII. 

I  vex  my  heart  with  fancies  dim : 

He  still  outstript  me  in  the  race; 
It  was  but  unity  of  place 

That    made   me    dream    I    rank'd    with 
him. 

And  so  may  Place  retain  us  still. 

And  he  the  much-beloved  again, 
A  lord  of  large  experience,  train 

To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will : 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  inner  deeps, 
When  one  that  loves  but  knows  not, 
reaps 

A  truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows? 

XLIII. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one, 
And  every  spirit's  folded  bloom 
Thro'  all  its  intervital  gloom 

In    some    long    trance    should    slumber 
on; 


Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour. 
Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last. 
And  silent  traces  of  the  past 

Be  all  the  colour  of  the  flower : 

So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man; 
So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 
In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 

The  total  world  since  life  began; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 

As    when    he    loved    me    here    in 

Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 

XLIV. 

How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead? 

For    here    the    man    is    more    and 
more; 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish'd,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives  out   at  times  (he  knows  not 
whence) 

A  little  flash,  a  mystic  hint; 

And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 

(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean  springs), 
May   some    dim    touch    of    earthly 
things 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 

If  such  a  dreamy  touch  should  fall, 

O    turn    thee    round,    resolve     the 

doubt; 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 

In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 

XLV, 

The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky. 

What  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast. 

Has  never  thought  that  '  this  is  I : ' 

But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much. 

And    learns    the    use    of   '  I,'    and 

'me,' 
And  finds  *  I  am  not  what  I  see. 

And  other  than  the  things  I  touch.' 


^54 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


So  rounds  he  to  a  separate  mind 

From    whence    clear    memory    may 

begin, 
As  thro'  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath, 
Which  else  were    fruitless  of  their 

due, 
Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 

Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 

XLVI. 

We  ranging  down  this  lower  track. 

The   path  we    came   by,  thorn  and 

flower, 
Is  shadow'd  by  the  growing  hour. 

Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 

So  be  it :  there  no  shade  can  last 

In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb. 
But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall 
bloom 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past; 

A  lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal'd ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase; 

Days  order'd  in  a  wealthy  peace, 
And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 

O  Love,  thy  province  were  not  large, 
A    bounded    field,    nor    stretching 

far; 
Look  also,  Love,  a  brooding  star, 

A  rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 

XLVII. 

That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole, 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing 

all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 

Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 

Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet : 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet : 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 

Enjoying  each  the  other's  good : 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth?     He  seeks  at  least 


Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height. 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 
Some    landing-place,    to    clasp   and 
say, 

'  Farewell !     We  lose  ourselves  in  light.' 

XLVIII. 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born. 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here  pro- 
posed. 
Then    these   were    such    as    men   might 
scorn : 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove; 

She    takes,    when    harsher    moods 

remit, 
What  slender  shade  of  doubt  mav 
flit. 
And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love : 

And    hence,   indeed,  she    sports    with 
words. 
But  better  serves  a  wholesome  law. 
And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to  draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords : 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a  larger  lay, 

But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that 
dip 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 

XLIX. 

From  art,  from  nature,  from  the  schools, 
Let  random  influences  glance, 
Like  light  in  many  a  shiver'd  lance 

That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools : 

The  lightest  wave  of  thought  shall  lisp, 
The  fancy's  tenderest  eddy  wreathe, 
The  slightest  air  of  song  shall  breathe 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way. 

But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that 

make 
The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break. 

The  tender-pencill'd  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears 
Ay  me,  the  sorrow  deepens  down, 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


255 


Whose    muffled    motions    bliiully 
drown 
The  bases  of  my  hfe  in  tears. 


Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 

When   the   blood    creeps,    and    the 

nerves  prick 
And  tingle;   and  the  heart  is  sick, 

And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 
Is  rack'd  with  pangs  that  conquer 

trust; 
And  Time,  a  maniac  scattering  dust, 

And  Life,  a  Fury  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry, 

And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring. 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting  and 
sing 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I  fade  away. 

To  point  the  term  of  human  strife, 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 

The  twilight  of  eternal  day, 

LI. 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side? 
Is    there    no    baseness    we    would 
hide? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 

I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame. 
See    with    clear    eye    some    hidden 
shame 

And  I  be  lessen'd  in  his  love? 

I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue : 

Shall   love  be  blamed    for  want    of 

faith  ? 
There  must    be  wisdom  with    great 
Death : 
The  dead  shall  look  me  thro'  and  thro'. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall : 

Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours. 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 


LII. 

I  cannot  love  thee  as  I  ought, 

For  love  reflects  the  thing  beloved; 

My  words  are  only  words,  and  moved 
Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

'  Vet  blame  not  thou  thy  plaintive  song,' 
The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied; 
'  Thou  canst  not  move  me  from  thy 
side, 

Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 

'  What  keeps  a  spirit  wholly  true 
To  that  ideal  which  he  bears? 
What  record?    not  the  sinless  years 

That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue  : 

*  So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl, 

That  life  is  dash'd  with  flecks  of  sin. 

Abide  :  thy  wealth  is  gather'd  in, 
When  Time    hath    sunder'd    shell    from 
pearl.' 

LIII. 

How  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
A  sober  man,  among  his  boys, 
Whose    youth    was    full    of    foolish 
noise, 

W' ho  wears  his  manhood  hale  and  green  : 

And  dare  we  to  this  fancy  give, 

That    had    the    wild   oat    not   been 

sown. 
The    soil,   left    barren,    scarce    had 
grown 
The  grain  by  which  a  man  may  live? 

Or,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 

For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth. 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a  truth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round? 

Hold  thou  the  good  :  define  it  well : 
For  fear  divine  Philosophy 
Should  push  beyond  her  mark,  and  be 

Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell, 

LIV. 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good  ■ 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will. 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood  ; 


256 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 
.That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last  —  far  off — at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream :  but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

LV. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 

No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 

That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 

Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 

LVI. 

*  So  careful  of  the  type?  '  but  no. 

From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She    cries,   'A   thousand    types   are 
gone  : 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 


'  Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me : 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death  : 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath : 

I  know  no  more.'     And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair. 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes. 
Who    roU'd    the    psalm    to    wintry 
skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law  — 
Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravine,  shriek'd  against  his  creed  — 

Who  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust. 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills? 

No  more?     A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.     Dragons  of  the  prime. 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime, 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

0  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

O  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless ! 
What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 

LVII. 

Peace ;   come  away :  the  song  of  woe 
Is  after  all  an  earthly  song : 
Peace;     come    away:    we    do    him 
wrong 

To  sing  so  wildly :  let  us  go. 

Come;   let  us  go  :  your  cheeks  are  pale; 
But  half  my  life  I  leave  behind  : 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined ; 

But  I  shall  pass;   my  work  will  fail. 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies. 

One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 

1  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er. 

Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead; 
And  *  Ave,  Ave,  Ave,'  said, 
'  Adieu,  adieu,'  for  evermore. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


257 


LVIII. 

In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell : 
Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls, 
As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 

In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 

Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day. 
Half-conscious  of  their  dying  clay, 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall 
cease. 

The  high   Muse    answerM :    'Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy  brethren  with  a  fruitless  tear? 

Abide  a  little  longer  here, 
And  thou  shalt  take  a  nobler  leave.' 

LIX. 

O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me 
No  casual  mistress,  but  a  wife, 
My  bosom-friend  and  half  of  life; 

As  I  confess  it  needs  must  be; 

O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood. 
Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a  bride, 
And  put  thy  harsher  moods  aside. 

If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  good. 

My  centred  passion  cannot  move, 
Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day; 
But  I'll  have  leave  at  times  to  play 

As  with  the  creature  of  my  love; 

And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  mine. 

With   so    much    hope    for   years  to 

come, 
That,  howsoe'er  I  know  thee,  some 

Could  hardly  tell  what  name  were  thine. 

LX. 

He  past;    a  soul  of  nobler  tone : 

My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him  yet, 
Like  some  poor  girl  whose  heart  is 
set 

On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere, 
She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot. 
Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not  what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 


The  little  village  looks  forlorn; 

She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days. 
Moving  about  the  household  ways, 

In  that  dark  house  where  she  was  born. 

The  foolish  neighbours  come  and  go. 

And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws  by : 
At    night    she    weeps,    '  How   vain 
am  I ! 

How  should  he  love  a  thing  so  low? ' 

LXI. 

If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime. 

Thy  ransom'd  reason  change  replies 
With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise, 

The  perfect  flower  of  human  time; 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below. 

How  dimly  character'd  and  slight, 
How  dwarfd  a  growth  of  cold  and 
night. 

How  blanch'd  with  darkness  must  I  grow ! 

Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore. 

Where  thy  first  form  was  made  a 

man; 
I  loved  thee.  Spirit,  and  love,  nor  can 

The  soul  of  Shakspeare  love  thee  more. 

LXII. 

Tho'  if  an  eye  that's  downward  cast 

Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench 

or  fail. 
Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale, 

And  fading  legend  of  the  past; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined. 
When  he  was  little  more  than  boy, 
On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy, 

But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind; 

And  breathes  a  novel  world,  the  while 
His  other  passion  wholly  dies. 
Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 

Is  matter  for  a  flying  smile. 

LXIII. 

Yet  pity  for  a  horse  o'er-driven. 

And  love  in  which   my  hound  has 

part, 
Can  hang  no  weight  upon  my  heart 

In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven; 


258 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  T  am  so  much  more  than  these, 

As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than  I, 
And  yet  I  spare  them  sympathy, 

And  I  would  set  their  pains  at  ease. 

So  mayst  thou  watch  me  where  I  weep, 
As,  unto  vaster  motions  bound, 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  round 

A  higher  height,  a  deeper  deep. 

LXIV. 

Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been, 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man. 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 

And  on  a  simple  village  green; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar. 

And    grasps    the    skirts   of    happy 

chance. 
And   breasts  the   blows  of  circum- 
stance, 
And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys. 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees. 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher. 

Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope. 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream, 

When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 

While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings, 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labour  of  his  hands, 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands; 

*  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me?' 

LXV. 

Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt; 

I  lull  a  fancy  trouble-tost 

With  '  Love's  too  precious  to  be  lost, 
A  little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt.' 


And  in  that  solace  can  I  sing. 

Till  out  of  painful  phases  wrought 
There  flutters  up  a  happy  thought, 

Self-balanced  on  a  lightsome  wing  : 

Since  we  deserved  the  name  of  friends, 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 
A  part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee 

And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 

LXVI. 

You  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased; 
You  wonder  when  my  fancies  play 
To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay. 

Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 

The  shade  by  which  my  life  was  crost. 
Which  makes  a  desert  in  the  mind, 
Has  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind^ 

And  like  to  him  whose  sight  is  lost; 

Whose  feet  are  guided  thro'  the  land. 
Whose   jest    among   his    friends    is 

free, 
Who  takes  the  children  on  his  knee. 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand : 

He  plays  with  threads,  he  beats  his  chair 
For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky; 
His  inner  day  can  never  die, 

His  night  of  loss  is  always  there. 

LXVII. 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west. 

There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears. 
As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name. 

And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies; 

And  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes 
I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray  : 

And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church  like  a  ghost 

Thy  tal)let  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 


IN  MEAIORIAM. 


259 


LXVIII. 

When  in  the  down  I  sink  my  head, 

Sleep,    Death's   twin-brother,    times 

my  breath; 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  knows 
not  Death, 
Nor  can  I  dream  of  thee  as  dead : 

I  walk  as  ere  I  walk'd  forlorn, 

When  all  our  path  was  fresh   with 
dew. 

And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 
Reveillee  to  the  breaking  morn. 

But  what  is  this?     I  turn  about, 
I  find  a  trouble  in  thine  eye. 
Which  makes  me  sad   I   know  not 
why, 

Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt : 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 

I  wake,  and  I  discern  the  truth; 
It  is  the  trouble  of  my  youth 

That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee, 

LXIX. 

I   dream'd   there   would   be    Spring   no 
more. 
That   Nature's   ancient   power   was 

lost: 
The  streets  were  black  with  smoke 
and  frost, 
They  chatter'd  trifles  at  the  door : 

I  wander'd  from  the  noisy  town, 

I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs  : 
I  took  the  thorns  to  bind  my  brows, 

I  wore  them  like  a  civic  crown : 

I  met  with  scoffs,  I  met  with  scorns 

From   youth   and   babe    and   hoary 

hairs : 
They  call'd  me  in  the  public  squares 

The  fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns : 

They    call'd    me    fool,    they   call'd    me 
child : 
I  found  an  angel  of  the  night; 
The  voice   was  low,  the    look   was 
bright; 
He  look'd  upon  my  crown  and  smiled  : 


He  reach'd  the  glory  of  a  hand, 

That  seem'd  to  touch  it  into  leaf: 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief. 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 

LXX. 

I  cannot  see  the  features  right. 

When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  know;   the  hues  are  faint 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night; 

Cloud-towers  by  ghostly  masons  wrought, 
A  gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 
A  hand  that  points,  and  palled  shapes 

In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought; 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning 
doors, 

And  shoals  of  pucker'd  faces  drive; 

Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive, 
And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores; 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 
I  hear  a  wizard  music  roll. 
And  thro'  a  lattice  on  the  soul 

Looks  thy  fair  face  and  makes  it  still. 

LXXI. 

Sleep,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and  trance 
And  madness,  thou  hast  forged   at 

last 
A  night-long  Present  of  the  P^st 

In  which  we  went  thro'  summer  France, 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soul? 
Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly  strong, 
Drug  down  the  blindfold   sense    of 
wrong 

That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole; 

While  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talk'd 

Of   men    and    minds,    the    dust    of 

change. 
The   days   that   grow  to   something 
strange. 
In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk'd 

Beside  the  river's  wooded  reach, 

The    fortress,    and    the     mountain 

ridge, 
The     cataract     flashing     from    the 
bridge, 
The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 


26o 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


LXXII. 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again. 

And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night. 
With    blasts    that    blow   the    poplar 
white, 
And    lash    with    storm    the    streaming 
pane? 

Day,  when  my  crown'd  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom. 
Which  sicken'd  every  living  bloom, 

And  blurr'd  the  splendour  of  the  sun; 

Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 

With  thy  quick  tears  that  make  the 

rose 
Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 

Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower; 

Who  might'st   have   heaved    a  windless 
flame 
Up  the  deep    East,  or,  whispering, 

play'd 
A  chequer-work  of  beam  and  shade 
Along  the  hills,  yet  look'd  the  same. 

As  wan,  as  chill,  as  wild  as  now ; 

Day,  mark'd  as  with  some  hideous 

crime. 
When  the  dark  hand  struck  down 
thro'  time, 
And  cancell'd  nature's  best :  but  thou 

Lift  as  thou  may'st  thy  burthen'd  brows 
Thro'  clouds  that  drench  the  morn- 
ing star. 
And  whirl  the  ungarner'd  sheaf  afar. 

And  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs, 

And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 

Climb    thy    thick    noon,    disastrous 

day; 
Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless  gray. 

And  hide  thy  shame  beneath  the  ground. 

LXXIII. 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 

So  little  done,  such  things  to  be. 
How    know    I    what   had    need    of 
thee. 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true? 


The  fame  is  quench'd  that  I  foresaw, 

The    head    hath   miss'd    an    earthly 

wreath  : 
I  curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

W^e  pass;  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds : 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 

In  endless  age?     It  rests  with  God. 

0  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame, 

Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exults. 
And  self-infolds  the  large  results 
Of    force    that    would    have    forged    a 
name. 

LXXIV. 

As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face. 

To   those   that  watch  it  more    and 

more, 
A  likeness,  hardly  seen  before, 

Comes  out  —  to  some  one  of  his  race: 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 

I  see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see, 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  unsaid, 
Nor  speak  it,  knowing   Death    has 
made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 

LXXV. 

1  leave  thy  praises  unexpress'd 

In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief, 
And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 
I  leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess'd; 

What  practice  howsoe'er  expert 

In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things. 
Or    voice    the    richest-toned    that 
sings. 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert? 

I  care  not  in  these  fading  days 

To  raise  a  cry  that  lasts  not  long. 
And  round  thee  with  the  breeze  of 
song 

To  stir  a  little  dust  of  praise. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


261 


Thy  leaf  has  perish'd  in  the  green, 

And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the 

sun, 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 

Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame; 
But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view, 
Whate'er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 

Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 

LXXVI. 

Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend, 
And  in  a  moment  set  thy  face 
Where    all    the    starry    heavens    of 
space 

Are  sharpen'd  to  a  needle's  end; 

Take  wings  of  foresight;   lighten  thro' 
The  secular  abyss  to  come, 
And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 

Before  the  mouldering  of  a  yew; 

And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last. 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  vast, 

Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere   these   have    clothed    their   branchy 
bowers 
With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are  vain; 
And  what  are  they  when  these  re- 
main 
The  ruin'd  shells  of  hollow  towers? 

LXXVII. 

What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  him,  who  turns  a  musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  that 
lie 

Foreshorten'd  in  the  tract  of  time? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 

May  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box. 
May  serve  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks; 

Or  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane 

A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find. 

And,  passing,    turn   the    page   that 

tells 
A  grief,  then  changed  to  something 
else, 
Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 


But  what  of  that?     My  darken'd  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same; 
To   breathe   my  loss   is   more    than 
fame. 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 

LXXVIII. 

Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 

The    holly    round     the     Christmas 

hearth; 
The  silent  snow  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve : 

The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost. 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept. 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind. 

Again  our  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  picture's  breathing  grace. 

And  dance  and  song  and  hoodman-blind. 

Who  show'd  a  token  of  distress? 

No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain : 

0  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane? 
O  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less? 

O  last  regret,  regret  can  die  ! 

No  —  mixt  with  all  this  mystic  frame, 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same. 

But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 

LXXIX. 

*  More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me,'  — 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart ! 

1  know    thee    of  what   force    thou 
art 

To  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 

But  thou  and  I  are  one  in  kind, 

As  moulded  like  in  Nature's  mint; 
And  hill    and  wood    and    field    did 
print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 

For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curl'd 
Thro'    all    his    eddying   coves;     the 

same 
All   winds   that   roam   the    twilight 
came 
In  whispers  of  the  beauteous  world. 


262 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


At  one  dear  knee  we  proffer'd  vows, 

One  lesson  from  one  book  we  learn'd, 
Ere  childhood's  flaxen  ringlet  turn'd 

To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  brows. 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine, 

But  he  was  rich  where  I  was  poor, 
And  he  supplied  my  want  the  more 

As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 

LXXX. 

If  any  vague  desire  should  rise, 

That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 
Had    moved    me    kindly    from    his 
side. 

And  dropt  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes; 

Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can, 

The  grief  my  loss  in  him  had  wrought, 
A  grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought, 

But  stay'd  in  peace  with  God  and  man, 

I  make  a  picture  in  the  brain; 

I  hear  the  sentence  that  he  speaks; 

He  bears  the  burthen  of  the  weeks 
But  turns  his  burthen  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free; 

And,   influence-rich  to   soothe    and 
save. 

Unused  example  from  the  grave 
Reach  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 

Lxxxr. 

Could  I  have  said  while  he  was  here, 

'  My    love    shall    now    no    further 

range; 
There    cannot    come    a     mellower 
change, 
For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear.' 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store  : 
What  end  is  here  to  my  complaint? 
This   haunting    whisper    makes    me 
faint, 
'  More    years   had  made  me    love  thee 
more.' 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet : 
'  My  sudden  frost  was  sudden  gain, 
And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain, 

It  might  have  drawn  from  after-heat.' 


LXXXII. 

I  wage  not  any  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  form  and 

face; 
No  lower  life  that    earth's  embrace 
May    breed    with    him,    can    fright    my 
faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on, 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit  walks; 

And    these    are   but   the    shatter'd 
stalks, 
Or  ruin'd  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth  : 
I  know  transplanted  human  worth 

Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 

The  wrath  that  garners  in  my  heart : 
He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 

We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 

Lxxxiir. 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
O  sweet  new-year  delaying  long; 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days. 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  vtith  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

O  thou  new-year,  delaying  long, 

Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood. 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

I.XXXIV. 

When  I  contemplate  all  alone 

The  life  that  had  been  thine  below. 
And  fix  my  thoughts  on  all  the  glow 

'^^1    which    thy    crescent     would     have 
grown; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


263 


I  see  thee  sitting  crown'd  with  good, 
A  central  warmth  diffusing  bUss 
In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp  and 
kiss,  • 

On  all  thebranches  of  thy  blood; 

Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine; 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on, 
^Yhen  thou   should'st   link  thy  life 
with  one 

Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thine 

Had  babbled  '  Uncle  '  on  my  knee; 
But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange  flower, 

Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 

I  seem  to  meet  their  least  desire, 

To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  them 

mine. 
I  see  their  unborn  faces  shine 

Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 

I  see  myself  an  honour'd  guest. 

Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  walk 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk, 

Or  deep  dispute,  and  graceful  jest; 

While  now  thy  prosperous  labour  fills 
The  lips  of  men  with  honest  praise, 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 

Descend  below  the  golden  hills 

With  promise  of  a  morn  as  fair; 

And  all  the  train  of  bounteous  hours 
Conduct  by  paths  of  growing  powers, 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair; 

Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe, 

Her  lavish  mission  richly  wrought, 
Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought, 

Thy  spirit  should  fail  from  off"  the  globe ; 

What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee, 

As  link'd  with  thine  in  love  and  fate, 
And,    hovering    o'er    the    dolorous 
strait 

To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee, 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal, 

And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shining  hand 

And  take  us  as  a  single  soul. 


What  reed  was  that  on  which  I  leant? 
Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bitterness  again,  and  break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content. 

LXXXV. 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  I  sorrow'd  most, 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all  — 

O  true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed. 

Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief, 
What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 

Be  dimm'd  of  sorrow,  or  sustain'd; 
And   whether    love    for    him    have 
drain'd 

My  capabilities  of  love; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A  faithful  answer  from  the  breast. 
Thro'  light  reproaches,  half  exprest, 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept, 

Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls. 
That  in  Vienna's  fatal  walls 

God's  finger  touch'd  him,  and  he  slept. 

The  great  Intelligences  fair 

That  range  above  our  mortal  state, 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate. 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  there; 

And  led  him  thro'  the  blissful  climes, 

And  show'd  him  in  the  fountain  fresh 
All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 

But  I  remain'd,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 
Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  little 

worth. 
To  wander  on  a  darken'd  earth, 
Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of 
him. 

O  friendship,  equal-poised  control,  • 

O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 
O  sacred  essence,  other  form, 

O  solemn  ghost,  O  crowned  s®ul ! 


264 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 
I  felt  and  feel,  tho'  left  alone, 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine ; 

A  Hfe  that  all  the  Muses  deck'd 

With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might  ex- 
press 
All-comprehensive  tenderness, 

All-subtilising  intellect : 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I  find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind, 

And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe. 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diffused    the    shock    thro'    all    my 
life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 

For  other  friends  that  once  I  met; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 

I  woo  your  love :  I  count  it  crime 
To  mourn  for  any  overmuch; 
I,  the  divided  half  of  such 

A  friendship  as  had  master'd  Time; 

Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears  : 
The  all-assuming  months  and  years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this : 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods. 

And  Spring  that  swells  the  narrow 

brooks, 
And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks, 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods, 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 

Recalls,    in    change     of    light    or 

gloom, 
My  old  affection  of  the  tomb. 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave 


My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

A  part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  speak : 
'  Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 

A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

'  I  watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 
We  two  communicate  no  more.' 

And  I,  '  Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free? 
How  is  it?     Canst  thou  feel  for  me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain?' 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall; 

'  'Tis  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this; 

I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 
And  that  serene  result  of  all.' 

So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead; 

Or   so    methinks    the    dead    would 
say; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play 
And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end, 

That  these  things  pass,  and  I  shall 

prove 
A   meeting    somewhere,   love   with 
love, 
I  crave  your  pardon,  O  my  friend; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 
I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  transfer 

The  whole  I  felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 

The  promise  of  the  golden  hours? 
First    love,    first    friendship,    equal 
powers. 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place. 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 

But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more. 

My  heart,  tho'  widow'd,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone, 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

That  warms  another  living  breast. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


265 


Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I  bring, 

Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  dear, 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year, 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 

LXXXVI. 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 

That     rollest     from    the     gorgeous 

gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro'  all  the  dewy-tassell'd  wood. 
And   shadowing   down  the    horned 
flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 

The   full    new   life   that   feeds   thy 

breath 
Throughout   my   frame,    till   Doubt 
and  Death, 
111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 

On  leagues  of  odour  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  '  Peace.' 

LXXXVII. 

I  past  beside  the  reverend  walls 

In  which  of  old  I  wore  the  gown; 
I  roved  at  random  thro'  the  town, 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The   storm  their   high-built    organs 

make, 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophet  blazon'd  on  the  panes; 

And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout, 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows;  paced  the  shores 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about 

The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 

The  same,  but  not  the  same;    and 

last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  past 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 


Another  name  was  on  the  door: 

I  linger'd;   all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and 
boys 

That  crash'd  the  glass  and  beat  the  floor; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 

Of  youthful  friends,   on  mind   and 

art. 
And     labour,    and     the     changing 
mart. 
And  all  the  framework  of  the  land; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair. 

But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string; 
And    one   would    pierce    an    outer 

ring, 
And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he, 

Would  cleave  the  mark.     A  willing 

ear 
We  lent   him.     Who,  but  hung  to 
hear 
The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

From   point  to  point,  with   power   and 
grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law. 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face. 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly- wise; 
And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 

The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

LXXXVIII. 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 
Rings  Eden  thro'  the  budded  quicks, 

0  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 
O  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet. 

Whence  radiate  :   fierce  extremes  employ 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf. 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  joy  : 

And  I  —  my  harp  would  prelude  woe  — 

1  cannot  all  command  the  strings; 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 


266 


IN  MEMOKIAM. 


LXXXIX. 

Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of    this  flat    lawn  with    dusk    and 

bright; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and 
height 
Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down, 

My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 
And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 

The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town  : 

He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw; 

He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports; 

They  pleased  him,  fresh  from  brawl- 
ing courts 
And  dusty  purlieus  of  the  law. 

O  joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 

Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark, 
To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 

The  landscape  winking  thro'  the  heat : 

O  sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares. 

The   sweep   of   scythe   in   morning 

dew. 
The   gust    that    round    the    garden 
flew, 
And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears  ! 

O  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 

About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
To  hear  him  as  he  lay  and  read 

The  Tuscan  poets  on  the  lawn : 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 

A  guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 
Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  and 
flung 

A  ballad  to  the  brightening  moon  : 

Nor  less  it  pleased  in  livelier  moods, 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray, 
And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods; 

Whereat   we    glanced     from    theme    to 
theme, 
Discuss'd  the  books  to  love  or  hate, 
Or  touch'd  the  changes  of  the  state, 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream; 


But  if  I  praised  the  busy  town. 

He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  '  ground  in  yonder  social  mill 

We  rub  each  other's  angles  down, 

'  And    merge,'    he    said,    *  in    form    and 
gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man.' 
We  talk'd :    the  stream  beneath  us 
ran, 
The  wine-flask  lying  couch' d  in  moss, 

Or  cool'd  within  the  glooming  wave;. 
And  last,  returning  from  afar, 
Before  the  crimson-circled  star 

Had  fall'n  into  her  father's  grave, 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers, 

We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honied  hours. 

xc. 

He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind, 

Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate  spring 
Where    nighest    heaven,    who    first 
could  fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind; 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying  eyes 
Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their 

Hfe, 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and  wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise : 

'Twas  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with  wine. 
To  pledge  them  with  a  kindly  tear, 
To  talk  them  o'er,  to  wish  them  here, 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine; 

But  if  they  came  who  past  away, 

Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands; 
The    hard    heir    strides    about  their 
lands. 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a  day. 

Yea,  tho'  their  sons  were  none  of  these. 
Not    less   the    yet-loved    sire  would 

make 
Ctmfusion    worse    than    death,    and 
shake 
The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


267 


Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  back  to  me : 

Whatever    change    the   years    have 

wrought, 
I  find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 

XCI. 

When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 

And     rarely     pipes     the     mounted 

thrush; 
Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March; 

Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I  know 
Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers; 
The  hope  of  unaccomplish'd  years 

Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

When  summer's  hourly-mellowing  change 
May  breathe,  with  many  roses  sweet. 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat, 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange; 

Come  :  not  in  watches  of  the  night, 

But   where    the   sunbeam   broodeth 

warm, 
Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after  form. 

And  like  a  finer  light  in  light. 

XCII. 

If  any  vision  should  reveal 

Thy  likeness,  I  might  count  it  vain 
As  but  the  canker  of  the  brain; 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  were  cast 
Together  in  the  days  behind, 
I  might  but  say,  I  hear  a  wind 

Of  memory  murmuring  the  past. 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A  fact  within  the  coming  year; 
And  tho'  the  months,  revolving  near, 

Should  prove  the  phantom-warning  true. 

They  might  not  seem  thy  prophecies. 
But  spiritual  presentiments. 
And  such  refraction  of  events 

As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 

XCIII. 

I  shall  not  see  thee.     Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 


That  stays  him  from  the  native  land 
Where  first  he  walk'd  when  claspt  in  clay? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost. 

But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may  come 
Where    all   the    nerve    of    sense    is 
numb; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 

O,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
O,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 

Of  tenfold-complicated  change. 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter;  hear 

The   wish    too    strong  for  words  to 

name; 
That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 

My  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 

XCIV. 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head. 
With  what  divine  affections  bold 
Should  be  the  man  whose  thought 
would  hold 

An  hour's  communion  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 

The  spirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst  say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast. 
Imaginations  calm  and  fair, 
The  memory  like  a  cloudless  air, 

The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest : 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 

And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates. 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 

xcv. 

By  night  we  linger'd  on  the  lawn. 
For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry; 
And  genial  warmth;  and  o'er  the  sky 

The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn; 

And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  burn 

Unwavering  :  not  a  cricket  chirr'd : 
The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard, 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering:  urn: 


268 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies, 
And  vvheel'd  or  lit  the  filmy  shapes 
That  haunt   the   dusk,  with  ermine 
capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes; 

While  now  we  sang  old  songs  that  peal'd 
From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couch'd 

at  ease, 
The  white  kine  glimmer'd,  and  the 
trees 
Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 

But  when  those  others,  one  by  one, 

Withdrew  themselves  from  me  and 

night. 
And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  1  was  all  alone, 

A  hunger  seized  my  heart;   I  read 

Of  that  glad  year  which  once  had 

been, 
In  those  fall'n  leaves  which  kept  their 
green. 
The  noble  letters  of  the  dead : 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 

The     silent-speaking     words,     and 

strange 
Was  love's  dumb  cry  defying  change 

To  test  his  worth;   and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigour,  bold  to  dwell 

On   doubts   that  drive    the    coward 

back, 
And  keen  thro'  wordy  snares  to  track 

Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line. 

The  dead  man  touch'd  me  from  the 

past, 
And  all  at  once  it  seem'd  at  last 

The  living  soul  was  flash'd  on  mine, 

And  mine  in  this  was  wound,  and  whirl'd 
About  empyreal  heights  of  thought, 
And  came  on  that  which  is,  and 
caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

Ionian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps  of  Time  —  the  shocks  of 
Chance  — 


The  blows  of  Death.      At  length  my 
trance 
Was  cancell'd,  stricken  thro'  with  doubt. 

Vague    words !    but    ah,    how    hard    to 
frame 
In  matter-moulded  forms  of  speech, 
Or  ev'n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro'  memory  that  which  I  became : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal'd 

The  knolls  once  more  where,  couch'd 

at  ease. 
The  white  kine  glimmer'd,  and  the 
trees 
Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field : 

And  suck'd  from  out  the  distant  gloom 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore, 

And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 

And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 

Rock'd  the  fuU-foliaged  elms,  and 

swung 
The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 

The  lihes  to  and  fro,  and  said, 

'  The  dawn,  the  dawn,'  and  died  away; 
And    East    and    West,    without    a 

breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and 
death, 
To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 

xcvi. 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn. 

Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue 

eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies. 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not:  one  indeed  I  knew 

In  many  a  subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true : 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 
There    lives    more    faith   in    honest 
doubt, 

Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


269 


He    fought    his    doubts     and    gather'd 
strength, 
He   would  not   make  his  judgment 

bUnd, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 
And  laid  them :  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own; 

And    Power   was   with  him  in    the 

night, 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the 
light. 
And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone. 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 

XCVII. 

My  love  has  talk'd  with  rocks  and  trees; 
He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crown'd ; 

He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a  married  life  — 

I  look'd  on  these  and  thought  of  thee 
In  vastness  and  in  mystery. 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 

These  two  —  they  dwelt  with  eye  on  eye. 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune, 
Their  meetings  made  December  June, 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away; 
The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 

Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart, 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 
Tho'  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind. 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 

He  looks  so  cold  :  she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 
A  wither'd  violet  is  her  bliss : 


She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is, 
For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house, 

And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 

Her  faith  is  fixt  and  cannot  move. 

She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise, 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

'  I  cannot  understand  :  I  love.' 

XCVIII. 

You  leave  us :  you  will  see  the  Rhine, 
And  those  fair  hills  I  sail'd  below, 
When  I  was  there  with  him;  and  go 

By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 

To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath, 
That  City.     All  her  splendour  seems 
No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that  gleams 

On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 

Enwind  her  isles,  unmark'd  of  me  : 
I  have  not  seen,  I  will  not  see 

Vienna;    rather  dream  that  there, 

A  treble  darkness,  Evil  haunts 

The   birth,  the  bridal;    friend  from 
friend 

Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 
Above  more  graves,  a  thousand  wants 

Gnarr  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey 

By  each   cold    hearth,  and  sadness 

flings 
Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of  kings : 

And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say, 

That  not  in  any  mother  town 

With  statelier  progress  to  and  fro 
The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 

By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 


Of  lustier  leaves;  nor  more  content. 
He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crowd, 
When  all  is   gay  with    lamps, 
loud 
With    sport    and    song,    in    booth 
tent, 


and 


and 


270 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain, 

And  wheels  the  circled  dance,  and 
breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 
Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 

XCIX. 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds, 
So  thick  with  lowings  of  the  herds, 

Day,  when  I  lost  the  flower  of  men; 

Who  tremblest  thro'  thy  darkling  red 
On  yon  swoll'n  brook  that  bubbles 

fast 
By  meadows  breathing  of  the  past. 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead; 

Who  murmurest  in  the  foliaged  eaves 
A    song    that    slights    the    coming 

care. 
And  Autumn  laying  here  and  there 

A  fiery  finger  on  the  leaves; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breath 
To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth. 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth, 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death. 

0  wheresoever  those  may  be, 

Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles. 
To-day  they  count  as  kindred  souls; 
They  know  me  not,  but  mourn  with  me. 

c. 

1  climb  the  hill :  from  end  to  end 

Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
I  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 
Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold. 

Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed, 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead. 

Or  sheep  walk  up  the  windy  wold; 

Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 

That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 
Nor  quarry  trenched  along  the  hill 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock; 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 


To    left    and    right    thro'    meadowy 
curves, 
That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock; 

But  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye. 
And  each  reflects  a  kindlier  day; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  ]  ass  away, 

I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 

CI. 

Unwatch'd,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway. 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down, 
Unloved,    that    beech    will    gather 
brown. 

This  maple  burn  itself  away; 

Unloved,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 

Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of 

seed. 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air; 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar. 

The  brook  shall   babble   down  the 

plain. 
At  noon  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove. 

And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and 

crake; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow, 

And    year   by   year    the    landscape 
grow 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child; 

As  year  by  year  the  labourer  tills 

His    wonted    glebe,    or    lops    the 

glades; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 

CII. 

We  leave  the  well-beloved  place 

Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky; 
The  roofs,  that    heard   our    earliest 
cry. 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 


IN  MEMORFAM. 


271 


We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home, 

As  down  the  garden-walks  I  move, 
Two  spirits  of  a  diverse  love 

Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

One  whispers,  '  Here  thy  boyhood  sung 
Long    since    its    matin    song,    and 

heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 

In  native  hazels  tassel-hung.' 

The  other  answers,  '  Yea,  but  here 

Thy  feet  have  stray'd  in  after  hours 
With    thy   lost   friend    among    the 
bowers. 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear,' 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day. 

And  each  prefers  his  separate  claim. 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I  turn  to  go  :  my  feet  are  set 

To   leave   the    pleasant    fields    and 
farms ; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 

cm. 

On  that  last  night  before  we  went 

From  out  the  doors  where  I  was  bred, 
I  dream'd  a  vision  of  the  dead. 

Which  left  my  after-morn  content. 

Methought  I  dwelt  within  a  hall. 

And  maidens  with  me  :  distant  hills 
From  hidden  summits  fed  with  rills 

A  river  sliding  by  the  wall. 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 

They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and  good 
And  graceful.     In  the  centre  stood 

A  statue  veil'd,  to  which  they  sang; 

And  which,  tho'  veil'd,  was  known  to  me. 
The  shape  of  him  I  loved,  and  love 
For  ever :  then  flew  in  a  dove 

And  brought  a  summons  from  the  sea : 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I  must  go 
They  wept  and  wail'd,  but  led  the 
way 


To  where  a  little  shallop  lay 
At  anchor  in  the  flood  below; 

And  on  by  many  a  level  mead, 

And  shadowing  bluff  that  made  the 
banks, 

We  glided  winding  under  ranks 
Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed; 

And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore 

And    rolled    the   floods    in   grander 

space. 
The  maidens  gather'd  strength  and 
grace 
And  presence,  lordlier  than  before; 

And  I  myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch'd  them,  wax'd  in  every 
limb ; 

I  felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 
The  pulses  of  a  Titan's  heart; 

As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  war. 
And  one  would  chant  the  history 
Of  that  great  race,  which  is  to  be, 

And  one  the  shaping  of  a  star; 

Until  the  forward-creeping  tides 

Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we  saw 

A  great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck. 
But  thrice  as  large  as  man  he  bent 
To  greet  us.     Up  the  side  I  went. 

And  fell  in  silence  on  his  neck : 

Whereat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 
Bewail'd  their  lot;  I  did  them  wrong : 
'  We  served  thee  here,'  they  said, 
'  so  long. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind?' 

So  rapt  I  was,  they  could  not  win 
An  answer  from  my  lips,  but  he 
Replying,  '  Enter  likewise  ye 

And  go  with  us :  '  they  enter'd  in. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A  music  out  of  sheet  and  shroud. 
We  steer'd   her  toward   a    crimson 
cloud 

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 


272 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


CIV. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ; 

The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still; 

A  single  church  below  the  hill 
Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below, 

That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A  single  murmur  in  the  breast, 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  strangers'  voices  here  they  sound. 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays. 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days, 

But  all  is  new  unhallow'd  ground. 

cv. 

To-night  ungather'd  let  us  leave 

This  laurel,  let  this  holly  stand : 
We  live  within  the  stranger's  land, 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas-eve. 

Our  father's  dust  is  left  alone 

And  silent  under  other  snows : 
There    in    due   time   the   woodbine 
blows, 

The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

No  more  shall  wayward  grief  abuse 

The    genial   hour   with    mask    and 

mime; 
For  change  of  place,  like  growth  of 
time, 
Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast, 

By    which    our    lives    are    chiefly 

proved, 
A  little  spare  the  night  I  loved. 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past. 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor, 

Nor  bowl  of  wassail  mantle  warm; 
For  who  would  keep  an  ancient  form 

Thro'  which  the  spirit  breathes  no  more? 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast; 

Nor  harp  be  touch'd,  nor  flute  be 
blown; 

No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 
What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 


Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  summer  in  the  seed; 

Run   out  your  measured  arcs,  and 
lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good. 

CVI. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky. 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 
Ring    out,   ring    out    my   mournful 
rhymes. 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land. 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

CVII. 

It  is  the  day  when  he  was  born, 
A  bitter  day  that  early  sank 
Behind  a  purple-frosty  bank 

Of  vapour,  leaving  night  forlorn. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


273 


The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To    deck    the    banquet.       P'iercely 

flies 
The  blast  of  North   and   East,  and 
ice 
Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen'd  eaves, 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  which  grides  and 
clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 
To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 
That  breaks  the   coast.     But   fetch 
the  wine, 

Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie. 
To  make  a  solid  core  of  heat; 
Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 

Of  all  things  ev'n  as  he  were  by; 

We  keep  the  day.  With  festal  cheer, 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him,  whate'er  he  be. 

And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 

CVIII. 

I  will  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 
And,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 
I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 

Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind : 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith, 

And  vacant  yearning,  tho'  with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven's  highest  height. 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death? 

What  find  I  in  the  highest  place, 

But   mine    own   phantom    chanting 

hymns  ? 
And  on  the  depths  of  death  there 
swims 
The  reflex  of  a  human  face. 

I'll  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies  : 
'Tis    held    that    sorrow    makes    us 
wise. 
Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee. 
T 


CIX. 

Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk 

From    household     fountains    never 

dry; 
The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye, 

That  saw  thro'  all  the  Muses'  wdk; 

Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize   and  throw  the   doubts  of 
man; 

Impassion'd  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 

But  touch'd  with  no  ascetic  gloom; 
And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 

Thro'  all  the  years  of  April  blood  ; 

A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt. 

Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of    England;     not    the    schoolboy 
heat. 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In  such  a  sort,  the  child  would  twine 
A  trustful  hand,  unask'd,  in  thine, 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine  eyes 
Have  look'd  on :    if  they  look'd  in 

vain, 
My  shame  is  greater  who  remain, 

Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

ex. 

Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 

The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years  : 
The  feeble  soul,  a  haunt  of  fears, 

Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung, 

The    proud   was    half    disarm'd   of 

pride, 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 

To  flicker  with  his  double  tongue. 

The  stern  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by, 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen  fool 

Was  soften'd,  and  he  knew  not  why; 


274 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


While  I,  thy  nearest,  sat  apart, 

And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine; 
And  loved  them  more,  that  they  were 
thine. 

The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art; 

Nor  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill, 

But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire, 
And,  born  of  love,  the  vague  desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 

CXI. 

The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 

Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro'  all, 
To  him  who  grasps  a  golden  ball, 

By  blood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 

His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake, 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 

At  seasons  thro'  the  gilded  pale : 

For  who  can  always  act?  but  he, 

To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call, 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  seem'd  to  be. 

Best  seem'd  the  thing  he  was,  and  join'd 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite. 
Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye, 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light; 

And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 

The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman. 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 

And  soil'd  with  all  ignoble  use. 

CXII. 

High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 

That  I,  who  gaze  with  temperate  eyes 
On  glorious  insufficiencies. 

Set  light  by  narrower  perfectness. 

But  thou,  that  fillest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I  seem  to  cast  a  careless  eye 

On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 


For  what  wert  thou?  some  novel  power 
Sprang  up  for  ever  at  a  touch. 
And    hope    could    never    hope    too 
much, 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour. 

Large  elements  in  order  brought. 

And    tracts   of   calm   from   tempest 

made. 
And  world-wide  fluctuation  sway'd 

In  vassal  tides  that  follow'd  thought. 

cxiir. 

'Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise; 

Yet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps  with 
thee 

Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 
But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise; 

For  can  I  doubt,  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil  — 

I   doubt    not   what    thou    wouldst    have 
been: 

A  life  in  civic  action  warm, 

A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm, 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force, 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course, 

With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and  go, 
With  agonies,  with  energies, 
With  overthrowings,  and  with  cries, 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 

cxiv. 

Who  loves  not  Knowledge?     Who  shall 
rail 
Against  her  beauty?     May  she  mix 
With  men  and  prosper  !     Who  shall 
fix 
Her  pillars?     Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire : 

She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 


IN  MEMORJAM. 


275 


Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain  — 
She  cannot  tight  the  fear  of  cleath. 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faiti). 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  Demons?  fiery-hot  to  burst 

All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.    Let  her  know  her  place; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild. 
If  all  be  not  in  vain  ;  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moying  side  by  side 

With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child : 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind. 

But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 
O  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And   knowledge,   but   by  year    and 
hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 

CXV. 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow. 
Now  burgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About   the    flowering    squares,    and 
thick 

"By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue. 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale. 
And.  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea; 

W^here  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their 
sky 

To  build  and  brood;    that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land;   and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too;    and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 


ex  VI. 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 

That  keenlier  in  sweet  April  wakes, 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and 
takes 

The  colours  of  the  crescent  prime? 

Not  all:   the  songs,  the  stirring  air, 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust, 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret :  the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone; 
And   that   dear  voice,  I  once  have 
known. 

Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine : 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  happy  commune  dead; 

Less    yearning    for    the    friendship 
fled, 
Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 

CXVII. 

O  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace. 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss : 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 

Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet; 
And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet, 

Delight  a  hundredfold  accrue. 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs, 

And    every    span     of     shade    that 

steals. 
And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels. 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 

CXVIII. 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  labouring  in  his  youth; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.     They  say. 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 


276 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cycHc  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man; 

Who  throve  and  branch'd  from  clime  to 
clime, 
The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 
And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 

If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more; 

Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and 
show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 

And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears. 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.     Arise  and  fly 

The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

CXIX. 

Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I  come  once  more;   the  city  sleeps; 

I  smell  the  meadow  in  the  street; 

I  hear  a  chirp  of  birds;   I  see 

Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long-with- 
drawn 

A  light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn, 
And  think  of  early  days  and  thee. 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland, 
And  bright  the  friendship  of  thine 

eye; 
And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce  a 
sigh 
I  take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 

cxx. 

I  trust  I  have  not  wasted  breath  : 

I  think  we  are  not  wholly  brain. 
Magnetic  mockeries;   not  in  vain. 

Like    Paul   with    beasts,    I    fought    with 
Death; 


Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay : 

Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men. 

At  least  to  me?     I  would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 

Hereafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action  like  the  greater  ape, 

But  I  was  born  to  other  things. 

CXXI. 

Sad  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun 

And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him, 
Thou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 

And  dimmer,  and  a  glory  done : 

The  team  is  loosen'd  from  the  wain. 

The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door, 

And  life  is  darken'd  in  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night. 
By  thee  the  world's   great  work   is 

heard 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird; 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light : 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream, 

And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink; 
Thou    hear'st    the   village    hammer 
clink. 

And  see'st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

Sweet  Hesper-Phosphor,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  last, 
Thou,    like    my    present    and    my 
past, 

Thy  place  is  changed;   thou  art  the  same. 

CXXII. 

Oh,  wast  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then, 
While  I  rose  up  against  my  doom, 
And    yearn'd   to    burst    the    folded 
gloom, 

To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again, 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe, 
The  strong  imagination  roll 
A  sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul. 

In  all  her  motion  one  with  law; 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now, 


IN  MEMORIAM, 


277 


And  enter  in  at  breast  and  bro 
Till  all  my  blood,  a  fuller  wave, 

Be  quicken'd  with  a  livelier  breath. 
And  like  an  inconsiderate  boy. 
As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 

I  slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death; 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows, 

And  every  dew-drop  paints  a  bow, 
The  wizard  lightnings  deeply  glow, 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a  rose. 

CXXIII. 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 

0  earth,  what  changes  hast  thou 
seen ! 

There  where    the   long  street  roars 
hath  been 
The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 

From    form    to    form,   and    nothing 

stands; 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands. 
Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and 
go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell. 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it 
true; 

For  tho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 

CXXIV, 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless; 

Our    dearest    faith;     our    ghastliest 

doubt; 
He,  They,  One,  All;    within,  with- 
out; 
The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess; 

I  found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 
Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye; 
Nor  thro'   the   questions   men    may 
try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun : 

If  e'er  when  faith  had  fall'n  asleep, 

1  heard  a  voice,  '  Believe  no  more  ' 
And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep; 


A  warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason's  colder  part. 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 

Stood  up  and  answer'd,  '  I  have  felt.' 

No,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear : 

But    that    blind    clamour   made   me 

wise ; 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries. 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near; 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands; 
And    out    of    darkness    came    the 
hands 

That  reach  thro'  nature,  moulding  men. 

cxxv. 

Whatever  I  have  said  or  sung, 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would 
give. 

Yea,  tho'  there  often  seem'd  to  live 
A  contradiction  on  the  tongue, 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth; 

She  did  but  look  through  dimmer 

eyes; 
Or   Love   but  play'd   with  gracious 
lies, 
Because  he  felt  so  fix'd  in  truth : 

And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care, 

He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song; 
And  if  the  words  were   sweet  and 
strong 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there; 

Abiding  with  me  till  I  sail 

To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 

A  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 

CXXVI. 

Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass'd  by  his  faithful  guard, 


278 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to 
place, 

And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 
In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

CXXVII. 

And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder'd  in  the  night  of  fear ; 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that 
hear 

A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm, 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread, 
And  justice,  ev'n  tho'  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 

But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a  crown, 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags : 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining  crags; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down. 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood; 

The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high, 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  sky, 

And  the  great  /Eon  sinks  in  blood. 

And  compass'd  by  the  fires  of  Hell; 

While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O'erlook'st  the  tumult  from  afar. 

And  smilest,  knowing  all  is  well. 

CXXVIII. 

The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
Unpalsied  when  he  met  with  Death, 
Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 

That  sees  the  course  of  human  thin 

No  doubt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 

Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made, 
And  throned  races  may  degrade; 

Yet  O  ye  mysteries  of  good. 

Wild  Hours  that  fly  with  Hope  and  Fear, 
If  all  your  office  had  to  do 
With  old  results  that  look  like  new; 

If  this  were  all  your  mission  here. 

To  draw,  to  sheathe  a  useless  sword, 

To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious  lies, 
To  cleave  a  creed  in  sects  and  cries, 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a  word. 


To  shift  an  arbitrary  power, 

To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk, 
To  make  old  bareness  picturesque. 

And  tuft  with  grass  a  feudal  tower; 

Why  then  my  scorn  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  yours.     I  see  in  part 
That  all,  as  in  some  piece  of  art, 

Is  toil  cooperant  to  an  end. 

cxxix. 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal; 

0  loved  the  most,  when  most  I  feel 
There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher; 

Known  and  unknown;    human,  divine; 

Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye ; 

Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not 
die. 
Mine,  mine,  for  ever,  ever  mine; 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be; 

Loved  deeplier,  darklier  understood; 

Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good. 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

CXXX. 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air; 

1  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then?  I  cannot  guess; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now; 

Tho'   mix'd  with    God   and   Nature 
thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ev>er  nigh; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice; 

I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice  ; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 

CXXXI. 

O  living  will  that  shalt  endure 

When    all    that    seems   shall    suffer 
shock, 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


279 


Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 
Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure, 

That  we  may  Hft  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 

The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved. 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


O  true  and  tried,  so  well  and  long. 

Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay; 
In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 

Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I  felt  so  much  of  bliss 

Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A  daughter  of  our  house;  nor  proved 

Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this; 

Tho'  I  since  then  have  number'd  o'er 

Some  thrice  three  years :   they  went 

and  came, 
Remade  the  blood  and  changed  the 
frame, 
And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more ; 

No  longer  caring  to  embalm 

In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret. 
But  like  a  statue  solid-set. 

And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown. 
For  I  myself  with  these  have  grown 

To  something  greater  than  before; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times. 
As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes. 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 

That  must  be  made  a  wife  ere  noon? 
She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes 

And  then  on  thee ;  they  meet  thy  look 


And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 
Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O  when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud, 

He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 
For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 

For  ever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 

And  thou  art  worthy;  full  of  power; 
As  gentle;   liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent;  wearing  all  that  weight 

Of  learning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

But  now  set  out :   the  noon  is  near. 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride ; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her  will  not  fear: 

For  I  that  danced  her  on  my  knee, 

That  watch'd  her  on  her  nurse's  arm, 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 

Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head. 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 

Breathed  in  her  ear.     The  ring  is  on, 

The  '  wilt  thou  '  answer'd,  and  again 
The  '  wilt  thou  '  ask'd,  till  out  of  twain 

Her  sweet  '  I  will '  has  made  you  one. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be  read. 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  morn. 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn; 

The  names  are  sign'd,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 

The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O  happy  hour,  and  happier  hours 

Await  them.     Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them  —  maidens  of  the  place, 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

O  happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass  the 
grave 

That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 


28o 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 

For  them  the  light  of  life  increased, 
Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast, 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 

To  meet  and  greet  a  whiter  sun; 
My  drooping  memory  will  not  shun 

The  foaming  grape  of  eastern  France. 

It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays, 

And  hearts  are  warm'd   and    faces 
bloom, 
•    As    drinking   health    to   bride    and 
groom 
We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 

Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a  stiller  guest. 
Perchance, perchance,  amongthe  rest, 

And,  the'  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on, 
And  those  white-favour'd  horses  wait ; 
They  rise,  but  linger;   it  is  late; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A  shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 

From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass. 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew. 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she  look'd ,  and  what  he  said. 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee, 

The  shade  of  passing  thought,  the 

wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health. 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three-times-three. 

And  last  the  dance;  —  till  I  retire  : 

Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so 

loud. 
And  high  in  heaven  the  streaming 
cloud. 
And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire  : 


And  rise,  O  moon,  from  yonder  down. 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  shining  vapour  sail 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills. 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head. 
And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and 
spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro'  the  hills; 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 
With    tender    gloom    the    roof,   the 

wall ; 
And  breaking  let  the  splendour  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds. 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A  soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 

And  strike  his  being  into  bounds, 

And,  moved  thro'  life  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 

On  knowledge;    under  whose  com- 
mand 
Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  their 
hand 
Is  Nature  like  an  open  book; 

No  longer  half-akin  to  brute. 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and 
did, 

And  hoped,  and  suffer'd,  is  but  seed 
Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a  noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe. 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves. 
One  Goil,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event. 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


MAUD.  281 

MAUD;    A    MO  NOD  R  A  MA. 

PART    I. 
I. 


I  HATE  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood, 
Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dappled  with  blood-red  heath, 
The  red-ribb'd  ledges  drip  with  a  silent  horror  of  blood, 
And  Echo  there,  whatever  is  ask'd  her,  answers  '  Death.' 

II. 

For  there  in  the  ghastly  pit  long  since  a  body  was  found, 
His  who  had  given  me  life  —  O  father  !  O  God  !  was  it  well?  — 
Mangled,  and  flatten'd,  and  crush'd,  and  dinted  into  the  ground : 
There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him  when  he  fell. 

III. 

Did  he  fling  himself  down?  who  knows?  for  a  vast  speculation  had  fail'd. 
And  ever  he  mutter'd  and  madden'd,  and  ever  wann'd  with  despair, 
And  out  he  walk'd  when  the  wind  like  a  broken  worldling  wail'd, 
And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin'd  woodlands  drove  thro'  the  air. 

IV. 

I  remember  the  time,  for  the  roots  of  my  hair  were  stirr'd 
By  a  shuffled  step,  by  a  dead  weight  trail'd,  by  a  whisper'd  fright, 
And  my  pulses  closed  their  gates  with  a  shock  on  my  heart  as  I  heard 
The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a  mother  divide  the  shuddering  night. 


Villainy  somewhere  !  whose  ?     One  says,  we  are  villains  all. 
Not  he;   his  honest  fame  should  at  least  by  me  be  maintained : 
But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad  estate  and  the  Hall, 
Dropt  off  gorged  from  a  scheme  that  had  left  us  flaccid  and  drain'd. 

VI. 

Why  do  they  prate  of  the  blessings  of  Peace?  we  have  made  them  a  curse, 

Pickpockets,  each  hand  lusting  for  all  that  is  not  its  own; 

And  lust  of  gain,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain,  is  it  better  or  worse 

Than  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  war  on  his  own  hearthstone? 

VII. 

But  these  are  the  days  of  advance,  the  works  of  the  men  of  mind, 
When  who  but  a  fool  would  have  faith  in  a  tradesman's  ware  or  his  word? 
Is  it  peace  or  war?     Civil  war,  as  I  think,  and  that  of  a  kind 
The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bearing  the  sword. 


282  MA  UD. 


VIII, 


Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  passively  take  the  print 

Of  the  golden  age  — why  not?     I  have  neither  hope  nor  trust; 

May  make  my  heart  as  a  millstone,  set  my  face  as  a  flint, 

Cheat  and  be  cheated,  and  die:  who  knows?  we  are  ashes  and  dust. 


IX. 


Peace  fitting  under  her  olive,  and  slurring  the  days  gone  by. 

When  the  poor  are  hovell'd  and  hustled  together,  each  sex,  like  swine. 

When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when  only  not  all  men  lie; 

Peace  in  her  vineyard  —  yes  !  — but  a  company  forges  the  wine. 


And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in  the  ruffian's  head. 
Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  to  the  yell  of  the  trampled  wife. 
And  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  to  the  poor  for  bread, 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the  very  means  of  life, 

XI. 

And  Sleep  must  lie  down  arm'd,  for  the  villainous  centre-bits 
Grind  on  the  wakeful  ear  in  the  hush  of  the  moonless  nights. 
While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a  few  last  gasps,  as  he  sits 
To  pestle  a  poison'd  poison  behind  his  crimson  lights. 

XII. 

When  a  Mammonite  mother  kills  her  babe  for  a  burial  fee. 
And  Timour-Mammon  grins  on  a  pile  of  children's  bones, 
Is  it  peace  or  war?  better,  war !  loud  war  by  land  and  by  sea, 
War  with  a  thousand  battles,  and  shaking  a  hundred  thrones. 

XIII. 

For  I  trust  if  an  enemy's  fleet  came  yonder  round  by  the  hill, 
And  the  rushing  battle-boat  sang  from  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam, 
That  the  smooth-faced  snubnosed  rogue  would  leap  from  his  counter  and  till. 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  his  cheating  yardwand,  home. 

XIV. 

What !  am  I  raging  alone  as  my  father  raged  in  his  mood  ? 
Must  /too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash  myself  down  and  die 
Rather  than  hold  by  the  law  that  I  made,  nevermore  to  brood 
On  a  horror  of  shatter'd  limbs  and  a  wretched  swindler's  lie? 

XV. 

Would  there  be  sorrow  for  me?  there  was  love  in  the  passionate  shriek, 
Love  for  the  silent  thing  that  had  made  false  haste  to  the  grave  — 
Wrapt  in  a  cloak,  as  1  saw  him,  and  thought  he  would  rise  and  speak 
And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah  (kxl,  as  he  used  to  rave. 


MA  UD.  283 


XVI. 


I  am  sick  of  the  Hall  and  the  hill,  I  am  sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main. 
Why  should  I  stay?  can  a  sweeter  chance  ever  come  to  me  here? 
O,  having  the  nerves  of  motion  as  well  as  the  nerves  of  pain, 
Were  it  not  wise  if  I  fled  from  the  place  and  the  pit  and  the  fear? 


XVII. 


Workmen  up  at  the  Hall  I  — they  are  coming  back  from  abroad; 
The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the  touch  of  a  millionaire : 
I  have  heard,  I  know  not  whence,  of  the  singular  beauty  of  Maud; 
I  play'd  with  the  girl  when  a  child;   she  promised  then  to  be  fair. 


XVIII. 


Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and  tumbles  and  childish  escapes, 
Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ringing  joy  of  the  Hall, 
Maud  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when  my  father  dangled  the  grapes, 
Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the  moon-faced  darling  of  all,  — 

XIX. 

What  is  she  now?     My  dreams  are  bad.     She  may  bring  me  a  curse. 
No,  there  is  fatter  game  on  the  moor  :  she  will  let  me  alone. 
Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether  woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 
I  will  bury  myself  in  myself,  and  the  Devil  may  pipe  to  his  own. 

II. 

Long  have  I  sigh'd  for  a  calm :   God  grant  I  may  find  it  at  last ! 

It  will  never  be  broken  by  Maud,  she  has  neither  savour  nor  salt. 

But  a  cold  and  clear-cut  face,  as  I  found  when  her  carriage  past. 

Perfectly  beautiful :  let  it  be  granted  her :  where  is  the  fault? 

All  that  I  saw  (for  her  eyes  were  downcast,  not  to  be  seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null, 

Dead  perfection,  no  more;   nothing  more,  if  it  had  not  been 

For  a  chance  of  travel,  a  paleness,  an  hour's  defect  of  the  rose, 

Or  an  underlip,  you  may  call  it  a  little  too  ripe,  too  full, 

Or  the  least  little  delicate  aquiline  curve  in  a  sensitive  nose, 

From  which  I  escaped  heart-free,  with  the  least  little  touch  of  spleen. 

III. 

Cold  and  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you  so  cruelly  meek, 
Breaking  a  slumber  in  which  all  spleenful  folly  was  drown'd, 
Pale  with  the  golden  beam  of  an  eyelash  dead  on  the  cheek. 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on  a  gloom  profound; 
Womanlike,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for  a  transient  wrong 
Done  but  in  thought  to  your  beauty,  and  ever  as  pale  as  before 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing  upon  me  without  a  sound. 
Luminous,  gemlike,  ghostlike,  deathlike,  half  the  night  long 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing,  till  I  could  bear  it  no  more, 
But  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own  dark  garden  ground, 


284  MA  UD. 


Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad-flung  shipwrecking  roar, 
Now  to  the  scream  of  a  madden'd  beach  dragg'd  down  by  the  wave, 
Walk'd  in  a  wintry  wind  by  a  ghastly  glimmer,  and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low  in  his  grave. 

IV. 


A  million  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby-budded  lime 
In  the  little  grove  where  I  sit  —  ah,  wherefore  cannot  I  be 
Like  things  of  the  season  gay,  like  the  bountiful  season  bland. 
When  the  far-off  sail  is  blown  by  the  breeze  of  a  softer  clime. 
Half-lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a  crescent  of  sea. 
The  silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage  ring  of  the  land? 


Below  me,  there,  is  the  village,  and  looks  how  quiet  and  small ! 
And  yet  bubbles  o'er  like  a  city,  with  gossip,  scandal,  and  spite; 
And  Jack  on  his  ale-house  bench  has  as  many  lies  as  a  Czar; 
And  here  on  the  landward  side,  by  a  red  rock,  glimmers  the  Hall; 
And  up  in  the  high  Hall-garden  I  see  her  pass  like  a  light; 
But  sorrow  seize  me  if  ever  that  light  be  my  leading  star  ! 

III. 

When  have  I  bow'd  to  her  father,  the  wrinkled  head  of  the  race? 
I  met  her  to-day  with  her  brother,  but  not  to  her  brother  I  bow'd : 
I  bow'd  to  his  lady-sister  as  she  rode  by  on  the  moor; 
But  the  fire  of  a  foolish  pride  flash'd  over  her  beautiful  face. 

0  child,  you  wrong  your  beauty,  believe  it,  in  being  so  proud  ; 
Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and  I  am  nameless  and  poor. 

IV. 

1  keep  but  a  man  and  a  maid,  ever  ready  to  slander  and  steal; 
I  know  it,  and  smile  a  hard-set  smile,  like  a  stoic,  or  like 

A  wiser  epicurean,  and  let  the  world  have  its  way : 

For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a  harm  no  preacher  can  heal; 

The  Mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow,  the  sparrow  spear'd  by  the  shrike, 

And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I  sit  is  a  world  of  plunder  and  prey. 


We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and  Beauty  fair  in  her  flower ; 

Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by  an  unseen  hand  at  a  game 

That  pushes  us  off  from  the  board,  and  others  ever  succeed? 

Ah  yet,  we  cannot  he  kind  to  each  other  here  for  an  hour; 

We  whisper,  and  hint,  and  chuckle,  and  grin  at  a  brother's  shame; 

However  we  brave  it  out,  we  men  are  a  little  breed. 

VI. 

A  monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and  Master  of  Earth, 
For  him  did  his  high  sun  flame,  and  his  river  billowing  ran, 


MAUD. 


285 


And  he  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be  Nature's  crowning  race. 
As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  infant  ripe  for  his  birth, 
So  many  a  million  of  ages  have  gone  to  the  making  of  man : 
He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last?  is  he  not  too  base? 

VII. 

The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of  glory,  and  vain, 
An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a  spirit  bounded  and  poor; 
The  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  whirl'd  into  folly  and  vice. 
I  would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep  a  temperate  brain; 
For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a  man  could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  sultan  of  old  in  a  garden  of  spice. 

VIII. 

For  the  drift  of  the  Maker  is  dark,  an  Isis  hid  by  the  veil. 

Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  how  God  will  bring  them  about  ? 

Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many,  the  world  is  wide. 

Shall  I  weep  if  a  Poland  fall?  shall  I  shriek  if  a  Hungary  fail? 

Or  an  infant  civilisation  be  ruled  with  rod  or  with  knout? 

/have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide. 

IX. 

Be  mine  a  philosopher's  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways, 

Where  if  I  cannot  be  gay  let  a  passionless  peace  be  my  lot. 

Far-off  from  the  clamour  of  liars  belied  in  the  hubbub  of  lies; 

From  the  long-neck'd  geese  of  the  world  that  are  ever  hissing  dispraise 

Because  their  natures  are  little,  and,  whether  he  heed  it  or  not, 

Where  each  man  walks  with  his  head  in  a  cloud  of  poisonous  flies. 


And  most  of  all  would  I  flee  from  the  cruel  madness  of  love, 
The  honey  of  poison-flowers  and  all  the  measureless  ill. 
Ah  Maud,  you  milkwhite  fawn,  you  are  all  unmeet  for  a  wife. 
Your  mother  is  mute  in  her  grave  as  her  image  in  marble  above; 
Your  father  is  ever  in  London,  you  wander  about  at  your  will; 
You  have  but  fed  on  the  roses  and  lain  in  the  lilies  of  life. 


V. 


A  voice  by  the  cedar  tree 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall ! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 

A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 

A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call ! 

Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 

In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 

Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 

Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 

March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 

To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 


II. 

Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny 

sky. 
And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English 

green, 
Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her 

grace, 
Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honour  that 

cannot  die, 
Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid 

and  mean, 
And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 


286 


MA  UD. 


III. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice  ! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still !  I  will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a 

choice 
But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before 
Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore. 
Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind, 
Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 


VI. 


Morning  arises  stormy  and  pale, 

No  sun,  but  a  wannish  glare 

In  fold  upon  fold  of  hueless  cloud, 

And  the  budded  peaks  of  the  wood  are 

bow'd 
Caught  and  cuff  d  by  the  gale  : 
I  had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 

II. 

Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet 

Last  night,  when  the  sunset  burn'd 

On  the  blossom'd  gable-ends 

At  the  head  of  the  village  street. 

Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet? 

And  she  touch'd  my  hand  with  a  smile  so 

sweet. 
She  made  me  divine  amends 
For  a  courtesy  not  return'd. 

III. 

And  thus  a  delicate  spark 
Of  glowing  and  growing  light 
Thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dark 
Kept   itself  warm    in   the    heart  of  my 

dreams. 
Ready  to  burst  in  a  colour'd  flame; 
Till  at  last  when  the  morning  came 
In  a  cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 
But  an  ashen-gray  delight. 

IV. 

What  if  with  her  sunny  hair, 
And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold. 
She  meant  to  weave  me  a  snare 
Of  some  coquettish  deceit. 


Cleopatra-like  as  of  old 

To  entangle  me  when  we  met, 

To  have  her  lion  roll  in  a  silken  net 

And  fawn  at  a  victor's  feet. 


Ah,  what  shall  I  be  at  fifty 

Should  Nature  keep  me  alive, 

If  I  find  the  world  so  bitter 

When  I  am  but  twenty-five? 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat, 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd. 

And  her  smile  were  all  that  I  dream'd. 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 

But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

VI. 

What  if  tho'  her  eye  seem'd  full 
Of  a  kind  intent  to  me, 
What  if  that  dandy-despot,  he. 
That  jewell'd  mass  of  millinery. 
That  oil'd  and  curl'd  Assyrian  Bull 
Smelling  of  musk  and  of  insolence. 
Her  brother,  from  whom  I  keep  aloof. 
Who  wants  the  finer  politic  sense 
To  mask,  tho'  but  in  his  own  behoof. 
With  a  glassy  smile  his  brutal  scorn  — 
What  if  he  had  told  her  yestermorn 
How  prettily  for  his  own  sweet  sake 
A  face  of  tenderness  might  be  feign'd, 
And  a  moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes. 
That  so,  when  the  rotten  hustings  shake 
In  another  month  to  his  brazen  lies, 
A  wretched  vote  may  be  gain'd. 

VII. 

For  a  raven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side, 
Keep  watch  and  ward,  keep  watch  and 

ward. 
Or  thou  wilt  prove  their  tool. 
Yea,  too,  myself  from  myself  I  guard, 
For  often  a  man's  own  angry  pride 
Is  cap  and  bells  for  a  fool. 

VIII. 

Perhaps  the  smile  and  tender  tone 
Came  out  of  her  pitying  womanhood, 
I'or  am  I  not,  am  I  not,  here  alone 
So  many  a  summer  since  she  died, 
My  mother,  who  was  so  gentle  and  good? 
Living  alone  in  an  empty  house, 
Here  half-hid  in  the  gleaming  wood, 


MAUD. 


287 


Where     I    hear     the     dead    at    midday 

moan, 
And  the  shrieking  rush  of  the  wainscot 

mouse, 
And    my    own    sad    name    in    corners 

cried, 
When   the  shiver  of  dancing   leaves    is 

thrown 
About  its  echoing  chambers  wide, 
Till    a    morbid    hate    and    horror    have 

grown 
Of  a  world  in  which  I  have  hardly  mixt, 
And  a  morbid  eating  lichen  fixt 
On  a  heart  half-turn'd  to  stone. 

IX. 

O  heart  of  stone,  are  you  flesh,  and  caught 
By  that  you  swore  to  withstand? 
P^or  what  was  it  else  within  me  wrought 
But,    I    fear,   the    new   strong    wine    of 

love. 
That  made  my  tongue  so  stammer  and 

trip 
When  I  saw  the  treasured  splendour,  her 

hand, 
Come  sliding  out  of  her  sacred  glove, 
And  the  sunhght  broke  from  her  lip? 


I  have  play'd  with  her  when  a  child; 

She  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 

Ah  well,  well,  well,  I  may  be  beguiled 

By  some  coquettish  deceit. 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat. 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd, 

And  her  smile  had  all  that  I  dream'd. 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 

But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet, 

VII. 


Did  I  hear  it  half  in  a  doze 

Long  since,  I  know  not  where? 

Did  I  dream  it  an  hour  ago. 
When  asleep  in  this  arm-chair? 

II. 

Men  were  drinking  together. 
Drinking  and  talking  of  me; 

'  Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  the  boy 
Will  have  plenty :  so  let  it  be.' 


III. 


Is  it  an  echo  of  something 
Read  with  a  boy's  delight, 

Viziers  nodding  together 
In  some  Arabian  night? 

IV. 

Strange,  that  I  hear  two  men. 
Somewhere,  talking  of  me; 

'  Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  my  boy 
Will  have  plenty :  so  let  it  be.' 

VIII. 

She  came  to.  the  village  church, 

And  sat  by  a  pillar  alone; 

An  angel  watching  an  urn 

Wept  over  her,  carved  in  stone; 

And  once,  but  once,  she  lifted  her  eyes, 

And  suddenly,  sweetly,  strangely  blush'd 

To  find  they  were  met  by  my  own; 

And    suddenly,   sweetly,   my   heart   beat 

stronger 
And  thicker,  until  I  heard  no  longer 
The  snowy-banded,  dilettante. 
Delicate-handed  priest  intone; 
And  thought,  is  it  pride,  and  mused  and 

sigh'd 
'  No  surely,  now  it  cannot  be  pride.' 

IX. 

I  was  walking  a  mile, 
More  than  a  mile  from  the  shore. 
The  sun  look'd  out  with  a  smile 
Betwixt  the  cloud  and  the  moor 
And  riding  at  set  of  day 
Over  the  dark  moor  land, 
Rapidly  riding  far  away. 
She  waved  to  me  with  her  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side, 
Something  flash'd  in  the  sun, 
Down  by  the  hill  I  saw  them  ride, 
In  a  moment  they  were  gone  : 
Like  a  sudden  spark 
Struck  vainly  in  the  night, 
Then  returns  the  dark 
With  no  more  hope  of  light. 

X. 

I. 

Sick,  am  I  sick  of  a  jealous  dread? 
Was  not  one  of  the  two  at  her  side 


288 


MAUD. 


This    new-made    lord,   whose    splendour 

plucks 
The  slavish  hat  from  the  villager's  head? 
Whose  old  grandfather  has  lately  died, 
Gone  to  a  blacker  pit,  for  whom 
Grimy  nakedness  dragging  his  trucks 
And  laying  his  trams  in  a  poison 'd  gloom 
Wrought,   till   he    crept   from   a   gutted 

mine 
Master  of  half  a  servile  shire. 
And  left  his  coal  all  turn'd  into  gold 
To  a  grandson,  first  of  his  noble  line, 
Rich  in  the  grace  all  women  desire. 
Strong  in  the  power  that  all  men  adore, 
And  simper  and  set  their  voices  lower, 
And  soften  as  if  to  a  girl,  and  hold 
Awe-stricken  breaths  at  a  work  divine, 
Seeing  his  gewgaw  castle  shine, 
New  as  his  title,  built  last  year, 
There  amid  perky  larches  and  pine, 
And  over  the  sullen-purple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a  cockney  ear. 

II. 

What,  has  he  found  my  jewel  out? 
For  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her  side 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  I  am  sure  was  he  : 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  and  I  think  for  a 

bride. 
Blithe  would  her  brother's  acceptance  be. 
Maud  could  be  gracious  too,  no  doubt 
To  a  lord,  a  captain,  a  padded  shape, 
A  bought  commission,  a  waxen  face, 
A  rabbit  mouth  that  is  ever  agape  — 
Bought?  what  is  it  he  cannot  buy? 
And  therefore  splenetic,  personal,  base, 
A  wounded  thing  with  a  rancorous  cry. 
At  war  with  myself  and  a  wretched  race, 
Sick,  sick  to  the  heart  of  life,  am  I. 

III. 

Last  week  came  one  to  the  country  town. 
To  preach  our  poor  little  army  down. 
And  play  the  game  of  the  despot  kings, 
Tho'  the  state    has   done  it   and    thrice 

as  well : 
This    broad-brimm'd     hawker    of    holy 

things. 
Whose  ear  is  cramm'd  with  his  cotton, 

and  rings 
Even  in  dreams  to  the  chink  of  his  pence, 
This  huckster  put  down  war  !   can  he  tell 


Whether  war  be  a  cause  or  a  consequence  ? 
Put  down  the  passions  that  make  earth 

Hell! 
Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride, 
Jealousy,  down  !   cut  off  from  the  mind 
The  bitter  springs  of  anger  and  fear; 
Down  too,  down  at  your  own  fireside, 
With  the  evil  tongue  and  the  evil  ear. 
For  each  is  at  war  with  mankind. 

IV. 

I  wish  I  could  hear  again 

The  chivalrous  battle-song 

That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  joy  ! 

I  might  persuade  myself  then 

She  would  not  do  herself  this  great  wrong, 

To  take  a  wanton  dissolute  boy 

For  a  man  and  leader  of  men. 

V. 

Ah    God,  for   a  man  with   heart,  head, 

hand. 
Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones  gone 
For  ever  and  ever  by. 
One  still  strong  man  in  a  blatant  land. 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat  —  one 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie. 

VI. 

And  ah  for  a  man  to  arise  in  me, 
That  the  man  I  am  may  cease  to  be ! 

XL 
I. 

0  let  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may. 
What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 

1  shall  have  had  my  day. 


Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 
Not  close  and  darken  above  me 

Before  I  am  quite  quite  sure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me; 

Then  let  come  what  come  may 

To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

1  shall  have  had  my  day. 


MAUD. 


289 


XII. 
I. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  and  calling. 

II. 

Where  was  Maud?  in  our  wood; 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her. 
Gathering  woodland  lilies, 

Myriads  blow  together. 

III. 

Birds  in  our  wood  sang 
Ringing  thro'  the  valleys, 

Maud  is  here,  here,  here 
In  among  the  lilies. 

IV. 

I  kiss'd  her  slender  hand, 
She  took  the  kiss  sedately; 

Maud  is  not  seventeen. 
But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 


I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favour ! 

0  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 
If  lowliness  could  save  her. 

VI. 

1  know  the  way  she  went 

Home  with  her  maiden  posy. 
For  her  feet  have  touch'd  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

VII. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her. 

Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud? 
One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

VIII. 

Look,  a  horse  at  the  door, 

And  little  King  Charley  snarling, 

Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 
You  are  not  her  darling. 
U 


XIII. 


Scorn'd,  to  be  scorn'd  by  one  that  I  scorn, 
Is  that  a  matter  to  make  me  fret? 
That  a  calamity  hard  to  be  borne? 
Well,  he  may  live  to  hate  me  yet. 
Fool  that  I  am  to  be  vext  with  his  pride ! 
I  past  him,  I  was  crossing  his  lands; 
He  stood  on  the  path  a  little  aside; 
His  face,  as  I  grant,  in  spite  of  spite, 
Has  a  broad-blown  comeliness,  red  and 

M'hite, 
And  six  feet  two,  as  I  think,  he  stands; 
But  his  essences  turn'd  the  live  air  sick, 
And  barbarous  opulence  jewel-thick 
Sunn'd  itself  on  his  breast  and  his  hands. 

II. 

Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 
I  long'd  so  heartily  then  and  there 
To  give  him  the  grasp  of  fellowship; 
But  while  I  past  he  was  humming  an  air, 
Stopt,  and  then  with  a  riding  whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a  glossy  boot, 
And  curving  a  contumelious  lip, 
Gorgonised  me  from  head  to  foot 
With  a  stony  British  stare. 

III. 

Why  sits  he  here  in  his  father's  chair? 
That  old  man  never  comes  to  his  place : 
Shall  I  believe  him  ashamed  to  be  seen? 
For  only  once,  in  the  village  street. 
Last  year,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face, 
A  gray  old  wolf  and  a  lean. 
Scarcely,  now,  would  I  call  him  a  cheat; 
For  then,  perhaps,  as  a  child  of  deceit. 
She  might  by  a  true  descent  be  untrue ; 
And  Maud  is  as  true  as  Maud  is  sweet : 
Tho'  I  fancy  her  sweetness  only  due 
To  the  sweeter  blood  by  the  other  side; 
Her  mother  has  been  a  thing  complete. 
However  she  came  to  be  so  allied. 
And  fair  without,  faithful  within, 
Maud  to  him  is  nothing  akin : 
Some  peculiar  mystic  grace 
Made  her  only  the  child  of  her  mother, 
And  heap'd  the  whole  inherited  sin 
On  that  huge  scapegoat  of  the  race, 
All,  all  upon  the  brother. 


290 


MA  UD. 


IV. 


Peace,  angry  spirit,  and  let  him  be  ! 
Has  not  his  sister  smiled  on  me? 

XIV. 


Maud  has  a  garden  of  roses 
And  lilies  fair  on  a  lawn; 
There  she  walks  in  her  state 
And  tends  upon  bed  and  bower, 
And  thither  I  climb'd  at  dawn 
And  stood  by  her  garden-gate; 
A  lion  ramps  at  the  top, 
He  is  claspt  by  a  passion-flower. 

II. 

Maud's  own  little  oak-room 

(Which  Maud,  like  a  precious  stone 

Set  in  the  heart  of  the  carven  gloom. 

Lights  with  herself,  when  alone 

She  sits  by  her  music  and  books 

And  her  brother  lingers  late 

With  a  roystering  company)  looks 

Upon  Maud's  own  garden-gate  : 

And  I  thought  as  I  stood,  if  a  hand,  as 

white 
As  ocean-foam  in  the  moon,  were  laid 
On    the    hasp   of  the  window,   and   my 

Delight 
Had  a  sudden  desire,  like  a  glorious  ghost, 

to  glide, 
Like  a  beam  of  the  seventh  Heaven,  down 

to  my  side, 
There  were  but  a  step  to  be  made. 

III. 

The  fancy  flatter'd  my  mind. 

And  again  seem'd  overbold; 

Now  I  thought  that  she  cared  for  me. 

Now  I  thought  she  was  kind 

Only  because  she  was  cold. 

IV. 

I  heard  no  sound  where  I  stood 
But  the  rivulet  on  from  the  lawn 
Running  down  to  my  own  dark  wood; 
Or  the  voice  of  the  long  sea-wave  as  it 

swell'd 
Now  and  then  in  the  dim-gray  dawn; 


But  I  look'd,  and  round,  all  round  the 

house  I  beheld 
The  death-white  curtain  drawn; 
Felt  a  horror  over  me  creep. 
Prickle  my  skin  and  catch  my  breath, 
Knew  that  the  death-white  curtain  meant 

but  sleep, 
Yet  I  shudder'd  and  thought  like  a  fool 

of  the  sleep  of  death. 

XV. 

So  dark  a  mind  within  me  dwells, 
And  I  make  myself  such  evil  cheer. 

That  if  /  be  dear  to  some  one  else. 
Then  some  one  else  may  have  much  to 
fear; 

But  if /be  dear  to  some  one  else. 

Then  I  should  be  to  myself  more  dear. 

Shall  I  not  take  care  of  all  that  I  think. 

Yea  ev'n  of  wretched  meat  and  drink, 

If  I  be  dear. 

If  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else. 

XVI. 

I. 

This  lump  of  earth  has  left  his  estate 
The  lighter  by  the  loss  of  his  weight; 
And  so  that  he   find  what   he  went  to 

seek, 
And    fulsome    Pleasure    clog    him,    and 

drown 
His  heart  in  the  gross  mud-honey  of  town, 
He  may  stay  for  a  year  who  has  gone  for 

a  week : 
But  this  is  the  day  when  I  must  speak 
And  I  see  my  Oread  coming  down, 
O  this  is  the  day  ! 

0  beautiful  creature,  what  am  I 
That  I  dare  to  look  her  way; 
Think  I  may  hold  dominion  sweet, 
Lord  of  the  pulse  that  is  lord  of  her  breast, 
And  dream   of  her  beauty  with   tender 

dread, 
From  the  delicate  Arab  arch  of  her  feet 
To  the  grace  that,  bright  and  light  as  the 

crest 
Of  a  peacock,  sits  on  her  shining  head, 
And  she  knows  it  not :  O,  if  she  knew  it, 
To  know  her  beauty  might  half  undo  it. 

1  know  it  the  one  jjright  thing  to  save 
My  yet  young  life  in  the  wilds  of  Time, 


MAUD. 


291 


Perhaps    from    madness,    perhaps    from 

crime, 
Perhaps  from  a  selfish  grave. 

II. 

"What,    if  she    be   fasten'd    to    this   fool 

lord, 
Dare  I  bid  her  abide  by  her  word? 
Should  I  love  her  so  well  if  she 
Had  given  her  word  to  a  thing  so  low? 
Shall  I  love  her  as  well  if  she 
Can  break    her  word  were  it  even  for 

me? 
I  trust  that  it  is  not  so. 

III. 

Catch     not    my    breath,    O    clamorous 

heart, 
Let    not  my  tongue  be   a  thrall   to  my 

eye. 
For  I  must  tell  her  before  we  part, 
I  must  tell  her,  or  die. 

XVII. 

Go  not,  happy  day. 

From  the  shining  fields. 
Go  nut,  happy  day. 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

Over  glowing  ships; 
Over  blowing  seas. 

Over  seas  at  rest. 
Pass  the  happy  news. 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West; 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar-tree. 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 


XVIII. 
I. 

I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only 

friend. 
There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 
And  sweetly,  on  and  on. 
Calming    itself    to    the    long-wish'd-for 

end,  • 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised 

good. 


II. 


None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels'  patter- 
ing talk 

Seem'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden 
walk. 

And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes 
once  more; 

But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the 
door. 

The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and  she 
is  gone. 

III. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none, 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  de- 
ceased. 

O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 

In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy 
delicious  East, 

Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here 
increased, 

Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 

And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 

With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air, 

And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 

Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed 
my  fate, 

And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar- 
flame; 

And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have 
spread 

With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy 
great 

Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden, 
there 

Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from 
whom  she  came. 


292 


MA  UD. 


IV. 

Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches 

sway, 
And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy 

day 
Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 
Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn, 
As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  born 
Xo    labour    and    the    mattock-harden'd 

hand, 
Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  un- 
derstand 
A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That   makes   you   tyrants    in    your    iron 

skies. 
Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 
Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and 

brand 
His  nothingness  into  man. 


But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 
Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have   found  a 

pearl 
The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow 

sky. 
And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would 

die 
To   save    from   some  slight   shame    one 

simple  girl. 

VI. 

Would   die;     for   sullen-seeming   Death 

may  give 
More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 
In  our  low  world,  where  yet  'tis  sweet  to 

live. 
Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass; 
It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 
A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 
A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

VII. 

Not  die;   but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 

And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal 
wrongs. 

O,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drink- 
ing-songs, 

Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of 
death  ? 

Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss. 


Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  lov- 
ing kiss. 

Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this? 

'  The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven 
here 

With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  him- 
self more  dear.' 

VIII. 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 
Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay  ? 
And   hark    the   clock  within,  the    silver 

knell 
Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal 

white. 
And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play; 
But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her 

sight 
And   given   false   death    her  hand,  and 

stol'n  away 
To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fan- 
cies dwell 
Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden  day. 
May   nothing   there    her   maiden    grace 

affright ! 
Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy 

spell. 
My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 
My  own  heart's  heart,  my  ownest  own, 

farewell ; 
It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go : 
And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 
Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night ! 
Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the 

glow 
Of  your  soft  splendours  that  you  look  so 

bright? 
/have  climb'd  nearer  out  of  lonely  Hell. 
Beat,    happy   stars,   timing   with   things 

below. 
Beat    with    my   heart  more    blest    than 

heart  can  tell, 
Blest,  but   for   some  dark    undercurrent 

woe 
That   seems   to   draw  —  but  it  shall  not 

be  so: 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 

XIX'. 

I. 

Her  brother  is  coming  back  to-night. 
Breaking  up  my  dream  of  delight. 


A/A  UD. 


293 


II. 

My  dream?  do  I  dream  of  bliss? 
I  have  walk'd  awake  with  Truth. 

0  when  did  a  morning  shine 
So  rich  in  atonement  as  this 
For  my  dark-dawning  youth, 
Darken'd  watching  a  mother  decline 
And   that    dead  man   at  her  heart  and 

mine : 
For  who  was  left  to  watch  her  but  I? 
Yet  so  did  I  let  my  freshness  die. 

III. 

1  trust  that  I  did  not  talk 
To  gentle  Maud  in  our  walk 
(For  often  in  lonely  wanderings 

I  have  cursed  him  even  to  lifeless  things) 

But  I  trust  that  I  did  not  talk, 

Not  touch  on  her  father's  sin  : 

I  am  sure  I  did  but  speak 

Of  my  mother's  faded  cheek 

When  it  slowly  grew  so  thin, 

That  I  felt  she  was  slowly  dying 

Vext  with  lawyers  and  harass'd  with  debt : 

For  how  often  I  caught   her  with  eyes 

all  wet, 
Shaking  her  head  at  her  son  and  sighing 
A  world  of  trouble  within  ! 

IV. 

And  Maud  too,  Maud  was  moved 

To  speak  of  the  mother  she  loved 

As  one  scarce  less  forlorn, 

Dying  abroad  and  it  seems  apart 

From  him  who  had  ceased  to  share  her 

heart, 
And  ever  mourning  over  the  feud. 
The  household  Fury  sprinkled  with  blood 
By  which  our  houses  are  torn  : 
How  strange  was  what  she  said, 
When  only  Maud  and  the  brother 
Hung  over  her  dying  bed  — 
That  Maud's  dark  father  and  mine 
Had  bound  us  one  to  the  other. 
Betrothed  us  over  their  wine, 
On  the  day  when  Maud  was  born; 
Seal'd   her   mine    from    her    first   sweet 

breath. 
Mine,  mine  by   a  right,   from  birth    till 

death. 
Mine,  mine  —  our  fathers  have  sworn. 


But  the  true  blood  spilt  had  in  it  a  heat 
To  dissolve  the  precious  seal  on  a  bond 
That,   if  left   uncancell'd,   had    been  so 

sweet : 
And  none  of  us  thought  of  a  something 

beyond, 
A  desire  that  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the 

child. 
As  it  were  a  duty  done  to  the  tomb, 
To  be  friends  for  her  sake,  to  be  recon- 
ciled; 
And  I  was  cursing  them  and  my  doom. 
And   letting    a    dangerous   thought   run 

wild 
While  often  abroad  in  the  fragrant  gloom 
Of  foreign  churches  —  I  see  her  there, 
Bright  English  lily,  breathing  a  prayer 
To  be  friends,  to  be  reconciled ! 

VI. 

But  then  what  a  flint  is  he ! 

Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 

I  find  whenever  she  touch'd  on  me 

This  brother  had  laugh'd  her  down, 

And  at  last,  when  each  came  home, 

He  had  darken'd  into  a  frown. 

Chid  her,  and  forbid  her  to  speak 

To  me,  her  friend  of  the  years  before; 

And    this  was  what   had    redden'd   her 

cheek 
When  I  bow'd  to  her  on  the  moor. 

VII. 

Yet  Maud,  altho'  not  blind 

To  the  faults  of  his  heart  and  mind, 

I  see  she  cannot  but  love  him. 

And  says  he  is  rough  but  kind. 

And  wishes  me  to  approve  him, 

And  tells  me,  when  she  lay 

Sick  once,  with  a  fear  of  worse. 

That  he  left  his  wine  and  horses  and  play, 

Sat  with  her,  read  to  her,  night  and  day, 

And  tended  her  like  a  nurse. 

VIII. 

Kind?  but  the  deathbed  desire 
Spurn'd  by  this  heir  of  the  liar  — 
Rough  but  kind?  yet  I  know 
He  has  plotted  against  me  in  this. 
That  he  plots  against  me  still. 
Kind  to  Maud?  that  were  not  amiss. 


294 


MA  UD. 


Well,  rough  but  kind;   why  let  it  be  so 
For  shall  not  Maud  have  her  will ! 

IX. 

For,  Maud,  so  tender  and  true. 

As  long  as  my  life  endures 

I  feel  1  shall  owe  you  a  debt, 

That  I  never  can  hope  to  pay; 

And  if  ever  I  should  forget 

That  I  owe  this  debt  to  you 

And  for  your  sweet  sake  to  yours; 

O  then,  what  then  shall  I  say?  — 

If  ever  I  should  forget. 

May  God  make  me  more  wretched 

Than  ever  I  have  been  yet ! 


So  now  I  have  sworn  to  bury 

All  this  dead  body  of  hate, 

I  feel  so  free  and  so  clear 

By  the  loss  of  that  dead  weight, 

That  I  should  grow  light-headed,  I  fear. 

Fantastically  merry; 

But  that  her  brother  comes,  like  a  blight 

On  my  fresh  hope,  to  the  Hall  to-night. 

XX. 


Strange,  that  I  felt  so  gay. 
Strange,  that  /  tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy; 
The  Sultan,  as  we  name  him,  — 
She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him  — 
But  he  vext  her  and  perplext  her 
With  his  worldly  talk  and  folly : 
Was  it  gentle  to  reprove  her 
For  stealing  out  of  view 
From  a  little  lazy  lover 
Who  but  claims  her  as  his  due? 
Or  for  chilling  his  caresses 
By  the  coolness  of  her  manners. 
Nay,  the  plainness  of  her  dresses? 
Now  I  know  her  but  in  two. 
Nor  can  pronounce  upon  it 
If  one  should  ask  me  whether 
The  habit,  hat,  and  feather, 
Or  the  frock  and  gipsy  bonnet 
l>e  the  neater  and  completer; 
For  nothing  can  be  sweeter 
Than  maiden  Maud  in  either. 


II. 

But  to-morrow  if  we  live, 
Our  ponderous  squire  will  give 
A  grand  political  dinner 
To  half  the  squirelings  near; 
And  Maud  will  wear  her  jewels, 
And  the  bird  of  prey  will  hover. 
And  the  titmouse  hope  to  win  her 
With  his  chirrup  at  her  ear. 

III. 

A  grand  political  dinner 

To  the  men  of  many  acres, 

A  gathering  of  the  Tory, 

A  dinner  and  then  a  dance 

For  the  maids  and  marriage-makers, 

And  every  eye  but  mine  will  glance 

At  Maud  in  all  her  glory. 

IV. 

For  I  am  not  invited. 

But,  with  the  Sultan's  pardon, 

I  am  all  as  well  delighted. 

For  I  know  her  own  rose-garden, 

And  mean  to  linger  in  it 

Till  the  dancing  will  be  over; 

And  then,  oh  then,  come  out  to  me 

For  a  minute,  but  for  a  minute. 

Come  out  to  your  own  true  lover, 

That  your  true  lover  may  see 

Your  glory  also,  and  render 

All  homage  to  his  own  darling, 

Queen  Maud  in  all  her  splendour. 

XXI. 

Rivulet  crossing  my  ground. 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the  Hall 

This  garden-rose  that  I  found, 

Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me. 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 

Here  at  the  head  of  a  tinkling  fall. 

And  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea; 

O  Rivulet,  born  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee 

(If  1  read  her  sweet  will  right) 

On  a  blushing  mission  to  me, 

vSaying  in  odour  and  colour,  'Ah,  be 

Among  the  roses  to-night.' 


MA  UD. 


295 


XXII. 

I. 

Come  into  the  garden.  Maud, 
•  For  tlie  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 
And   the    woodbine    spices    are    wafted 
abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

II. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high. 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she 
loves 
(3n  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky. 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

III. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon; 
All    night   has   the    casement  jessamine 
stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird. 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

IV. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  '  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.' 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  awav. 


I  said  to  the  rose,  'The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine? 

But  mine,  but  mine,'  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 
'  For  ever  and  ever,  mine.' 

VI. 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  intu  my 
blood, 
As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall; 


And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 
the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all; 

VII. 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left 
so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes. 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

VIII. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake. 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake. 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

IX. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls. 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with 
curls. 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  '  She  is  near,  she  is 
near;  ' 

And    the  white    rose   weeps,    '  She   is 
late ;  ' 
The  larkspur  listens,  '  I  hear,  I  hear;' 

And  the  lily  whispers,  *  I  wait.' 

XI. 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet;  ■ 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 


296 


AfA  UD. 


My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 
Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead; 

Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 
And  blossom  in  purple  and  re'd. 


PART   II. 
I. 


'The 


fault 
mine 


was    mine,    the    fault    was 


Why  am  I  sitting  here  so  stunn'd  and  still, 
Plucking  the  harmless  wild-flower  on  the 

hill?  — 
It  is  this  guilty  hand !  — 
And  there  rises  ever  a  passionate  cry 
From  underneath  in  the  darkening  land — 
What  is  it  that  has  been  done? 
O  dawn  of  Eden  bright  over  earth  and 

sky. 
The  fires  of  Hell  brake  out  of  thy  rising 

sun. 
The  fires  of  Hell  and  of  Hate; 
For  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken  a 

word. 
When  her  brother  ran  in  his  rage  to  the 

gate. 
He  came  with  the  babe-faced  lord; 
Heap'd  on  her  terms  of  disgrace, 
And  while  she  wept,  and  I  strove  to  be 

cool. 
He  fiercely  gave  me  the  lie. 
Till  I  with  as  fierce  an  anger  spoke, 
And  he    struck   me,  madman,  over   the 

face, 
Struck  me  before  the  languid  fool. 
Who  was  gaping  and  grinning  by: 
vStruck  for  himself  an  evil  stroke; 
Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeemable 

woe; 
For  front  to  front  in  an  hour  we  stood, 
And  a  million  horrible  bellowing  echoes 

broke 
From  the  red-ribb'd  hollow  behind  the 

wood. 
And  thunder'd  up  into  Heaven  the  Christ- 
less  code. 
That  must  have  life  for  a  blow. 
Ever  and  ever  afresh  they  seem'd  to  grow. 
Was  it  he  lay  there  with  a  fading  eye? 
*  The  fault  was  mine,'  he  whisper'd,  *  fly  I ' 


Then  glided  out  of  the  joyous  wood 
The  ghastly  Wraith  of  one  that  I  know; 
And  there  rang  on  a  sudden  a  passionate 

cry, 
A  cry  for  a  brother's  blood  : 
It  will  ring  in  my  heart  and  my  ears,  till 

I  die,  till  I  die. 

II. 

Is  it  gone?  my  pulses  beat  — 

What  was  it?  a  lying  trick  of  the  brain? 

Yet  I  thought  I  saw  her  stand, 

A  shadow  there  at  my  feet, 

High  over  the  shadowy  land. 

It  is  gone;   and  the   heavens  fall   in    a 

gentle  rain. 
When  they  should  burst  and  drown  with 

deluging  storms 
The  feeble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger  and 

lust. 
The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how  to 

forgive : 
Arise,  my  God,  and  strike,  for  we  hold 

Thee  just. 
Strike    dead    the   whole   weak   race    of 

venomous  worms. 
That  sting  each  other  here  in  the  dust; 
We  are  not  worthy  to  live. 


II. 


See  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl. 
Lying  close  to  my  foot. 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine. 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design  ! 

II. 

What  is  it?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

III. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn. 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 


MA  UD. 


297 


Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water-world? 

IV. 

Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine, 
P>ail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three  decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand ! 


Breton,  not  Briton;   here 

Like  a  shipwreck'd  man  on  a  coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear  — 

Plagued  with  a  flitting  to  and  fro, 

A  disease,  a  hard  mechanic  ghost 

That  never  came  from  on  high 

Nor  ever  arose  from  below, 

But  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye. 

Flying  along  the  land  and  the  main  — 

Why  should  it  look  like  Maud? 

Am  I  to  be  overawed 

By  what  I  cannot  but  know 

Is  a  juggle  born  of  the  brain? 

VI, 

Back  from  the  Breton  coast, 

Sick  of  a  nameless  fear, 

Back  to  the  dark  sea-line 

Looking,  thinking  of  all  I  have  lost; 

An  old  song  vexes  my  ear; 

But  that  of  Lamech  is  mine. 

VII. 

For  years,  a  measureless  ill, 
For  yearS',  for  ever,  to  part  — 
But  she,  she  would  love  me  still; 
And  as  long,  O  God,  as  she 
Have  a  grain  of  love  for  me. 
So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt, 
Shall  1  nurse  in  my  dark  heart, 
However  weary,  a  spark  of  will 
Not  to  be  trampled  out. 

VIII. 

Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  fraught 
With  a  passion  so  intense 


One  would  think  that  it  well 

Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye, — 

That  it  should,  by  being  so  overwrought, 

Suddenly  strike  on  a  sharper  sense 

For  a  shell,  or  a  flower,  little  things 

Which  else  would  have  been  past  by ! 

And  now  I  remember,  I, 

When  he  lay  dying  there, 

I  noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 

(P'or    he   had   many,  poor   worm)    and 

thought 
It  is  his  mother's  hair. 

IX. 

W^ho  knows  if  he  be  dead? 

Whether  I  need  have  fled? 

Am  I  guilty  of  blood? 

However  this  may  be, 

Comfort    her,    comfort    her,    all    things 

good, 
W^hile  I  am  over  the  sea ! 
Let  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by, 
But    speak    to    her   all   things  holy  and 

high. 
Whatever  happen  to  me  ! 
Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by; 
But  come  to  her  waking,  find  her  asleep, 
Powers    of  the    height.    Powers    of    the 

deep, 
And  comfort  her  tho'  I  die. 

III. 

Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone  ! 

I  will  not  ask  thee  why 

Thou  canst  not  understand 

That  thou  art  left  for  ever  alone : 

Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone.  — 

Or  if  I  ask  thee  why. 

Care  not  thou  to  reply : 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at  hand 

When  thou  shalt  more  than  die. 

IV. 

I. 

O  that  'twere  possible 

After  long  grief  and  pain 

To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 

Round  me  once  again  ! 

II. 

When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 


298 


A/A  UD. 


By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 
We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 

III. 

A  shadow  flits  before  me, 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee  : 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us, 

What  and  where  they  be. 

IV. 

It  leads  me  forth  at  evening. 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

In  a  cold  white  robe  before  me. 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 


Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes. 
For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow. 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 

VI. 

'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  a  dewy  splendour  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls; 
'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet ; 
She  is  walking  in  the  meadow. 
And  the  woodland  echo  rings; 
In  a  moment  we  shall  meet; 
She  is  singing  in  the  meadow 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 

VII. 

Do  I  hear  her  sing  as  of  old, 
My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 
My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye? 
But  there  rings  on  a  sudden  a  passionate 
cry, 


There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead. 
And  a  sullen  thunder  is  roll'd; 
For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city, 
And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled; 
In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold, 
Without  knowledge,  without  pity. 
By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
That  abiding  phantom  cold. 

VIII. 

Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again, 
Mix  not  memory  with  doubt. 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain, 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about ! 
'Tis  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  ivill  show  itself  without. 

IX. 

Then  I  rise,  the  eavedrops  fall, 
And  the  yellow  vapours  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide; 
The  day  comes,  a  dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 


Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 

I  steal,  a  wasted  frame. 

It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there, 

Thro'  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud, 

The  shadow  still  the  same; 

And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 

My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

XI. 

Alas  for  her  that  met  me. 

That  heard  me  softly  call, 

Came  glimmering  thro'  the  laurels 

At  the  quiet  evenfall. 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 

Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 

XII. 

Would  the  happy  spirit  descend. 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song. 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 
As  she  looks  among  the  blest. 
Should  1  fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say,  '  Forgive  the  wrong,' 
Or  to  ask  her,  'Take  me,  sweet. 
To  the  regions  of  thy  rest '  ? 


MA  UD. 


299 


XIII. 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 

And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 

And  will  not  let  me  be ; 

And  I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me  : 

Always  I  long  to  creep 

Into  some  still  cavern  deep. 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 

My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 


V. 


Dead,  long  dead, 

Long  dead  ! 

And  my  heart  is  a  handful  of  dust. 

And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head. 

And  my  bones  are  shaken  with  pain. 

For  into  a  shallow  grave  they  are  thrust. 

Only  a  yard  beneath  the  street. 

And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat,  beat. 

The  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat. 

Beat  into  my  scalp  and  my  brain, 

With    never    an    end   to    the    stream  of 

passing  feet. 
Driving,  hurrying,  marrying,  burying. 
Clamour   and    rumble,  and  ringing   and 

clatter, 
And  here  beneath  it  is  all  as  bad. 
For  I  thought  the  dead  had  peace,  but  it 

is  not  so; 
To  have  no  peace  in  the  grave,  is  that 

not  sad? 
But  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro. 
Ever  about  me  the  dead  men  go; 
And  then  to  hear  a  dead  man  chatter 
Is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 

II. 

Wretchedest  age  since  Time  began, 

They  cannot  even  bury  a  man; 

And  tho'  we  paid  our  tithes  in  the  days 

that  are  gone. 
Not  a  bell  was  rung,  not  a  prayer  was 

read; 
It  is  that  which  makes  us  loud    in    the 

world  of  the  dead; 
There   is  none  that  does  his  work,  not 

one; 


A    touch    of    their    office    might    have 

sufficed, 
But  the  churchmen  fain  would  kill  their 

church, 
As  the  churches  have  kill'd  their  Christ. 

III. 

See,  there  is  one  of  us  sobbing, 

No  limit  to  his  distress; 

And  another,  a  lord  of  all  things,  praying 

To  his  own  great  self,  as  I  guess; 

And  another,  a  statesman  there,  betraying 

His  party-secret,  fool,  to  the  press; 

And  yonder  a  vile  physician,  blabbing 

The  case  of  his  patient  —  all  for  what? 

To  tickle  the  maggot  born  in  an  empty 

head. 
And  wheedle  a  world  that  loves  him  not, 
For  it  is  but  a  world  of  the  dead. 

IV. 

Nothing  but  idiot  gabble  ! 

For  the  prophecy  given  of  old 

And  then  not  understood. 

Has  come  to  pass  as  foretold; 

Not   let   any  man    think    for  the  public 

good. 
But  babble,  merely  for  babble. 
For  I  never  whisper'd  a  private  affair 
Within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  mouse, 
No,  not  to  myself  in  the  closet  alone. 
But  I  heard  it  shouted  at  once  from  the 

top  of  the  house; 
Everything  came  to  be  known. 
Who  told  him  we  were  there? 


Not  that  gray  old  wolf,  for  he  came  not 

back 
From  the  wilderness,  full  of  wolves,  where 

he  used  to  lie; 
He  has  gather'd  the  bones  for  his  o'er- 

grown  whelp  to  crack; 
Crack  them  now  for  yourself,  and  howl, 

and  die. 

VI. 

Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip, 
And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the  rat; 
I    know   not    whether    he    came   in   the 

Hanover  ship, 
But  I  know  that  he  lies  and  listens  mute 


?oo 


MAUD. 


In   an    ancient    mansion's  crannies  and 

holes : 
Arsenic,  arsenic,  sure,  would  do  it. 
Except  that  now  we  poison  our  babes, 

poor  souls ! 
It  is  all  used  up  for  that. 

VII. 

Tell  him  now  :  she  is  standing  here  at  my 

head; 
Not  beautiful  now,  not  even  kind; 
He  may  take  her   now;    for  she  never 

speaks  her  mind, 
But  is  ever  the  one  thing  silent  here. 
She  is  not  ^'us,  as  I  divine; 
She  comes  from  another  stiller  world  of 

the  dead. 
Stiller,  not  fairer  than  mine. 

VIII. 

But  I  know  where  a  garden  grows. 
Fairer  than  aught  in  the  world  beside, 
All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 
That  blow  by  night,  when  the  season  is 

good. 
To  the  sound  of  dancing  music  and  flutes  : 
It  is  only  flowers,  they  had  no  fruits. 
And  I  almost  fear  they  are  not  roses,  but 

blood; 
For  the  keeper  was  one,  so  full  of  pride. 
He  linkt  a  dead  man  there  to  a  spectral 

bride; 
For  he,  if  he  had  not  been  a  Sultan  of 

brutes. 
Would  he  have  that  hole  in  his  side? 


IX. 

But  what  will  the  old  man  say? 

He  laid  a  cruel  snare  in  a  pit 

To  catch  a   friend  of  mine  one  stormy 

day; 
Yet    now    I    could    even  weep  to  think 

of  it; 
For  what  will  the  old  man  say? 
When  he  comes  to  the  second  corpse  in 

the  pit? 

X. 

Friend,  to  be  struck  by  the  public  foe, 
Then  to  strike  him  and  lay  him  low. 
That  were  a  public  merit,  far. 
Whatever  the  Quaker  holds,  from  sin ; 
But    the    red    life    spilt    for    a    private 

blow  — 
I  swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawless  war 
Are  scarcely  even  akin. 

XI. 

0  me,  why  have  they  not  buried  me  deep 

enough? 
Is  it  kind  to  have  made  me  a  grave  so 

rough. 
Me,  that  was  never  a  quiet  sleeper? 
Maybe  still  I  am  but  half-dead; 
Then  I  cannot  be  wholly  dumb; 

1  will  cry  to  the  steps  above  my  head 
And  somebody,  surely,  some  kind  heart 

will  come 
To  bury  me,  bury  me 
Deeper,  ever  so  little  deeper. 


PART   III. 
VI. 


My  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a  broken  wing 

Thro'  cells  of  madness,  haunts  of  horror  and  fear, 

That  I  come  to  be  grateful  at  last  for  a  little  thing: 

My  mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a  time  of  year 

When  the  face  of  night  is  fair  on  the  dewy  downs. 

And  the  shining  daffodil  dies,  and  the  Charioteer 

And  starry  (jemini  hang  like  glorious  crowns 

Over  Orion's  grave  low  down  in  the  west, 

That  like  a  silent  lightning  under  the  stars 

She  seem'd  to  divide  in  a  dream  from  a  band  of  the  blest. 


MA  UD.  301 


And  spoke  of  a  hope  for  the  world  in  the  coming  wars 
'  And  in  that  hope,  dear  soul,  let  trouble  have  rest, 
Knowing  I  tarry  for  thee,'  and  pointed  to  Mars 
As  he  glow'd  like  a  ruddy  shield  on  the  Lion's  breast. 


II. 

And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  yielded  a  dear  delight 

To  have  look'd,  tho'  but  in  a  dream,  upon  eyes  so  fair, 

That  had  been  in  a  weary  world  my  one  thing  bright; 

And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  lighten'd  my  despair 

When  I  thought  that  a  war  would  arise  in  defence  of  the  right, 

That  an  iron  tyranny  now  should  bend  or  cease, 

The  glory  of  manhood  stand  on  his  ancient  height, 

Nor  Britain's  one  sole  God  be  the  millionaire : 

No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  all,  and  Peace 

Pipe  on  her  pastoral  hillock  a  languid  note, 

And  watch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd  increase, 

Nor  the  cannon-bullet  rust  on  a  slothful  shore. 

And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  cannon's  throat 

Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the  wind  no  more. 


III. 

And  as  months  ran  on  and  rumour  of  battle  grew, 

*  It  is  time,  it  is  time,  O  passionate  heart,'  said  I 

(For  I  cleaved  to  a  cause  that  I  felt  to  be  pure  and  true), 

'  It  is  time,  O  passionate  heart  and  morbid  eye, 

That  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should  die.' 

And  I  stood  on  a  giant  deck  and  mix'd  my  breath 

With  a  loyal  people  shouting  a  battle  cry, 

Till  I  saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise  and  fly 

Far  into  the  North,  and  battle,  and  seas  of  death. 


IV. 

Let  it  go  or  stay,  so  I  wake  to  the  higher  aims 

Of  a  land  that  has  lost  for  a  little  her  lust  of  gold, 

And  love  of  a  peace  that  was  full  of  wrongs  and  shames, 

Horrible,  hateful,  monstrous,  not  to  be  told ; 

And  hail  once  more  to  the  banner  of  battle  unroll'd ! 

Tho'  many  a  light  shall  darken,  and  many  shall  weep 

For  those  that  are  crush'd  in  the  clash  of  jarring  claims, 

Yet  God's  just  wrath  shall  be  wreak'd  on  a  giant  liar; 

And  many  a  darkness  into  the  light  shall  leap, 

And  shine  in  the  sudden  making  of  splendid  names, 

And  noble  thought  be  freer  under  the  sun. 

And  the  heart  of  a  people  beat  with  one  desire; 

For  the  peace,  that  I  deem'd  no  peace,  is  over  and  done, 

And  now  by  the  side  of  the  Black  and  the  Baltic  deep. 

And  deathful-grinning  mouths  of  the  fortress,  flames 

The  blood-red  blossom  of  war  with  a  heart  of  fire. 


302 


IDYLLS   OF   THE   KING. 


Let  it  flame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll  down  like  a  wind, 
We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a  cause,  we  are  noble  still, 
And  myself  have  awaked,  as  it  seems,  to  the  better  mind; 
It  is  better  to  fight  for  the  good  than  to  rail  at  the  ill; 
I  have  felt  with  my  native  land,  I  am  one  with  my  kind, 
I  embrace  the  purpose  of  God,  and  the  doom  assign'd. 


IDYLLS    OF   THE    KING. 


IN   TWELVE  BOOKS. 

' Flos  Regutn  Arth?irus.'  —  Joseph  of  Exeter. 

DEDICATION. 


These  to  His  Memory  —  since  he  held 

them  dear, 
Perchance  as  finding  there  unconsciously 
Some  image  of  himself —  I  dedicate, 
I  dedicate,  I  consecrate  with  tears  — 
These  Idylls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 
Scarce  other  than  my  king's  ideal  knight, 
•  Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his 

king; 
Whose    glory    was,    redressing    human 

wrong ; 
Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen'd 

to  it; 
Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to 

her  —  ' 
Her — over  all  whose  realms  to  their  last 

isle. 
Commingled  with  the  gloom  of  imminent 

war, 
The  shadow  of  His  loss  drew  like  eclipse, 
Darkening   the    world.       We    have   lost 

him  :   he  is  gone  : 
We  know  him  now:   all  narrow  jealousies 
Are  sHent;   and  we  see  him  as  he  moved. 
How   modest,    kindly,    all-accomplish'd, 

wise. 
With  what  sublime  repression  of  himself. 
And  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly; 
Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that; 
Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless 

perch 
Of    wing'd    ambitions,    nor    a    vantage- 
ground 


For  pleasure;   but  thro'  all  this  tract  of 

years 
Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless 

life, 
Before  a  thousand  peering  littlenesses, 
In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a 

throne, 
And  blackens  every  blot :  for  where  is  he, 
Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A   lovelier   life,  a  more  unstain'd    than 

his? 
Or  how  should  England  dreaming  oi  his 

sons 
Hope  more  for  these  than  some  inheri- 
tance 
Of  such  a  life,  a  heart,  a  mind  as  thine. 
Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be. 
Laborious  for  her  people  and  her  poor  — 
Voice  in  the  rich   dawn    of  an    ampler 

day  — 
Far-sighted  summoner  of  War  and  Waste 
To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of  peace  — 
Sweet    nature    gilded    by    the    gracious 

gleam 
Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 
Dear  to    thy    land    and    ours,    a    Prince 

indeed, 
Beyond  all  titles,  and  a  household  name, 
Hereafter,    thro'    all    times,    Albert    the 

Good. 

Break   not,  O  woman's-heart,  but  still 
endure; 
Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but  endure, 
Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that  star 


THE    COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


303 


Which  shone  so  close  beside  ITiee  that 

The   love    of    all    Thy   sons    encompass 

ye  made 

Thee, 

One  light  together,  but  has  past  and  leaves 

The  love  of  all  Thy  daughters  cherish 

The  Crown  a  lonely  splendour. 

Thee, 

The    love    of    all    Thy    people    comfort 

May  all  love, 

Thee, 

His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o'ershadowThee, 

Till  God's  love  set  Thee  at  his  side  again  I 

THE   COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


Leodogran,  the  King  of  Cameliard, 
Had  one  fair  daughter,  and  none  other 

child; 
And  she  was  fairest  of  all  flesh  on  earth, 
Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight. 

For    many    a    petty   king   ere    Arthur 

came 
Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging  war 
Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land; 
And  still  from  time  to  time  the  heathen 

host 
Swarm'd  overseas,  and  harried  what  was 

left. 
x\nd  so  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wilder- 
ness, 
Wherein  the  beast  was  ever  more  and 

more, 
But  man  was  less  and   less,  till    Arthur 

came. 
For  first  Aurelius  lived  and  fought  and 

died. 
And  after  him  King  Uther  fought  and 

died, 
But  either  fail'd  to  make  the  kingdom 

one. 
And  after  these  King  Arthur  for  a  space. 
And   thro'  the   puissance   of  his   Table 

Round, 
Drew  all  their  petty   princedoms  under 

him, 
Their  king  and  head,  and  made  a  realm, 

and  reign'd. 

And  thus  the  land   of  Cameliard  was 

waste. 
Thick  with  wet  woods,  and  many  a  beast 

therein. 
And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase   the 

beast; 
So  that  wild  dog,  and  wolf  and  boar  and 

bear 


Came  night  and  day,  and  rooted  in  the 

fields, 
And  wallow'd  in  the  gardens  of  the  King. 
And  ever  and  anon  the  wolf  would  steal 
The  children  and  devour,  but  now  and 

then. 
Her  own  brood  lost  or  dead,  lent  her 

fierce  teat 
To  human  sucklings;   and  the  children, 

housed 
In    her  foul   den,   there    at    their   meat 

would  growl, 
And  mock  their  foster-mother    on    four 

feet, 
Till,  straighten'd,  they  grew  up  to  wolf- 
like men, 
Worse    than   the   wolves.       And   King 

Leodogran 
Groan'd   for  the    Roman    legions   here 

again, 
And  Caesar's  eagle:  then  his  brother  king, 
Urien,    assail'd    him :     last    a    heathen 

horde, 
Reddening    the    sun    with    smoke    and 

earth  with  blood. 
And  on  the  spike  that  split  the  mother's 

heart 
Spitting    the    child,  brake  on  him,  till, 

amazed. 
He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn  for 

aid. 

But  —  for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly 

crown'd, 
Tho'  not    without    an    uproar   made    by 

those 
Who  cried,  '  He  is  not  Uther's    son'  — 

the  King 
Sent  to  him,  saying,  '  Arise,  and  help  us 

thou! 
For  here  between  the  man  and  beast  we 

die.' 


304 


THE    COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed  of 

arms, 
But    heard    the    call,    and    came  :    and 

Guinevere 
Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him 

pass; 
But   since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  or 

shield 
The  golden  symbol  of  his  kinglihood, 
But    rode    a   simple    knight   among   his 

knights, 
And  many  of  these  in  richer  arms  than 

he. 
She  saw  him  not,  or  mark'd  not,  if  she 

saw. 
One  among  many,  tho'  his  face  was  bare. 
But  Arthur,  looking  downward  as  he  past. 
Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life 
Smite  on  the  sudden,  yet  rode  on,  and 

pitch'd 
His   tents  beside   the  forest.      Then  he 

drave 
The  heathen;   after,  slew  the  beast,  and 

feird 
The  forest,  letting  in  the  sun,  and  made 
Broad  pathways  for  the  hunter  and  the 

knight 
And  so  return'd. 

For  while  he  linger'd  there, 
A    doubt    that    ever   smoulder'd    in    the 

hearts 
Of  those  great  Lords  and  Barons  of  his 

realm 
Flash'd  forth  and  into  war:  for  most  of 

these, 
CoUeaguing  with  a  score  of  petty  kings, 
Made  head  against  him,  crying,  '  Who  is 

he 
That  he  should  rule  us?  who  hath  proven 

him 
King  Uther's  son?    fur  lo !   we   look   at 

him. 
And  find  nor  face  nor  bearing,  limbs  nor 

voice. 
Are   like  to  those   of  Uther  whom    we 

knew. 
This  is  the  son  of  Gorlois,  not  the  King; 
This  is  the  son  of  Anton,  not  the  King.' 

And  Arthur,  passing  thence  to  battle, 
felt 
Travail,  and  throes  and  agonies  of  the  life, 


Desiring  to  be  join'd  with  Guinevere; 
And  thinking  as   he  rode,  '  Her    father 

said 
That  there  between  the  man   and  beast 

they  die. 
Shall  I  not  lift    her  from   this   land    of 

beasts 
Up  to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side  with 

me? 
What  happiness  to  reign  a  lonely  king, 
Vext  —  O  ye  stars  that  shudder  over  me, 

0  earth  that  soundest  hollow  under  me, 
Vext  with  waste  dreams?  for  saving  I  be 

join'd 
To  her  that  is  the  fairest  under  heaven, 

1  seem  as  nothing  in  the  mighty  world, 
And  cannot  will  my  will,  nor  work  my 

work 
Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own 

realm 
Victor  and  lord.     But  were  I  join'd  with 

her, 
Then  might  we  live  together  as  one  life, 
And  reigning  with  one  will  in  everything 
Have  power  on  this  dark  land  to  lighten  it. 
And  power  on  this  dead  world  to  make 

it  live.' 

Thereafter  —  as  he  speaks  who  tells  the 

tale  — 
When   Arthur    reach'd    a  field-of-battle 

bright 
With   pitch'd  pavilions   of  his   foe,    the 

world 
Was  all  so  clear  about  him,  that  he  saw 
The  smallest  rock  far  on  the  faintest  hill, 
And  even  in  high  day  the  morning  star. 
So  when  the  King  had  set  his  banner 

broad. 
At  once  from  either  side,  with  trumpet- 
blast, 
And  shouts,  and  clarions  shrilling  unto 

blood, 
The  longdanced  battle  let   their  horses 

run. 
And  now  the  Barons  and  the  kings  pre- 

vail'd. 
And  now  the  King,  as  here   and   there 

that  war 
Went   swaying;     but    the    Powers   who 

walk  the  world 
Made  lightnings  and  great  thunders  over 

him. 


THE    COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


305 


And  dazed  all  eyes,  till  Arthur  by  main 

might, 
And  mightier    of  his  hands  with    every 

blow, 
And  leading  all  his  knighthood  threw  the 

kings 
Carados,  Urien,  Cradlemont  of  Wales, 
Claudius,  and  Clariance  of  Northumber- 
land, 
The  King  Brandagoras  of  Latangor, 
With  Anguisant  of  Erin,  Morganore, 
And  Lot  of  Orkney.      Then,  before  a 

voice 
As   dreadful   as  the   shout  of  one  who 

sees 
To    one   who   sins,    and   deems   himself 

alone 
And  all  the  world  asleep,  they  swerved 

and  brake 
Flying,    and   Arthur   call'd   to    stay    the 

brands 
That  hack'd  among  the  flyers, '  Ho  !   thev 

yield ! ' 
So  like  a  painted  battle  the  war  stood 
Silenced,  the  living  quiet  as  the  dead, 
And  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  joy  was  lord. 
He  laugh'd  upon  his  warrior  whom  he 

loved 
And   honour'd   most.      'Thou   dost   not 

doubt  me  King, 
So  well  thine  arm  hath  wrought  for  me 

to-day.' 
'  Sir  and  mv  liege,'  he  cried,  '  the  fire  of 

God' 
Descends  upon  thee  in  the  battle-field  : 
I  know  thee  for  my  King  I  '  Whereat  the 

two. 
For  each  had  warded  either  in  the  fight, 
Sware  on  the  field  of  death  a  deathless 

love. 
And  Arthur  said,  '  Man's  word  is  God  in 

man : 
Let  chance  what  will,  I  trust  thee  to  the 

death.' 

Then  quickly  from  the  foughten  field 

he  sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 
His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leodo- 

gran. 
Saying,  '  If  I  in  aught  have  served  thee 

well, 
Give  me  thy  daughter  Guinevere  to  wife.' 

X 


W'hom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran  in 
heart 
Debating  — '  How  should    I   that  am  a 

king. 
However  much  he  holp  me  at  my  need, 
Give  my  one  daughter  saving  to  a  king. 
And  a  king's  son  ?  '  —  lifted  his  voice,  and 

called 
A  hoary  man,  his  chamberlain,  to  whom 
He    trusted   all  things,   and  of  him  re- 
quired 
His   counsel :  '  Knowest   thou  aught   of 
Arthur's  birth?' 

Then  spake  the  hoary  chamberlain  and 

said, 
'  Sir  King,  there  be  but  two  old  men  that 

know  : 
And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I;   and  one 
Is  Merlin,  the  wise  man  that  ever  served 
KingUther  thro'  his  magic  art;   and  one 
Is    Merlin's   master   (so    they  call  him) 

Bleys, 
Who  taught  him  magic;   but  the  scholar 

ran 
Before  the  master,  and  so  far,  that  Bleys 
Laid  magic  by,  and  sat  him  down,  and 

wrote 
All  things  and  whatsoever  Merlin  did 
In  one  great  annal-book,  where  after-years 
Will  learn  the  secret  of  our  Arthur's  birth.' 

To  whom  the  King  Leodogran  replied, 
'  O  friend,    had  I   been  holpen  half  as 

well 
By  this  King  Arthur  as  by  thee  to-day. 
Then  beast  and  man  had  had  their  share 

of  me : 
But  summon  here  before  us  yet  once  more 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere.' 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him,  the 

King  said, 
'  I  have  seen  the  cuckoo  chased  by  lesser 

fowl, 
And  reason  in  the  chase :  but  wherefore 

now 
Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat  of 

war, 
Some  calling  Arthur  born  of  Gorlois, 
Others  of  Anton  ?    Tell  me,  ye  yourselves. 
Hold  ye  this  Arthur  for   King  Uther's 

son?' 


3o6 


THE    COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


And  Ulfius  and  Brastias  answer'd,  '  Ay.' 
Then  Bedivere,  the  first  of  all  his  knights 
Knighted   by   Arthur    at    his    crowning, 

spake  — 
For  bold  in  heart  and  act  and  word  was 

he, 
Whenever  slander  breathed  against  the 

King  — 

'  Sir,  there  be  many  rumours  on  this 
head: 
For  there  be  those  who  hate  him  in  their 

hearts, 
Call  him  baseborn,  and  since  his  ways  are 

sweet, 
And  theirs  are  bestial,  hold  him  less  than 

man : 
And  there  be  those  who  deem  him  more 

than  man. 
And  dream  he  dropt  from  heaven  :  but 

my  belief 
In  all  this  matter —  so  ye  care  to  learn  — 
Sir,  for  ye  know  that  in  King  Uther's  time 
The  prince  and  warrior  Gorlois,  he  that 

held 
Tintagil  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea, 
Was  wedded  with  a  winsome  wife,  Ygerne  : 
And  daughters  had  she  borne  him,  —  one 

whereof, 
Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Belli- 

cent. 
Hath  ever  like  a  loyal  sister  cleaved 
To  Arthur,  —  but  a  son  she  had  not  borne. 
And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  love  : 
But  she,  a  stainless  wife  to  Gorlois, 
So  loathed  the  bright  dishonour   of  his 

love, 
That  Gorlois  and  King  Uther  went  to  war  : 
And  overthrown  was  Gorlois  and  slain. 
Then  Uther  in  his  wrath  and  heat  be- 
sieged 
Ygerne  within  Tintagil,  where  her  men. 
Seeing   the   mighty   swarm   about   their 

walls, 
Left  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  enter'd  in. 
And  there  was  none  to  call  to  but  him- 
self. 
So,  compass'd  by  the  power  of  the  King, 
Enforced  she  was  to  wed  him  in  her  tears. 
And   with  a  shameful   swiftness:    after- 
ward. 
Not  many  moons,  King  Uther  died  him- 
self, 


Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  to  rule 
After  him,  lest  the  realm   should  go   to 

wrack. 
And  that  same  night,   the  night   of  the 

new  year, 
By  reason  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 
That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  his  time 
Was  Arthur  born,  and  all  as  soon  as  born 
Deliver'd  at  a  secret  postern-gate 
To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  apart 
Until  his  hour  should  come;   because  the 

lords 
Of  that  fierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of  this, 
Wild  beasts,  and  surely  would  have  torn 

the  child 
Piecemeal  among  them,  had  they  known; 

for  each 
But  sought  to  rule  for  his  own  self  and 

hand. 
And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 
Of  Gorlois.     Wherefore  Merlin  took  the 

child. 
And  gave  him  to  Sir  Anton,  an  old  knight 
And  ancient  friend  of  Uther ;  and  his  wife 
Nursed  the  young  prince,  and  rear'd  him 

with  her  own; 
And  no  man  knew.     And  ever  since  the 

lords 
Have  foughten  like  wild   beasts  among 

themselves. 
So  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  wrack  :  but 

now, 
This  year,  when  Merlin  (for  his  hour  had 

come) 
Brought  Arthur  forth,  and  set  him  in  the 

hall. 
Proclaiming,  "  Here  is  Uther's  heir,  your 

king," 
A  hundred  voices  cried,  "  Away  with  him  ! 
No  king  of  ours  !  a  son  of  Gorlois  he, 
Or  else  the  child  of  Anton,  and  no  king, 
Or  else  baseborn."     Yet  Merlin  thro'  his 

craft. 
And  while  the   people    clamour'd   for  a 

king, 
Had  Arthur  crown'd;  but  after,  the  great 

lords 
Banded,  antl  so  brake  out  in  open  war.' 

Then  while  the  King  debated  with  him- 
self 
If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shamefulness, 
Or  born  the  son  of  Gorlois,  after  death, 


THE    COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


307 


Or  Uther's  son,  and  born  before  his  time, 
Or  whether  there  were  truth  in  anything 
Said  by  these  three,  there  came  to  Came- 

liard, 
With  Gawain  and  young  Modred,  her  two 

sons, 
Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Belli- 

cent; 
Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would,  the 

King 
Made  feast  for,  saying,  as  they  sat  at  meat, 

'A  doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  summer 

seas. 
Ye  come  from  Arthur's  court.     Victor  his 

men 
Report  him  !     Yea,  but  ye  —  think  ye  this 

king  — 
So  many  those    that    hate    him,  and  so 

strong, 
So  few  his  knights,  however  brave  thev 

be  — 
Hath   body   enow   to    hold   his   foemen 

down? ' 

'  O  King,'  she    cried,  '  and  I  will  tell 

thee :   few, 
Few,  but  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind  with 

him; 
For  I  was  near  him  when  the  savage  yells 
Of  Uther's  peerage  died,  and  Arthur  sat 
Crown'd    on   the   dais,  and  his  warriors 

cried, 
"  Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work  thy 

will 
Who  love  thee."     Then  the  King  in  low 

deep  tones. 
And  simple  words  of  great  authority, 
Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  his  own 

self. 
That    when    they    rose,    knighted    from 

kneeling,  some 
Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a  ghost, 
Some  flush'd,  and  others  dazed,  as  one 

who  wakes 
Half-blinded  at  the  coming  of  a  light. 

'  But  when  he  spake  and  cheer'd  his 
Table  Round 
With  large,  divine,  and  comfortable  words. 
Beyond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee  —  I  beheld 
From  eye  to  eye  thro'  all  their  Order  flash 
A  momentary  likeness  of  the  King : 


And  ere  it  left  their  faces,  thro'  the  cross 
And  those  around  it  and  the  Crucified, 
Down  from   the    casement  over  Arthur, 

smote 
Flame-colour,  vert   and   azure,  in    three 

rays, 
One  falling  upon  each  of  three  fair  queens. 
Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne,  the 

friends 
Of  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with  bright 
Sweet    faces,  who  will  help   him   at  his 

need. 

'  And  there  I  saw  mage  Merlin,  whose 
vast  wit 
And  hundred  winters  are  but  as  the  hands 
Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 

'  And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  of  the 

Lake, 
Who   knows    a    subtler  magic   than  his 

own  — 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful. 
She  gave  the  King  his  huge  cross-hilted 

sword. 
Whereby  to  drive  the  heathen  out :  a  mist 
Of  incense  curl'd  about  her,  and  her  face 
Wellnigh    was    hidden    in    the    minster 

gloom; 
But   there  was   heard   among   the   holy 

hymns 
A  voice  as  of  the  waters,  for  she  dwells 
Down  in  a  deep ;   calm,  whatsoever  storms 
May   shake    the    world,    and   when    the 

surface  rolls. 
Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  like  our 

Lord. 

'There  likewise  I  beheld  Excalibur 
Before  him   at  his  crowning  borne,  the 

sword 
That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
And  Arthur  row'd  across  and  took  it  — 

rich 
With  jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  the  hilt. 
Bewildering  heart  and  eye  —  the  blade  so 

bright 
That  men  are  blinded  by  it  —  on  one  side, 
Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this 

w^orld, 
"  Take  me,"  but  turn  the  blade  and  ye 

shall  see, 


3o8 


THE    COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak  your- 
self, 

"Cast  me  away  !  "  And  sad  was  Arthur's 
face 

Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin  counsell'd  him, 

"  Take  thou  and  strike  !  the  time  to  cast 
away 

Is  yet  far-oflf."  So  this  great  brand  the 
king 

Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foemen 
down.' 

Thereat      Leodogran      rejoiced,      but 

thought 
To  sift  his  doublings  to  the  last,  and  ask'd, 
Fixing  full  eyes  of  question  on  her  face, 
'  The  swallow  and  the  swift  are  near  akin, 
But  thou  art  closer  to  this  noble  prince, 
Being  his  own  dear  sister;'  and  she  said, 
'  Daughter  of  Gorlois  and  Ygerne  am  I ;  ' 
'And   therefore    Arthur's    sister?'   ask'd 

the  King. 
She  answer'd,  'These  be  secret  things,' 

and  sign'd 
To  those  two  sons  to  pass,  and  let  them  be. 
And  Gawain  went,  and  breaking  into  song 
Sprang  out,  and  follow'd  by  his  flying  hair 
Ran  like  a  colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he  saw : 
But  Modred  laid  his  ear  beside  the  doors, 
And   there    half-heard;     the   same    that 

afterward 
Struck  for  the  throne,  and  striking  found 

his  doom. 

And  then  the    Queen   made    answer, 

•What  know  I? 
For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and  hair. 
And  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  am  I ;   and  dark 
Was  Gorlois,  yea  and  dark  was  Uther  too, 
Wellnigh  to  blackness;   but  this  King  is 

fair 
Beyond  the  race  of  Britons  and  of  men. 
Moreover,  always  in  my  mind  I  hear 
A  cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 
A  mother  weeping,  and  I  hear  her  say, 
•'  O  that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty  one. 
To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of  the 

world." ' 

*  Ay,'  said  the  King,  'and  hear  ye  such 
a  cry? 
But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon  thee 
first?' 


'O  King!'  she  cried,  'and  I  will  tell 

thee  true : 
He  found  me  first  when  yet  a  little  maid  : 
Beaten  had  I  been  for  a  little  fault 
Whereof  I  was  not  guilty;   and  out  I  ran 
And    flung   myself  down    on  a  bank  of 

heath. 
And  hated  this  fair  world  and  all  therein. 
And  wept,  and  wish'd  that  I  were  dead; 

and  he  — 
I  know  not  whether  of  himself  he  came, 
Or    brought    by    Merlin,  who,  they   say, 

can  walk 
Unseen  at  pleasure  —  he  was  at  my  side. 
And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comforted 

my  heart. 
And  dried  my  tears,  being  a  child  with  me. 
And  many  a  time  he  came,  and  evermore 
As  I  grew  greater  grew  with  me;   and  sad 
At  times  he  seem'd,  and  sad  with    him 

was  I, 
vStern  too  at  times,  and  then  I  loved  him 

not. 
But  sweet  again,  and  then  I  loved  him 

well. 
And  now  of  late  I  see  him  less  and  less. 
But  those  first  days  had  golden  hours  for 

me, 
For  then  I  surely  thought  he  would  be 

king. 

'  But  let  me  tell  thee  now  another  tale  : 
For  Bleys,  our  Merlin's  master,  as  they  say, 
Died  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to  me, 
To  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his  life. 
Shrunk  like   a    fairy  changeling  lay  the 

mage ; 
And  when  I  enter'd  told  me  that  himself 
And  Merlin  ever  served  about  the  King, 
Uther,  before  he  died;    and  on  the  night 
When  Uther  in  Tintagil  past  away 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the  two 
Left  the  still  King,  and  passing  forth  to 

breathe. 
Then    from    the    castle    gateway  by  the 

chasm 
Descending  thro'   the    dismal    night  —  a 

night 
In  which  the  bounrls  of  heaven  and  earth 

were  lost  — 
Beheld,  so  high  upon  the  dreary  deeps 
It  seem'd  in  heaven,  a  ship,  the  shape 

thereof 


THE    COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


309 


A  dragon  wing'd,  and  all  from  stem  to 

stern 
Bright  with  a  shining  people  on  the  decks, 
And  gone  as  soon  as   seen.     And  then 

the  two 
Dropt  to  the  cove,  and  watch'd  the  great 

sea  fall. 
Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than  the 

last, 
Till  last,  a  ninth  one,  gathering  half  the 

deep 
And  full  of  voices,  slowly  rose  and  plunged 
Roaring,  and  all  the  wave  was  in  a  flame : 
And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame  was 

borne 
A  naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin's  feet. 
Who  stoopt  and  caught  the   babe,  and 

cried  "The  King! 
Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther  1  "     And  the 

fringe 
Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  up  the 

strand, 
Lash'd  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the  word, 
And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in  fire, 
So  that  the  child  and  he  were  clothed  in 

fire. 
And  presently  thereafter  foUow'd  calm. 
Free  sky  and  stars :     "  And   this   same 

child,"  he  said, 
"  Is  he  who  reigns;    nor  could  I  part  in 

peace 
Till  this  were  told."     And  saying  this  the 

seer 
Went  thro'  the  strait  and  dreadful  pass  of 

death, 
Nor  ever  to  be  question'd  any  more 
Save  on  the  further  side ;   but  when  I  met 
Merlin,  and  ask'd  him  if  these  things  were 

truth  — 
The  shining  dragon  and  the  naked  child 
Descending  in  the  glory  of  the  seas  — 
He  laugh'd  as  is  his  wont,  and  answer'd 

me 
In  riddling  triplets  of  old  time,  and  said : 

' "  Rain,  rain,  and  sun  I   a  rainbow  in 
the  sky ! 
A  young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by; 
An  old  man's  wit  may  wander  ere  he  die. 
Rain,  rain,  and  sun  I  a  rainbow  on  the 
lea! 
And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to  thee; 
And  truth  or  clothed  or  naked  let  it  be. 


Rain,    sun,   and   rain !     and    the    free 

blossom  blows : 
Sun,  rain,  and  sun  !  and  where  is  he  who 

knows  ? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he 

goes." 

'So  Merlin  riddling  anger'd  me;   but 

thou 
Fear  not  to  give  this  King  thine  only  child, 
Guinevere  :    so   great  bards  of  him  will 

sing 
Hereafter;    and  dark  sayings  from  of  old 
Ranging  and  ringing  thro'  the  minds  of 

men. 
And  echo'd  by  old  folk  beside  their  fires 
For  comfort  after  their  wage-work  is  done, 
Speak  of  the  King;   and  Merlin  in  our 

time 
Hath  spoken  also,  not  in  jest,  and  sworn 
Tho'  men  may  wound  him  that  he  will 

not  die, 
But  pass,  again  to  come;   and  then  or  now 
Utterly  smite  the  heathen  underfoot, 
Till  these  and  all  men  hail  him  for  their 

king.' 

She   spake   and   King  Leodogran   re- 
joiced, 
But  musing  '  Shall  I  answer  yea  or  nay?  ' 
Doubted,  and  drowsed,  nodded  and  slept, 

and  saw. 
Dreaming,  a  slope  of  land  that  ever  grew, 
Field  after  field,  up  to  a  height,  the  peak 
Haze-hidden,    and   thereon    a    phantom 

king, 
Now  looming,  and  now  lost;   and  on  the 

slope 
The  sword  rose,  the  hind  fell,  the  herd 

was  driven. 
Fire  glimpsed;     and   all  the    land  from 

roof  and  rick, 
In  drifts  of  smoke  before  a  rolling  wind, 
Stream'd  to  the  peak,  and  mingled  with 

the  haze 
And  made  it  thicker;   while  the  phantom 

king 
Sent  out  at  times  a  voice;   and  here  or 

there 
Stood  one  who  pointed  toward  the  voice, 

the  rest 
Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying,  '  No  king  of 

ours, 


3IO 


THE    COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


No  son  of  Uther,  and  no  king  of  ours;  '     . 

And  holy  Dubric  spread  his  hands  and 

Till  with  a  wink  his  dream  was  changed, 

spake, 

the  haze 

'  Reign  ye,  and  live  and  love,  and  make 

Descended,  and  the  solid  earth  became 

the  world 

As  nothing,  but  the  King  stood  out  in 

Other,  and  may  thy  Queen  be  one  with 

heaven. 

thee. 

Crown'd.     And   Leodogran   awoke,  and 

And  all  this  Order  of  thy  Table  Round 

sent 

Fulfil    the    boundless  purpose   of    their 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias  and  Bedivere, 

King !  ' 

Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answering 

yea. 

vSo  Dubric  said;   but  when  they  left  the 

shrine 

Then  Arthur  charged  his  warrior  whom 

Great  Lords  from  Rome  before  the  portal 

he  loved 

stood. 

And  honour'd  most.  Sir  Lancelot,  to  ride 

In  scornful  stillness  gazing  as  they  past; 

forth 

Then  while  they  paced  a  city  all  on  fire 

And  bring  the  Queen ;  —  and  watch'd  him 

With  sun  and  cloth  of  gold,  the  trumpets 

from  the  gates : 

blew. 

And    Lancelot    past    away    among    the 

And  Arthur's  knighthood  sang  before  the 

flowers. 

King :  — 

(For  then  was  latter  April)  and  return'd 

Among  the  flowers,  in  May,  with  Guine- 

' Blow  trumpet,  for  the  world  is  white 

vere. 

with  May; 

To   whom  arrived,  by  Dubric   the   high 

Blow  trumpet,  the  long  night  hath  roll'd 

saint. 

away  ! 

Chief  of  the  church  in  Britain,  and  before 

Blow  thro'  the  living  world  — "  Let  the 

The   stateliest   of  her  altar-shrines,   the 

King  reign." 

King 

That  morn  was  married,  while  in  stainless 

'  Shall    Rome    or    Heathen    rule    in 

white. 

Arthur's  realm? 

The  fair  beginners  of  a  nobler  time, 

Flash  brand  and  lance,  fall  battleaxe  upon 

And  glorying  in  their  vows  and  him,  his 

helm, 

knights 

Fall  battleaxe,  and  flash  brand  !     Let  the 

Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  his  joy. 

King  reign. 

Far  shone  the  fields  of  May  thro'  open 

door. 

'  Strike    for    the   King   and    live !    his 

The  sacred  altar  blossom'd  white  with  May, 

knights  have  heard 

The  Sun  of  May  descended  on  their  King, 

That  God  hath  told   the  King  a  secret 

They  gazed  on  all  earth's  beauty  in  their 

word. 

Queen, 

Fall  battleaxe  and  flash  brand  !     Let  the 

RoU'd  incense,  and  there  past  along  the 

King  reign. 

hymns 

A  voice  as  of  the  waters,  while  the  two 

'  Blow  trumpet !    he  will  lift  us  from 

Svvare  at  the  shrine  of  Christ  a  deathless 

the  dust. 

love  : 

Blow  trumpet !  live  the  strength  and  die 

And  Arthur  said,  '  Behold,  thy  doom  is 

the  lust ! 

mine. 

Clang  battleaxe,  and  clash  brand !     Let 

Let  chance  what  will,  I  love  thee  to  the 

the  King  reign. 

death  !  ' 

To  whom  the  Queen  replied  with  drooping 

'Strike  for  the  King  and  die!  and  if 

eyes, 

thou  diest, 

*  King  and  my  lord,  1   love  thee  to  the 

The    King   is  King,  and  ever  wills  the 

death  ! ' 

highest. 

GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Ill 


Clang  battleaxe,  and  clash  brand  I     Let 
the  King  reign. 

'  Blow,  for  our  Sun  is  mighty  in  his  May  ! 
Blow,  for  our  Sun  is  mightier  day  by  day  ! 
Clang  battleaxe,  and  clash  brand  !     Let 
the  King  reign. 

'  The  King  will  follow  Christ,  and  we 

the  King 
In  whom  high  God  hath  breathed  a  secret 

thing. 
Fall  battleaxe,  and  flash  brand  !     Let  the 

King  reign.' 

So  sang  the  knighthood,  moving  to  their 

hall. 
There  at  the  banquet  those  great  Lords 

from  Rome, 
The  slow-fading  mistress  of  the  world. 
Strode  in,  and  claim'd  their  tribute  as  of 

yore. 
But   Arthur   spake,    '  Behold,    for    these 

have  sworn 


To  wage  my  wars,  and  worship  me  their 

King; 
The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new; 
And   we    that    fight    for   our   fair  father 

Christ, 
Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and 

old 
To  drive  the  heathen  from  your  Roman 

wall. 
No  tribute  will  we  pay :  '  so  those  great 

lords 
Drew  back  in  wrath,  and  Arthur  strove 

with  Rome. 

And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for  a 
space 

Were  all  one  will,  and  thro'  that  strength 
the  King 

Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under  him. 

Fought,  and  in  twelve  great  battles  over- 
came 

The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a  realm 
and  reign'd. 


THE   ROUND   TABLE. 


GARETH   AND    LVNETTE. 
THE    MARRIAGE   OF   GERiMNT. 
GERAINT   AND   ENID. 
BALIN   AND   BALAN. 
MERLIN    AND   VIVIEN. 

GARETH   AND   LYNETTE. 

The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 
And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a  showerful  spring 
Stared  at  the  spate.     A   slender-shafted 

Pine 
Lost   footing,    fell,  and    so    was  whirl'd 

away. 
'  How  he  went  down,'  said  Gareth,  '  as  a 

false  knight 
Or  evil  king  before  my  lance  if  lance 
Were  mine  to  use  —  O  senseless  cataract, 
Bearing  all  down  in  thy  precipitancy  — 
And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with  cold 

snows 
And  mine  is  living  blood  :  thou  dost  His 

will. 
The  Maker's,    and    not  knowest,   and  I 

that  know. 
Have    strength    and    wit,    in     my    good 

mother's  hall 


LANCELOT   AND    ELAINE. 
THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 
PELLEAS   AND   ETTARRE. 
THE   LAST   TOURNAMENT. 
GUINEVERE. 


Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 
Prison'd,     and    kept    and    coax'd     and 

whistled  to  — 
Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still  a 

child ! 
Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me  ! 
A   worse    were     better;     yet    no  worse 

would  L 
Heaven  yield    her  for  it,  but  in  me  put 

force 
To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous 

prayer, 
Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to  sweep 
In  ever-highering  eagle-circles  up 
To  the  great  Sun  of  Glory,  and  thence 

swoop 
Down   upon  all   things  base,   and  dash 

them  dead, 
A  knight  of  Arthur,  working  out  his  will. 
To    cleanse    the    world.     Why,  Gawain, 

when  he  came 


312 


GARETH  AND   LYNETTE. 


With  Modred  hither  in  the  summer- 
time, 

Ask'd  me  to  tilt  with  him,  the  proven 
knight. 

Modred  for  want  of  worthier  was  the 
judge. 

Then  I  so  shook  him  in  the  saddle,  he 
said, 

"Thou  hast  half  prevail'd  against  me," 
said  so  —  he  — 

Tho'  Modred  biting  his  thin  lips  was 
mute. 

For  he  is  alway  sullen  :  what  care  I  ?  ' 

And  Gareth  went,  and  hovering  round 

her  chair 
Ask'd,  '  Mother,    tho'   ye  count  me  still 

the  child, 
Sweet    mother,   do  ye    love   the  child?' 

She  laugh'd, 

*  Thou  art  but  a  wild-goose  to  question 

it.' 
'Then,  mother,  and   ye  love  the  child,' 
he  said, 

*  Being  a  goose   and  rather   tame    than 

wild. 

Hear  the  child's  story.'  *  Yea,  my  well- 
beloved, 

An  'twere  but  of  the  goose  and  golden 
eggs.' 

And    Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kind- 
ling eyes, 

*  Nay,  nay,  good  mother,  but  this  egg  of 

mine 
Was  finer  gold  than  any  goose  can  lay; 
For  this  an  Eagle,  a  royal  Eagle,  laid 
Almost   beyond    eye-reach,    on    such    a 

palm 
As  glitters  gilded  in  thy  Book  of  Hours, 
And  there  was  ever  haunting  round  the 

palm 
A  lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often  saw 
The  splendour  sparkling  from  aloft,  and 

thought 
**  An  I  could  climb  and  lay  my  hand  upon 

it, 

Then  were  I  wealthier  than  a  leash  of 
kings." 

But  ever  when  he  reach'd  a  hand  to 
climb, 

One  that  had  loved  him  from  his  child- 
hood, caught 


And   stay'd  him,   "  Climb  not  lest  thou 

break  thy  neck, 
I   charge   thee  by  my  love,"  and  so  the 

boy, 
Sweet  mother,  neither  clomb,  nor  brake 

his  neck. 
And  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining  for  it, 
And  past  away.' 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
'True  love,  sweet  son,  had  risk'd  himself 

and  climb'd. 
And  handed  down  the  golden  treasure  to 

him.' 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kindling 

eyes, 
'Gold?  said  I  gold?  —  ay  then,  why  he, 

or  she, 
Or  whosoe'er  it  was,  or  half  the  world 
Had  ventured  —  had  the  thing  I  spake  of 

been 
Mere  gold  —  but  this  was  all  of  that  true 

steel. 
Whereof  they  forged  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  lightnings  play'd   about    it    in    the 

storm. 
And  all  the  little  fowl  were  flurried  at  it. 
And  there  were  cries  and  clashings  in  the 

nest, 
That  sent  him  from  his  senses :  let  me  go.' 

Then  Bellicent  bemoan'd  herself  and 

said, 
'Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneliness? 
Lo,    where  thy    father    Lot   beside    the 

hearth 
Lies  like  a  log,  and  all  but  smoulder'd 

out! 
For  ever  since  when  traitor  to  the  King 
He  fought  against  him  in  the  Barons'  war, 
And  Arthur  gave  him  back  his  territory, 
His  age  hath  slowly  droopt,  and  now  lies 

there 
A  yet-warm  corpse,  and  yet  unburiable, 
No     more;     nor    sees,    nor    hears,    nor 

speaks,   nor  knows. 
And  both   thy  brethren  are  in  Arthur's 

hall, 
Albeit  neither  loved  with  that  full  love 
I  feel  for  thee,  nor  worthy  such  a  love: 
Stay  therefore  thou;  red  berries  charm 

the  bird. 


CARET H  AND  LYNETTE. 


313 


And  thee,  mine  innocent,  the  jousts,  the 

wars, 
Who  never  knewest  finger-ache,  nor  pang 
Of  wrench'd  or  broken  limb  —  an  often 

chance 
In    those     brain-stunning    shocks,    and 

tourney-falls, 
Frights    to  my  heart;    but   stay:    follow 

the  deer 
By    these    tall    firs    and    our    fast-falling 

burns; 
So  make  thy  manhood  mightier  day  by 

day; 
Sweet  is  the  chase  :  and  I  will  seek  thee 

out 
Some  comfortable  bride  and  fair,  to  grace 
Thy  climbing  life,  and  cherish  my  prone 

year, 
Till  falling  into  Lot's  forgetfulness 
I  know  not  thee,  myself,  nor  anything. 
Stay,  my  best  son !  ye  are  yet  more  boy 

than  man.' 

Then  Gareth,  '  An  ye  hold  me  yet  for 

child. 
Hear   yet   once   more    the  story  of  the 

child. 
For,  mother,  there  was  once  a  King,  like 

ours. 
The  prince  his  heir,  when  tall  and  mar- 
riageable, 
Ask'd   for  a  bride;    and   thereupon  the 

King 
Set    two    before    him.     One    was    fair, 

strong,  arm'd  — 
But  to  be  won  by  force  —  and  many  men 
Desired   her;    one,  good    lack,  no  man 

desired. 
And    these  were    the   conditions  of  the 

King : 
That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force,  he 

needs 
Must   wed    that    other,    whom    no    man 

desired, 
A  red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself  so 

vile, 
That   evermore   she  long'd  to  hide  her- 
self, 
Nor  fronted  man  or  woman,  eye  to  eye  — 
Yea  —  some   she    cleaved    to,    but   they 

died  of  her. 
And  one  —  they  call'd   her  Fame;    and 

one,  —  O  mother, 


How  can  ye  keep  me  tether'd  to  you  — 
vShame. 

Man  am  I  grown,  a  man's  work  must  I 
do. 

Follow  the  deer?  follow  the  Christ,  the 
King, 

Live  pure,  speak  true,  right  wrong,  fol- 
low the  King  — 

Else,  wherefore  born?  ' 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
'  Sweet  son,  for  there  be  many  who  deem 

him  not. 
Or  will    not   deem    him,  wholly  proven 

King  — 
Albeit  in  mine  own  heart  I   knew  him 

King, 
When  I  was   frequent  with    him  in  my 

youth. 
And     heard     him     Kingly    speak,    and 

doubted  him 
No  more  than  he,  himself;   but  felt  him 

mine. 
Of  closest   kin  to  me :  yet  —  wilt   thou 

leave 
Thine  easeful  biding  here,  and  risk  thine 

all, 
Life,  limbs,  for  one  that  is  not    proven 

King? 
Stay,  till   the   cloud   that    settles   round 

his  birth 
Hath  lifted  but  a  little.     Stay,  sweet  son.' 

And   Gareth    answer'd    quickly,  '  Not 

an  hour, 
So  that  ye  yield  me  —  I  will  walk  thro' 

fire, 
Mother,  to  gain  it  —  your  full  leave  to  go. 
Not    proven,    who    swept    the    dust    of 

ruin'd  Rome 
From   off  the    threshold   of   the   realm, 

and  crush'd 
The  Idolaters,  and  made  the  people  free? 
Who    should    be    King   save    him   who 

makes  us  free?' 

So  when    the   Queen,  who   long   had 

sought  in  vain 
To  break  him  from  the  intent  to  vi^hich 

he  grew. 
Found  her  son's  will  unwaveringly  one, 
She    answer'd    craftily,    *  W^ill    ye   walk 

thro'  fire? 


3H 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Who  walks   thro'   fire   will    hardly  heed 

the  smoke. 
Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must :   only  one  proof. 
Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee 

knight, 
Of  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to  me, 
Thy  mother,  —  I  demand.' 

And  Gareth  cried, 
*  A  hard  one,  or  a  hundred,  so  I  go. 
Nay  —  quick !    the    proof    to   prove   me 
to  the  quick  ! ' 

But  slowly  spake  the  mother  looking 
at  him, 

'  Prince,  thou  shalt  go  disguised  to 
Arthur's  hall, 

And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats  and 
drinks 

Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen- 
knaves, 

And  those  that  hand  the  dish  across  the 
bar. 

Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any  one. 

And  thou  shalt  serve  a  twelvemonth  and 
a  day.' 

For  so  the  Queen  believed  that  when 
her  son 
Beheld  his  only  way  to  glory  lead 
Low  down  thro'  villain  kitchen-vassalage, 
Her  own  true  Gareth  was  too  princely- 
proud 
To  pass  thereby;   so  should  he  rest  with 

her, 
Closed  in  her  castle  from  the  sound  of 
arms. 

Silent  awhile  was  Gareth,  then  replied, 
'  The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in  soul, 
And  I  shall  see  the  jousts.  Thy  son  am  I, 
And  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must  obey. 
I  therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will ; 
For    hence    will    I,   disguised,   and    hire 

myself 
To  serve  with  scullions  and  with  kitchen- 
knaves; 
Nor  tell  my  name  to  any  —  no,  not  the 
King.' 

Gareth  awhile  linger'd.     The  mother's 
eye 
Full  of  the  wistful  fear  that  he  would  go, 


And  turning  toward  him  wheresoe'er  he 

turn'd, 
Perplext  his  outward  purpose,  till  an  hour, 
When  waken'd  by  the  wind  which  with 

full  voice 
Swept    bellowing  thro'  the  darkness  on 

to  dawn, 
He  rose,  and  out  of  slumber  calling  two 
That  still   had   tended  on  him  from  his 

birth, 
Before  the  wakeful  mother   heard    him, 

went. 

The  three  were  clad  like  tillers  of  the 

soil. 
Southward    they    set    their    faces.     The 

birds  made 
Melody  on  branch,  and  melody  in  mid 

air. 
The    damp    hill-slopes    were    quicken'd 

into  green. 
And   the   live   green   had   kindled   into 

flowers, 
For  it  was  past  the  time  of  Easterday. 

So,  when  their  feet  were  planted  on 

the  plain 
That  broaden'd  toward  the  base  of  Game- 
lot, 
Far  off  they  saw  the  silver-misty  morn 
Rolling    her    smoke    about    the    Royal 

mount, 
That  rose    between   the    forest  and    the 

field. 
At    times  the  summit  of   the    high    city 

flash'd; 
At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half-way 

down 
Prick'd    thro'    the    mist;    at    times    the 

great  gate  shone 
Only,  that  open'd  on  the  field  below : 
Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  disappear'd. 

Then    those    who    went    with    Gareth 

were  amazed. 
One  crying,  *  Let  us  go  no  further,  lord. 
Here  is  a  city  of  Enchanters,  built 
By    fairy    Kings.'     The    second    echo'd 

him, 
'  Lord,  we    have    heard    from    our    wise 

man  at  home 
To  Northward,  that  this  King  is  not  the 

King, 


GARETH  AND   LYNETTE. 


315 


But  only  changeling  out  of  Fairyland, 
Who  drave  the  heathen  hence  by  sorcery 
And   Merlin's  glamour.'     Then  the  first 

again, 
*  Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  anywhere, 
But  all  a  vision.' 

Gareth  answer'd  them 
With  laughter,  swearing  he  had  glamour 

enow 
In  his  own  blood,  his  princedom,  youth 

and  hopes. 
To   plunge   old    Merlin   in   the    Arabian 

sea; 
So  push'd  them  all  unwilling  toward  the 

gate. 
And   there  was    no    gate    like    it    under 

heaven. 
For  barefoot  on  the  keystone,  which  was 

lined 
And  rippled  like  an  ever-fleeting  wave, 
The    Lady  of  the  Lake  stood :    all  her 

dress 
Wept  from  her  sides  as   water   flowing 

away ; 
But  like  the  cross  her  great  and  goodly 

arms 
Stretch'd  under  all  the  cornice  and  up- 
held : 
And    drops    of  water    fell    from    either 

hand; 
And  down  from  one  a  sword  was  hung, 

from  one 
A    censer,  either   worn   with    wind    and 

storm; 
And   o'er  her  breast   floated  the  sacred 

fish; 
And  in  the  space  to  left  of  her,  and  right, 
Were    Arthur's   wars    in    weird    devices 

done, 
New   things   and    old    co-twisted,    as    if 

Time 
Were  nothing,  so  inveterately,  that  men 
Were  giddy  gazing  there;    and  over  all 
High    on    the    top    were    those    three 

Queens,  the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 

need. 

Then  those  with  Careth  for  so  long  a 
space 
Stared    at   the    figures,    that    at    last    it 
seem'd 


The  dragon-boughts  and  elvish  emblem- 

ings 
Began  to  move,  seethe,  twine  and  curl : 

they  call'd 
To  Gareth,  '  Lord,  the  gateway  is  alive.' 

And  Gareth  likewise  on  them  fixt  his 

eyes 
So  long,  that  ev'n  to  him  they  seem'd  to 

move. 
Out  of  the  city  a  blast  of  music  peal'd. 
Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three,  to 

whom 
From  out   thereunder   came   an   ancient 

man. 
Long-bearded,  saying,  '  Who  be  ye,  my 

sons? ' 

Then  Gareth, '  We  be  tillers  of  the  soil, 
Who  leaving  share  in  furrow  come  to  see 
The  glories  of  our  King :  but  these,  my 

men, 
(Your  city  moved  so  weirdly  in  the  mist) 
Doubt  if  the  King  be  King   at    all,   or 

come 
From    Fairyland;    and   whether  this    be 

built 
By    magic,    and    by     fairy    Kings    and 

Queens; 
Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all. 
Or  all  a  vision :  and  this  music  now 
Hath   scared  them   both,   but    tell    thou 

these  the  truth.' 

Then  that  old  Seer  made  answer  play- 
ing on  him 

And  saying,  '  Son,  I  have  seen  the  good 
ship  sail 

Keel  upward,  and  mast  downward,  in 
the  heavens. 

And  solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air  : 

And  here  is  truth;  but  an  it  please  thee 
not. 

Take  thou  the  truth  as  thou  hast  told  it 
me. 

For  truly  as  thou  sayest,  a  Fairy  King 

And  Fairy  Queens  have  built  the  city, 
son; 

They  came  from  out  a  sacred  mountain- 
cleft 

Toward  the  sunrise,  each  with  harp  in 
hand. 

And  built  it  to  the  music  of  their  harps, 


3i6 


GARETH  AND   LYNETTE. 


And,    as   thou   sayest,    it   is    enchanted, 

son. 
For  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems 
Saving  the    King;    tho'  some   there    be 

that  hold 
The  King  a  shadow,  and  the  city  real : 
Yet  take  thou  heed  of  him,  for,  so  thou 

pass 
Beneath   this   archway,    then   wilt    thou 

become 
A  thrall   to    his    enchantments,    for    the 

King 
Will  bind    thee    by  such    vows,  as  is    a 

shame 
A  man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet  the 

which 
No  man  can  keep;    but,  so  thou  dread 

to  swear, 
Pass    not    beneath    this    gateway,    but 

abide 
Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  held. 
For  an  ye  heard  a  music,  like  enow 
They  are  building  still,  seeing  the  city  is 

built 
To  music,  therefore  never  built  at  all, 
And  therefore  built  for  ever.' 

Gareth  spake 
Anger'd,  '  Old   Master,   reverence    thine 

own  beard 
That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth,  and 

seems 
Wellnigh  as  long  as   thou   art  statured 

tall! 
Why  mockest  thou  the  stranger  that  hath 

been 
To  thee  fair-spoken?' 

But  the  Seer  replied, 
'  Know  ye  not  then  the  Riddling  of  the 

Bards? 
"  Confusion,  and   illusion,   and    relation. 
Elusion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion"? 
I  mock  thee  not  but  as   thou   mockest 

me, 
And  all  that  see  thee,  for  thou  art  not 

who 
Thou   seemest,    but    I    know    thee    who 

thou  art. 
And  now  thou  goest   up  to   mock    the 

King, 
Who  cannot  brook  the  shadow  of  any 

lie.' 


Unmockingly  the  mocker  ending  here 
Turn'd  to  the  right,  and  past  along  the 

plain; 
Whom  Gareth  looking    after   said,  *  My 

men. 
Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a  little  ghost 
Here  on  the  threshold  of  our  enterprise. 
Let  love  be  blamed  for  it,  not  she,  nor  I : 
Well,  we  will  make  amends.' 

With  all  good  cheer 
He  spake  and  laugh'd,  then  enter'd  with 

his  twain 
Camelot,  a  city  of  shadowy  palaces 
And    stately,    rich    in    emblem    and   the 

work 
Of  ancient  kings  who  did  their  days  in 

stone; 
Which  .  Merlin's    hand,    the    Mage     at 

Arthur's  court, 
Knowing  all  arts,  had  touch'd,  and  every- 
where 
At  Arthur's  ordinance,  tipt  with  lessening 

peak 
And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire  to 

heaven. 
And  ever  and  anon  a  knight  would  pass 
Outward,  or  inward  to  the  hall :   his  arms 
Clash'd ;    and    the   sound   was   good    to 

Gareth's  ear. 
And  out  of  bower  and   casement  shyly 

glanced 
Eyes  of  pure  women,  wholesome  stars  of 

love ; 
And  all  about  a  healthful   people    stept 
As  in  the  presence  of  a  gracious  king. 

Then  into  hall  Gareth  ascending  heard 
A  voice,  the  voice  of  Arthur,  and  beheld 
Far  over  heads  in  that  long-vaulted  hall 
The   splendour  of  the   presence   of  the 

King 
Throned,    and    delivering     doom  —  and 

look'd  no  more  — 
But  felt  his  young  heart  hammering  in 

his  ears, 
And  thought,  *  For  this  half-shadow  of  a 

lie 
The  truthful  King  will  doom  me  when  I 

speak.' 
Yet  pressing  on,  tho'  all  in  fear  to  find 
Sir  Gawain  or  Sir  Modred,  saw  nor  one 
Nor  other,  but  in  all  the  listening  eyes 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


317 


Of  those  tall  knights,  that  ranged  about 

the  throne, 
Clear  honour  shiniug  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  dawn,  and  faith  in  their  great  King, 

with  pure 
Affection,  and  the  light  of  victory, 
And  glory  gain'd,  and  evermore  to  gain. 

Then  came  a  widow  crying  to  the  King, 
*  A  boon,  Sir  King !     Thy  father,  Uther, 

reft 
From  my  dead  lord  a  field  with  violence  : 
For  howsoe'er  at  first  he  profifer'd  gold. 
Yet,  for  the  field  was  pleasant  in  our  eyes. 
We  yielded  not;   and  then  he  reft  us  of  it 
Perforce,   and   left  us  neither  gold   nor 

field.' 

Said  Arthur,  *  Whether  would  ye?  gold 

or  field? ' 
To  whom  the  woman  weeping,  '  Nay,  my 

lord, 
The  field  was  pleasant  in  my  husband's 

eye.' 

And  Arthur,  *  Have  thy  pleasant  field 

again, 
And    thrice   the   gold    for    Uther's    use 

thereof, 
According  to  the  years.    No  boon  is  here. 
But  justice,  so  thy  say  be  proven  true. 
Accursed,  who  from  the  wrongs  his  father 

did 
Would  shape  himself  a  right ! ' 

And  while  she  past. 
Came  yet  another  widow  crying  to  him, 
'  A  boon.  Sir  King  !    Thine  enemy,  King, 

am  I. 
With  thine  own  hand   thou  slewest  my 

dear  lord, 
A  knight  of  Uther  in  the  Barons'  war, 
When  Lot  and  many  another  rose  and 

fought 
Against   thee,  saying   thou   wert   basely 

born. 
I  held  with  these,  and  loathe  to  ask  thee 

aught. 
Yet  lo  !     my  husband's  brother  had  my 

son 
Thrall'd  in  his  castle,  and  hath  starved 

him  dead; 
And  standeth  seized  of  that  inheritance 


Which  thou  that  slewest  the  sire  hast  left 

the  son. 
So  tho'  1  scarce  can  ask  it  thee  for  hate. 
Grant  me  some  knight  to  do  the  battle 

for  me, 
Kill  the  foul  thief,  and  wreak  me  for  my 

son.' 

Then  strode   a  good  knight  forward, 
crying  to  him, 

*  A  boon,  Sir  King  I    I  am  her  kinsman,  I. 
Give  me  to  right  her  wrong,  and  slay  the 

man.' 

Then  came  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal,  and 
cried, 

*  A  boon,  Sir  King !   ev'n  that  thou  grant 

her  none, 
This  railer,  that  hath  mock'd  thee  in  full 

hall  — 
None;    or  the  wholesome  boon  of  gyve 

and  gag.' 

But  Arthur,  '  We  sit  King,  to  help  the 

wrong'd 
Thro'  all  our  realm.     The  woman  loves 

her  lord. 
Peace  to  thee,  woman,  with  thy  loves  and 

hates  ! 
The  kings  of  old  had  doom'd  thee  to  the 

flames, 
Aurelius  Emrys  would  have  scourged  thee 

dead. 
And  Uther  slit  thy  tongue  :  but  get  thee 

hence  — 
Lest  that  rough  humour  of  the  kings  of 

old 
Return   upon    me !     Thou   that  art    her 

kin. 
Go  likewise;   lay  him  low  and  slay  him 

not, 
But  bring  him  here,  that  I  may  judge  the 

right. 
According  to  the  justice  of  the  King  : 
Then,  be  he  guilty,  by  that  deathless  King 
Who  lived  and  died  for  men,  the  man 

shall  die.' 

Then  came  in  hall  the  messenger  of 

Mark, 
A  name  of  evil  savour  in  the  land. 
The  Cornish  king.      In  either  hand  he 

bore 


3i8 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


What  dazzled  all,  and   shone   far-off  as 

shines 
A  field  of  charlock  in  the  sudden  sun 
Between  two  showers,  a  cloth  of  palest 

gold, 
Which  down  he  laid  before  the  throne, 

and  knelt, 
Delivering,  that  his  lord,  the  vassal  king, 
Was  ev'n  upon  his  way  to  Camelot; 
For  having  heard  that  Arthur  of  his  grace 
Had  made  his  goodly  cousin,  Ti-istram, 

knight. 
And,  for  himself  was  of  the  greater  state. 
Being  a  king,  he  trusted  his  liege-lord 
Would  yield  him  this  large  honour  all  the 

more; 
So  pray'd  him  well  to  accept  this  cloth  of 

gold. 
In  token  of  true  heart  and  fealty. 

Then  Arthur  cried  to  rend  the  cloth,  to 

rend 
In  pieces,  and  so  cast  it  on  the  hearth. 
An    oak-tree    smoulder'd    there.      '  The 

goodly  knight ! 
What!    shall  the  shield  of  Mark  stand 

among  these?' 
For,  midway  down  the  side  of  that  long 

hall 
A  stately  pile,  —  whereof  along  the  front, 
Some    blazon'd,  some    but    carven,   and 

some  blank, 
There    ran    a    treble     range     of    stony 

shields,  — 
Rose,  and  high-arching  overbrow'd  the 

hearth. 
And  under   every  shield    a   knight  was 

named : 
For  this  was  Arthur's  custom  in  his  hall; 
When  some  good  knight  had  done  one 

noble  deed. 
His  arms  were  carven  only ;   but  if  twain 
His  arms  were  blazon'd  also ;   but  if  none, 
The  shield  was  blank  and  bare  without  a 

sign 
Saving  the  name  beneath;    and  Gareth 

saw 
The  shield  of  Gawain  blazon'd  rich  and 

bright. 
And    Modred's    blank    as    death;     and 

Arthur  cried 
To   rend   the   cloth  and    cast   it   on   the 

hearth. 


'  More  like  are  we  to  reave  him  of  his 

crown 
Than  make  him  knigbt  because  men  call 

him  king. 
The  kings  we  found,  ye  know  we  stay'd 

their  hands 
From    war   among   themselves,  but   left 

them  kings; 
Of  whom  were  any  bounteous,  merciful, 
Truth-speaking,  brave,  good  livers,  them 

we  enroll'd 
Among  us,  and  they  sit  within  our  hall. 
But  Mark  hath  tarnish'd  the  great  name 

of  king. 
As   Mark  would  sully  the  low  state  of 

churl : 
And,   seeing  he  hath   sent  us    cloth    of 

gold, 
Return,  and  meet,  and   hold  him   from 

our  eyes. 
Lest  we  should  lap  him  up  in  cloth  of 

lead, 
Silenced  for   ever  —  craven  —  a   man  of 

plots, 
Crafts,  poisonous  counsels,  wayside  am- 

bushings  — 
No  fault  of  thine  :  let  Kay  the  seneschal 
Look  to  thy  wants,  and  send  thee  satis- 
fied- 
Accursed,  who  strikes  nor  lets  the  hand 

be  seen ! ' 

And    many  another   suppliant   crying 

came 
With  noise  of  ravage  wrought  by  beast 

and  man. 
And  evermore  a  knight  would  ride  away. 

Last,  Gareth  leaning  both  hands  heavily 

Down  on  the  shoulders  of  the  twain,  his 
men, 

Approach'd  between  them  toward  the 
King,  and  ask'd, 

'  A  boon.  Sir  King  (his  voice  was  all 
ashamed). 

For  see  ye  not  how  weak  and  hungerworn 

I  seem — leaning  on  these?  grant  me  to 
serve 

For  meat  and  drink  among  thy  kitchen- 
knaves 

A  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  nor  seek  my 
name. 

Hereafter  I  will  fight.' 


GARETH  AND   LYNETTE. 


119 


To  him  the  King, 
'  A  goodly  youth  and  worth   a  goodlier 

boon  I 
But  so  thou  wilt  no  goodlier,  then  must 

Kay, 
The  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks,  be 

thine.' 

He  rose  and  past;    then  Kay.  a  man 
of  mien 
Wan-sallow  as  the  plant  that  feels  itself 
Root-bitten  by  white  lichen, 

*  Lo  ye  now  I 
This  fellow  hath  broken  from  some  Abbey, 

where, 
God  wot,  he  had  not  beef  and  brewis 

enow. 
However  that  might  chance  1   but  an  he 

work , 
Like  any  pigeon  will  I  cram  his  crop, 
And  sleeker  shall  he  shine  than  any  hog.' 

Then    Lancelot    standing    near,    '  Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound    thou   knowest,   and   gray, 

and  all  the  hounds; 
A  horse  thou  knowest,  a  man  thou  dost 

not  know : 
Broad  brows  and  fair,  a  fluent  hair  and 

fine, 
High  nose,  a  nostril  large  and  fine,  and 

hands 
Large,  fair  and  fine  I  —  Some  young  lad's 

mystery  — 
But,  or  from  sheepcot  or  king's  hall,  the 

boy 
Is    noble-natured.      Treat  him   with    all 

grace. 
Lest  he  should  come  to  shame  thyjudging 

of  him.' 

Then  Kay,  '  What  murmurest  thou  of 
mystery  ? 

Think  ye  this  fellow  will  poison  the 
King's  dish? 

Nay,  for  he  spake  too  fool-like :  mys- 
tery ! 

Tut,  an  the  lad  were  noble,  he  had  ask'd 

For  horse  and  armour :  fair  and  fine, 
forsooth  I 

Sir  P'ine-face,  Sir  Fair-hands?  but  see 
thou  to  it 


That  thine  own  fineness,  Lancelot,  some 

fine  day 
Undo  thee  not  —  and  leave  my  man  to  me.' 

So  Gareth  all  for  glory  underwent 
The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen-vassalage; 
Ate  with  young  lads  his  portion  by  the 

door. 
And  couch'd  at  night  with  grimy  kitchen- 
knaves. 
And  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleasantly. 
But  Kay  the  seneschal,  who  loved  him  not, 
Would  hustle  and  harry  him,  and  labour 

him 
Beyond  his  comrade  of  the  hearth,  and  set 
To  turn  the  broach,  draw  water,  or  hew 

wood, 
Or   grosser    tasks;     and    Gareth    bow'd 

himself 
With    all   obedience    to    the    King,   and 

wrought 
All  kind  of  service  with  a  noble  ease 
That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing  it. 
And  when  the   thralls  had   talk  among 

themselves, 
And  one  would  praise  the  love  that  linkt 

the  King 
And  Lancelot  —  how  the  King  had  saved 

his  life 
In  battle  twice,  and  Lancelot  once  the 

King's  — 
For  Lancelot  was  the  first  in  Tournament, 
But  Arthur  mightiest  on  the  battle-field  — 
Gareth  was  glad.  Or  if  some  other  told. 
How  once  the  wandering  forester  at  dawn. 
Far  over  the  blue  tarns  and  hazy  seas. 
On  Caer-Eryri's  highest  found  the  King, 
A  naked    babe,  of  whom    the    Prophet 

spake, 
'  He  passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 
He  passes  and  is  heal'd  and  cannot  die '  — 
Gareth  was  glad.     But  if  their  talk  were 

foul. 
Then  would  he  whistle  rapid  as  any  lark, 
Or  carol  some  old  roundelay,  and  so  loud 
That  first  they  mock'd,  but,  after,  rever- 
enced him. 
Or  Gareth  telling  some  prodigious  tale 
Of  knights,  who  sliced  a  red  life-bubbling 

way 
Thro'  twenty  folds  of  twisted  dragon,  held 
All  in  a  gap-mouth'd  circle  his  good  mates 
Lving  or  sitting  round  him,  idle  hands, 


320 


CARET H  AND   LYNETTE, 


Charm'd;     till   Sir   Kay,    the    seneschal, 

would  come 
Blustering   upon    them,    like    a    sudden 

wind 
Among  dead  leaves,  and  drive  them  all 

apart. 
Or  when   the  thralls  had  sport  among 

themselves, 
So  there  were  any  trial  of  mastery, 
He,  by  two  yards  in  casting  bar  or  stone 
Was  counted  best;   and  if  there  chanced 

a  joust, 
So  that  Sir  Kay  nodded  him  leave  to  go, 
Would  hurry  thither,  and  when  he  saw 

the  knights 
Clash  like  the  coming  and  retiring  wave, 
And  the  spear  spring,  and  good   horse 

reel,  the  boy 
Was  half  beyond  himself  for  ecstasy. 

So  for  a  month  he  wrought  among  the 

thralls; 
But  in  the  weeks  that  follovv'd,  the  good 

Queen, 
Repentant  of  the  word  she  made  him 

swear, 
And   saddening  in   her   childless   castle, 

sent. 
Between  the  in-crescent  and  de-crescent 

moon, 
Arms  for  her  son,  and  loosed  him  from 

his  vow. 

This,  Gareth  hearing  from  a  squire  of 

Lot 
With  whom  he  used  to  play  at  tourney 

once. 
When  both  were  children,  and  in  lonely 

haunts 
Would  scratch  a  ragged  oval  on  the  sand. 
And    each    at    either   dash   from    either 

end  — 
Shame    never   made    girl    redder    than 

Gareth  joy. 
He   laugh'd;    he   sprang.     'Out  of  the 

smoke,  at  once 
I  leap  from  Satan's  foot  to  Peter's  knee  — 
These  news  be  mine,  none  other's  —  nay, 

the  King's  — 
Descend    into    the    city : '    whereon   he 

sought 
The  King  alone,  and  found,  and  told  him 

all. 


'  I  have  stagger'd  thy  strong  Gawain  in 

a  tilt 
For  pastime ;   yea,  he  said  it :  joust  can  I. 
Make  me  thy  knight  —  in  secret !  let  my 

name 
Be  hidd'n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest,  I 

spring 
Like  flame  from  ashes.' 

Here  the  King's  calm  eye 
Fell  on,  and  check'd,  and  made  him  flush, 

and  bow 
Lowly,  to  kiss  his  hand,  who  answer'd 

him, 
'  Son,  the  good  mother  let  me  know  thee 

here. 
And  sent  her  wish  that  I  would  yield  thee 

thine. 
Make  thee  my  knight?  my  knights  are 

sworn  to  vows 
Of  utter  hardihood,  utter  gentleness. 
And,  loving,  utter  faithfulness  in  love, 
And  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King.' 

Then    Gareth,  lightly  springing   from 

his  knees, 
'  My  King,  for  hardihood  I  can  promise 

thee. 
For  uttermost  obedience  make  demand 
Of  whom  ye  gave  me  to,  the  Seneschal, 
No    mellow   master    of    the    meats   and 

drinks  I 
And  as  for  love,  God  wot,  I  love  not  yet, 
But  love  I  shall,  God  willing.' 

And  the  King  — 
'Make  thee  my  knight  in  secret?  yea, 

but  he. 
Our  noblest  brother,  and  our  truest  man, 
And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs  must 

know.' 

'  Let    Lancelot   know,   my   King,    let 
Lancelot  know, 
Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest ! ' 

And  the  King  — 

'  But    wherefore  would    ye    men   should 

wonder* at  you? 
Nay,  rather  for  the  sake  of  me,  their  King, 
And  the  deed's  sake  my  knighthood  do 

the  deed, 
Thau  to  be  noised  of.' 


GARETH  AND   LYNETTE. 


321 


Merrily  Gareth  ask'd, 
'  Have  I  not  earn'd  mv  cake  in  baking 

of  it? 
Let  be  my  name  until  I  make  my  name  ! 
My  deeds  will  speak  :  it  is  but  for  a  day.' 
So  with  a  kindly  hand  on  Gareth's  arm 
Smiled  the  great  King,  and  half-unwill- 

ingly 
Loving  his   lusty  youthhood  yielded    to 

him. 
Then,  after  summoning  Lancelot  privily, 
*  I  have  given  him  the  tirst  quest :   he  is 

not  proven. 
Look  therefore  when  he  calls  for  this  in 

hall, 
Thou   get   to  horse  and  follow  him  far 

away. 
Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see 
Far  as  thou  mayest,  he  be  nor  ta'en  nor 

slain.' 

Then  that  same  day  there  past  into 
the  hall 

A  damsel  of  high  lineage,  and  a  brow 

May-blossom,  and  a  cheek  of  apple- 
blossom, 

Hawk-eyes;  and  lightly  was  her  slender 
nose 

Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a  flower; 

She  into  hall  past  with  her  page  and 
cried, 

'O  King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the  foe 
without, 
See  to  the  foe  w'ithin  !  bridge,  ford,  beset 
By  bandits,  everyone  that  owns  a  tower 
The  Lord  for  half  a  league.     Why  sit  ye 

there? 
Rest  would  I   not,  Sir   King,  an  I  were 

king. 
Till  ev'n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as  free 
From  cursed  bloodshed,  as   thine  altar- 
cloth 
From  that  best  blood  it  is  a  sin  to  spill.' 

'  Comfort  thyself,'  said  x\rthur,  '  I  nor 

mine 
Rest :  so  my  knighthood  keep  the  vows 

they  swore. 
The  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm  shall 

be 
Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this  hall. 
What  is  thy  name?  thy  need?' 

Y 


'  My  name?  '  she  said  — 
'  Lynette  my  name;   noble;   my  need,  a 

knight 
To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 
A  lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands, 
And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than  my- 
self. 
She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous  :  a  river 
Runs   in    three    loops    about   her   living 

place; 
And  o'er  it  are  three  passings,  and  three 

knights 
Defend    the    passings,   brethren,   and    a 

fourth 
And    of   that    four  the    mightiest,  holds 

her  stayed 
In  her  own  castle,  and  so  besieges  her 
To  break   her  will,  and   make  her  wed 

with  him : 
And  but  delays  his  purport  till  thou  send 
To  do  the  battle  with  him,  thy  chief  man 
Sir    Lancelot  whom    he   trusts   to  over- 
throw. 
Then  wed,  with  glory:  but  she  will  not 

wed 
Save  whom  she  loveth,  or  a  holy  life. 
Now  therefore  have  I  come  for  Lancelot.' 

Then   Arthur    mindful    of   Sir  Gareth 

ask'd, 
'  Damsel,  ye   know  this  Order   lives   to 

crush 
All  wrongers    of  the    Realm.     But  say, 

these  four. 
Who    be    they  ?     What  the    fashion    of 

the  men? ' 

*  They  be  of  foolish  fashion,  O  Sir  King, 
The  fashion  of  that  old  knight-errantry 
Who  ride  abroad,  and  do  but  what  they 

will; 
Courteous  or   bestial  from  the  moment, 

such 
As  have  nor  law  nor  king;   and  three  of 

these 
Proud    in    their    fantasy  call  themselves 

the  Day, 
Morning-Star,  and  Noon-Sun,  and  Even- 
ing-Star, 
Being   strong   fools;    and    never  a  whit 

more  wise 
The  fourth,  who  always  rideth  arm'd  in 

black, 


322 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


A  huge  man-beast  of  boundless  sav- 
agery. 

He  names  himself  the  Night  and  oftener 
Death, 

And  wears  a  helmet  mounted  with  a 
skull, 

And  bears  a  skeleton  figured  on  his 
arms. 

To  show  that  who  may  slay  or  scape  the 
three, 

Slain  by  himself,  shall  enter  endless  night. 

And  all  these  four  be  fools,  but  mighty 
men, 

And  therefore  am  I  come  for  Lancelot.' 

Hereat   Sir  Gareth  call'd  from  where 

he  rose, 
A    head  with    kindling   eyes   above   the 

throng, 
'A  boon,  Sir  King  —  this  quest!'  then 

—  for  he  mark'd 
Kay  near  him  groaning  like  a  wounded 

bull  — 
'Yea,  King,  thou    knowest  thy  kitchen 

knave  am  I, 
And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks 

.  am  I, 
And  I  can  topple  over  a  hundred  such. 
Thy   promise,    King,'  and  Arthur   glan- 
cing at  him. 
Brought     down     a     momentary     brow. 

'  Rough,  sudden, 
And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight  — 
Go    therefore,'    and    all    hearers    were 

amazed. 

But  on  the  damsel's  forehead  shame, 
pride,  wrath 

Slew  the  May-white :  she  lifted  either 
arm, 

'  Fie  on  thee.  King  !  I  ask'd  for  thy  chief 
knight, 

And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a  kitchen- 
knave.' 

Then  ere  a  man  in  hall  could  stay  her, 
turn'd, 

Fled  down  the  lane  of  access  to  the  King, 

Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street, 
and  past 

The  weird  white  gate,  and  paused  with- 
out, beside 

The  field  of  tourney,  murmuring  '  kitchen- 
knave.' 


Now  two  great  entries  open'd  from  the 

hall. 
At  one  end  one,  that  gave  upon  a  range 
Of  level  pavement  where  the  King  would 

pace 
At  sunrise,  gazing  over  plain  and  wood; 
And  down   from   this  a   lordly  stairway 

sloped 
Till    lost    in  blowing   trees   and  tops  of 

towers ; 
And  out  by  this  main  doorway  past  the 

King. 
But  one  was  counter  to  the  hearth,  and 

rose 
High  that  the  highest-crested  helm  could 

ride 
Therethro'  nor  graze :    and  by  this  entry 

fled 
The  damsel  in  her  wrath,  and  on  to  this 
Sir  Gareth  strode,  and  saw  without  the 

door 
King  Arthur's  gift,  the  worth  of  half  a 

town, 
A  warhorse  of  the  best,  and  near  it  stood 
The  two  that  out  of  north  had  foUow'd 

him : 
This   bare    a   maiden   shield,  a  casque; 

that  held 
The  horse,  the  spear;   whereat  Sir  Ga- 
reth loosed 
A  cloak  that  dropt  from  collar-bone  to 

heel, 
A   cloth    of  roughest  web,   and    cast    it 

down, 
And  from  it  like  a  fuel-smother'd  fire, 
That  lookt  half-dead,  brake  bright,  and 

flash'd  as  those 
Dull-coated   things,    that    making    slide 

apart 
Their  dusk  wing-cases,  all  beneath  there 

burns 
A  jewell'd  harness,  ere  they  pass  and  fly. 
So  Gareth  ere  he  parted  flash'd  in  arms. 
Then  as  he  donn'd  the  helm,  and  took 

the  shield 
And  mounted  horse  and  graspt  a  spear, 

of  grain 
Storm-strengthen'd  on  a  windy  site,  and 

tipt 
With  trenchant  steel,  around  him  slowly 

prest 
The    people,  while  from  out  of  kitchen 

came 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who 
had  work'd 

Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they  could 
but  love, 

Mounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  caps  and 
cried, 

'  God  bless  the  King,  and  all  his  fellow- 
ship !  ' 

And  on  thro'  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth 
rode 

Down  the  slope  street,  and  past  without 
the  gate. 

So  Gareth  past  with  joy;  but  as  the  cur 
Pluckt  from  the  cur  he  fights  with,  ere  his 

cause 
Be    cool'd    by     fighting,     follows,    being 

named. 
His  owner,  but  remembers  all,  and  growls 
Remembering,  so  Sir  Kay  beside  the  door 
Mutter'd  in  scorn  of  Gareth  whom  he  used 
To  harry  and  hustle. 

*  Bound  upon  a  quest 
With  horse  and   arms  —  the  King  hath 

past  his  time  — 
My  scullion  knave  !    Thralls  to  your  work 

again, 
For  an  your  fire  be  low  ye  kindle  mine  ! 
Will  there  be  dawn  in  West  and  eve  in 

East? 
Begone  !  —  my  knave  !  —  belike  and  like 

enow 
Some  old  head-blow  not  heeded  in  his 

youth 
So  shook   his  wits    they  wander   in    his 

prime  — 
Crazed!     How  the  villain  lifted  up   his 

voice. 
Nor  shamed  to  bawl  himself  a  kitchen- 
knave. 
Tut:  h.e  was  tame  and  meek  enow  with 

me, 
Till  peacock'd  up  with  Lancelot's  noticing. 
Well  —  I  will  after  my  loud  knave,  and 

learn 
Whether  he  know  me  for  his  master  yet. 
Out  of  the  smoke  he  came,  and  so  my 

lance 
Hold,  by  God's  grace,  he  shall  into  the 

mire  — 
Thence,  if  the  King  awaken  from  his  craze, 
Into  the  smoke  again.' 


But  Lancelot  said, 
'  Kay,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go  against  the 

King, 
For  that  did  never  he  whereon  ye  rail, 
But  ever  meekly  served  the  King  in  thee? 
Abide  :   take  counsel;  for  this  lad  is  great 
And  lusty,  and  knowing  both  of  lance  and 

sword.' 
'Tut,   tell    not   me,'    said    Kay,  'ye    are 

overfine 
To  mar  stout  knaves  with  foolish  courte- 
sies :  ' 
Then  mounted,  on  thro'  silent  faces  rode 
Down  the  slope  city,  and  out  beyond  the 
gate. 

But  by  the  field  of  tourney  lingering  yet 
Mutter'd  the  damsel,  '  Wherefore  did  the 

King 
Scorn  me?  for,  were  Sir  Lancelot  lackt, 

at  least 
He  might  have  yielded  to  me  one  of  those 
Who  tilt  for  lady's  love  and  glory  here. 
Rather   than  —  O  sweet  heaven  !    O  fie 

upon  him  — 
His  kitchen-knave.' 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew 
(And  there  were  none  but  few  goodlier 

than  he) 
Shining  in  arms,  '  Damsel,  the  quest  is 

mine. 
Lead,  and  I  follow.'     She  thereat,  as  one 
That  smells  a  foul-flesh'd  agaric  in  the 

holt. 
And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  woodland 

thing, 
Or  shrew,  or  weasel,   nipt    her  slender 

nose 
With  petulant  thumb  and  finger,  shrilling, 

'  Hence ! 
Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen-grease. 
And  look  who  comes  behind,'  for  there 

was  Kay. 
'  Knowest  thou  not  me?   thy  master?  I 

am  Kay. 
We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth.' 

And  Gareth  to  him, 
'  Master  no  more  !  too  well  I  know  thee, 

ay  — 
The  most    ungentle    knight    in  Arthur's 

hall.' 


324 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


'  Have    at    thee    then,'    said    Kay :    they 

shock'd,  and  Kay 
Fell    shoulder-slipt,    and     Gareth     cried 

again, 
'  Lead,  and  I  follow,'  and  fast  away  she 

fled. 

But  after  sod  and  shingle  ceased  to  fly 
Behind  her,  and  the  heart  of  her  good  horse 
Was  nigh  to  burst  with  violence  of  the  beat. 
Perforce  she  stay'd,  and  overtaken  spoke. 

'What    doest    thou,    scullion,    in   my 

fellowship? 
Deem'st  thou  that  I  accept  thee  aught  the 

more 
Or  love  thee  better,  that  by  some  device 
Full  cowardly,  or  by  mere  un happiness, 
Thou    hast    overthrown    and   slain    thy 

master  —  thou  !  — 
Dish-washer  and  broach-turner,  loon  !  — 

to  me 
Thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen  as  before.' 

'Damsel,'  Sir  Gareth  answer'd  gently, 
'  say 
Whate'er  ye  will,  but  whatsoe'er  ye  say, 
I  leave  not  till  I  finish  this  fair  quest, 
Or  die  therefore.' 

'Ay,  wilt  thou  finish  it? 
Sweet  lord,  how  like  a  noble  knight  he 

talks ! 
The  listening  rogue  hath  caught  the  man- 
ner of  it. 
But,  knave,  anon  thou  shalt  be  met  with, 

knave, 
And  then  by  such  a  one  that  thou  for  all 
The  kitchen  brewis  that  was  ever  supt 
Shalt  not  once  dare  to  look  him  in  the 
face.' 

'  I  shall  assay,'  said  Gareth  with  a  smile 
That  madden'd  her,  and  away  she  flash'd 

again 
Down  the  long  avenues  of  a  boundless 

wood, 
And  Gareth  following  was  again  beknaved. 

'  Sir  Kitchen-knave,  I  have  miss'd  the 
only  way 
Where  Arthur's  men  are  set    along  the 
wood; 


The  wood  is    nigh  as  full  of  thieves  as 

leaves : 
If  both  be  slain,  I  am  rid  of  thee;   but 

yet, 
Sir  Scullion,  canst  thou  use  that  spit  of 

thine? 
Fight,  an  thou  canst :  I  have  miss'd  the 

only  way.' 

So   till   the   dusk   that    follow'd   even- 
song 
Rode  on  the  two,  reviler  and  reviled; 
Then  after  one  long  slope  was  mounted, 

saw, 
Bowl-shaped,  thro'  tops  of  many  thousand 

pines 
A  gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 
To  westward  —  in  the  deeps  whereof  a 

mere, 
Round  as  the  red  eye  of  an  Eagle-owl, 
Under  the  half-dead  sunset  glared;   and 

shouts 
Ascended,    and    there    brake    a    serving 

man 
Flying  from  out  of  the  black  wood,  and 

crying, 
'They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast  him  in 

the  mere.' 
Then  Gareth,  '  Bound  am  I  to  right  the 

wrong'd. 
But  straitlier  bound  am  I  to  bide  with 

thee.' 
And  when  the  damsel  spake  contempt- 
uously, 
'  Lead,  and  I  follow,'  Gareth  cried  again, 
'  Follow,  I  lead  ! '  so  down    among   the 

pines 
He  plunged;   and  there,  blackshadow'd 

nigh  the  mere, 
And    mid-thigh-deep    in   bulrushes    and 

reed, 
Saw  six  tall  men  haling  a  seventh  along, 
A  stone   about  his  neck  to  drown  him 

in  it. 
Three  with  good  blows  he  quieted,  but 

three 
Pled  thro'  the  pines;    and  Gareth  loosed 

the  stone 
From  off  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere  beside 
Tumbled  it;   oilily  bubbled  up  the  mere. 
Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on  free 

feet 
Set  him,  a  stalwart  Baron,  Arthur's  friend. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


325 


'  Well   that    ye    came,    or    else    these 

caitiff  rogues 
Had  wreak'd  themselves  on  me;    good 

cause  is  theirs 
To  hate  me,  for  my  wont  hath  ever  been 
To  catch  my  thief,  and  then  like  vermin 

here 
Drown  him,  and  with  a  stone  about  his 

neck; 
And  under  this  wan  water  many  of  them 
Lie  rotting,  but  at  night  let  go  the  stone, 
And  rise,  and  flickering  in  a  grimly  light 
Dance  on  the  mere.     Good  now,  ye  have 

saved  a  life 
Worth  somewhat  as  the  cleanser  of  this 

wood. 
And  fain  would  I  reward  thee  worship- 
fully. 
What  guerdon  will  ye  ? ' 

Gareth  sharply  spake, 
'  None  1  for  the  deed's  sake  have  I  done 

the  deed, 
In  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King. 
But  wilt  thou  yield  this  damsel  harbour- 
age?' 

Whereat   the   Baron    saying,   '  I   well 

believe 
You  be  of  Arthur's  Table,'  a  light  laugh 
Broke  from  Lynette, '  Ay,  truly  of  a  truth. 
And   in  a  sort,  being  Arthur's  kitchen- 
knave  !  — 
But   deem  not  I  accept  thee  aught  the 

more. 
Scullion,    for   running   sharply  with    thy 

spit 
Down  on  a  rout  of  craven  foresters. 
A  thresher  with    his  flail   had   scatter'd 

them. 
Nay — for   thou  smellest  of  the  kitchen 

still. 
But  an  this  lord  will  yield  us  harbourage, 

well.' 

So  she  spake.     A  league  beyond  the 

wood. 
All  in  a  full-fair  manor  and  a  rich. 
His  towers  where  that  day  a  feast  had 

been 
Held  in  high  hall,  and  many  a  viand  left. 
And   many  a    costly  cate,    received    the 

three. 


And  there  they  placed  a  peacock  in  his 

pride 
Before  the  damsel,  and  the  Baron  set 
Gareth  beside  her,  but  at  once  she  rose. 

'  Meseems,  that  here  is  much  dis- 
courtesy, 

Setting  this  knave,  Lord  Baron,  at  my 
side. 

Hear  me  —  this  morn  I  stood  in  Arthur's 
hall, 

And  pray'd  the  King  would  grant  me 
Lancelot 

To  fight  the  brotherhood  of  Day  and 
Night  — 

The  last  a  monster  unsubduable 

Of  any  save  of  him  for  whom  I  call'd  — 

Suddenly  bawls  this  frontless  kitchen- 
knave, 

"The  quest  is  mine;  thy  kitchen-knave 
am  I, 

And  mightv  thro'  thv  meats  and  drinks 
am  i." 

Then  Arthur  all  at  once  gone  mad 
replies, 

"  Go  therefore,"  and  so  gives  the  quest 
to  him  — 

Him  —  here  —  a  villain  fitter  to  stick 
s\\ine 

Than  ride  abroad  redressing  woman's 
wrong. 

Or  sit  beside  a  noble  gentlewoman.' 

Then  half-ashamed  and   part-amazed, 
the  lord 
Now  look'd  at  one  and  now  at  other,  left 
The  damsel  by  the  peacock  in  his  pride, 
And,  seating  Gareth  at  another  board. 
Sat  down  beside  him,  ate  and  then  began. 

'  Friend,    whether    thou    be    kitchen- 
knave,  or  not. 
Or  whether  it  be  the  maiden's  fantasy, 
And  whether    she  be  mad,  or    else   the 

King, 
Or  both  or  neither,  or  thyself  be  mad, 
I  ask  not :    but  thou    strikest    a  strong 

stroke. 
For  strong  thou    art  and    goodly  there- 
withal, 
And  saver  of  my  life ;    and  therefore  now. 
For  here  be  mighty  men  to  joust  with, 
weigh 


326 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Whether  thou  wilt  not  with  thy  damsel 

back 
To  crave  again  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  King. 
Thy  pardon ;    I  hut  speak  for  thine  avail, 
The  saver  of  my  life.' 

And  Gareth  said, 
'  Full  pardon,  but  I  follow  up  the  quest, 
Despite  of  Day  and  Night  and    Death 
and  Hell.' 

So  when,  next  morn,  the  lord  whose 

life  he  saved 
Had,  some  brief  space,  convey'd  them  on 

their  way 
And  left  them  with  God-speed,  Sir  Gareth 

spake, 
'Lead,    and    I  follow.'      Haughtily   she 

replied, 

'I  fly  no  more  :    I  allow  thee  for   an 

hour. 
Lion    and    stoat    have    isled    together, 

knave. 
In    time    of   flood.       Nay,    furthermore, 

methinks 
Some  ruth  is  mine  for  thee.     Back  wilt 

thou,  fool? 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  will  overthrow 
And  slay  thee  :  then  will  I  to  court  again, 
And  shame   the  King  for  only  yielding 

me 
My    champion    from    the    ashes    of    his 

hearth.' 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer'd  cour- 
teously, 

'  Say  thou  thy  say,  and  I  will  do  my 
deed. 

Allow  me  for  mine  hour,  and  thou  wilt 
find 

My  fortunes  all  as  fair  as  hers  who  lay 

Among  the  ashes  and  wedded  the  King's 
son.' 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those  long 

loops 
Wherethro'  the  serpent  river  coil'd,  they 

came. 
Rough-thicketed    were    the    ])anks    and 

steep;  the  stream 
Full,  narrow;  this  a  bridge  of  single  arc 
Took  at  a  leap;  and  on  the  further  side 


Arose  a  silk  pavilion,  gay  with  gold 

In  streaks  and  rays,  and  all  Lent-lily  in 

hue. 
Save    that    the    dome    was    purple,    and 

above, 
Crimson,  a  slender  banneret  fluttering. 
And     therebefore    the    lawless    warrior 

paced 
Unarm' d,  and  calling, '  Damsel,  is  this  he, 
The    champion   thou  hast  brought  from 

Arthur's  hall? 
For    whom    we    let   thee    pass.'     '  Nay, 

nay,'  she  said, 
'  Sir  Morning-Star.     The  King  in  utter 

scorn 
Of  thee  and  thy  much  folly  hath  sent  thee 

here 
His   kitchen-knave :   and   look    thou   to 

thyself: 
See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly. 
And  slay  thee  unarm'd :  he  is  not  knight 

but  knave.' 

Then  at  his  call,  '  O  daughters  of  the 
Dawn, 

And  servants  of  the  Morning-Star,  ap- 
proach, 

Arm  me,'  from  out  the  silken  curtain- 
folds 

Bare-footed  and  bare-headed  three  fair 
girls 

In  gilt  and  rosy  raiment  came:  their  feet 

In  dewy  grasses  glisten'd;  and  the  hair 

All  over  glanced  with  dewdrop  or  with 
gem 

Like  sparkles  in  the  stone  Avanturine. 

These  arm'd  him  in  blue  arms,  and  gave 
a  shield 

Blue  also,  and  thereon  the  morning  star. 

And  Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the  knight. 

Who  stood  a  moment,  ere  his  horse  was 
brought, 

Glorying;  and  in  the  stream  beneath 
him,  shone 

Immingled  with  Heaven's  azure  waver- 

The  gay  pavilion  and  the  naked  feet, 
His  arms,  the  rosy  raiment,  and  the  star. 

Tli^n  she  that  watch'd  him,  '  Where- 
fore stare  ye  so? 
Thou    shakest  in  thy  fear :  there  yet  is 
time : 


G ARE  Til  AND  LYNETTE. 


327 


Flee  down    the  valley  before  he  get  to 

horse. 
Who    will    cry   shame?      Thou    art    not 

knight  but  knave.' 

Said  Gareth,  '  Damsel,  whether  knave 

or  knight, 
Far  liefer  had  I  tight  a  score  of  times 
Then  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  revile. 
Fair  words  were  best  for  him  who  fights 

for  thee ; 
But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they  send 
That  strength  of  anger  thro'  mine  arms, 

I  know 
That  I  shall  overthrow  him.' 

And  he  that  bore 
The  star,  when  mounted,  cried  from  o'er 

the  bridge, 
*  A  kitchen-knave,  and  sent  in  scorn  of 

me  ! 
Such  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn  with 

scorn. 
For  this  were  shame  to  do  him  further 

wrong 
Than  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  take  his 

horse 
And   arms,   and   so    return    him    to   the 

King. 
Come,  therefore,  leave  thy  lady  lightly, 

knave. 
Avoid :  for  it  beseemeth  not  a  knave 
To  ride  with  such  a  lady.' 

*  Dog,  thou  liest. 
I  spring  from  loftier  lineage  than  thine 

own.' 
He  spake;  and  all  at  fiery  speed  the  two 
Shock'd  on  the  central  bridge,  and  either 

spear 
Bent  but  not  brake,  and  either  knight  at 

once, 
Hurl'd  as  a  stone  from  out  of  a  catapult 
Beyond    his    horse's    crupper    and    the 
,  bridge. 

Fell,  as    if  dead;   but  quickly  rose  and 

drew, 
And  Gareth    lash'd    so  fiercely  with  his 

brand 
He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down  the 

bridge, 
The      damsel      crying,      '  Well-stricken, 

kitchen-knave ! ' 


Till  Gareth's  shield  was  cloven;   but  one 

stroke 
Laid  him  that  clove  it  grovelling  on  the 

ground. 

Then  cried   the  fall'n,  '  Take  not  my 

life:   I  yield.' 
And  Gareth, '  So  this  damsel  ask  it  of  me 
Good  —  I  accord  it  easily  as  a  grace.' 
She  reddening,  '  Insolent  scullion :   I  of 

thee? 
I  bound  to  thee  for  any  favour  ask'd !  ' 
'  Then  shall  he  die.'     And  Gareth  there 

unlaced 
His    helmet    as    to    slay    him,    but   she 

shriek'd, 
'  Be  not  so  hardy,  scullion,  as  to  slay 
One  nobler  than  thyself.'     'Damsel,  thy 

charge 
Is  an  abounding  pleasure  to  me.    Knight, 
Thy  life  is  thine  at  her  command.     Arise 
And  quickly  pass  to  Arthur's  hall,  and 

say 
His  kitchen-knave  hath  sent  thee.     See 

thou  crave 
His    pardon    for    thy    breaking    of    his 

laws. 
Myself,    when    I    return,  will   plead    for 

thee. 
Thy    shield     is    mine  —  farewell;     and, 

damsel,  thou, 
Lead,  and  I  follow.' 

And  fast  away  she  fled. 
Then  when    he  came  upon    her,  spake, 

'  Methought, 
Knave,  when  I  watch'd  thee  striking  on 

the  bridge 
The   savour   of  thy  kitchen  came   upon 

me 
A    little    faintlier :     but    the    wind    hath 

changed : 
I  scent  it  twenty-fold.'     And    then    she 

sang, 
'  "  O  morning  star  "  (not  that  tall  felon 

there 
Whom  thou  by  sorcery  or  unhappiness 
Or  some  device,  hast  foully  overthrown), 
•'  O  morning  star  that  smilest  in  the  blue, 
0  star,  my  morning  dream  hath  proven 

true, 
Smile  sweetly,  thou  I  my  love  hath  smiled 

on  me." 


328 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


'  But  thou  begone,  take  counsel,  and 

Ten  thousand-fold  had  grown,  flash'd  the 

away. 

fierce  shield, 

For  hard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a 

All   sun;    and   Gareth's  eyes  had  flying 

ford  — 

blots 

The  second  brother  in  their  fool's  para- 

Before them  when  he  turn'd  from  watch- 

ble- 

ing  him. 

Will  pay  thee  all  thy  wages,  and  to  boot. 

He    from    beyond   the    roaring    shallow 

Care  not  for  shame :  thou  art  not  knight 

roar'd. 

but  knave.' 

'  What  doest  thou,  brother,  in  my  marches 

here?' 
And    she    athwart    the    shallow    shrill'd 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer'd  laugh- 

ingly, 

again, 

*  Parables?     Hear  a  parable  of  the  knave. 

'  Here  is  a  kitchen-knave  from  Arthur's 

When  I  was  kitchen-knave  among   the 

hall 

rest 

Hath  overthrown  thy  brother,  and  hath 

Fierce  was  the    hearth,  and  one  of  my 

his  arms.' 

co-mates 

*  Ugh  ! '  cried  the  Sun,  and  vizoring  up  a 

Own'd  a  rough  dog,  to  whom  he  cast  his 

red 

coat. 

And  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolishness, 

"  Guard  it,"  and  there  was  none  to  med- 

Push'd horse  across  the  foamings  of  the 

dle  with  it. 

ford, 

And  such  a  coat  art  thou,  and  thee  the 

Whom  Gareth  met  midstream :  no  room 

King 

was  there 

Gave  me  to  guard,  and  such  a  dog  am  I, 

For  lance  or  tourney-skill  :  four  strokes 

To  worry,  and  not  to  flee  —  and  —  knight 

they  struck 

or  knave  — 

With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty;  the 

The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as  full 

new  knight 

knight 

Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed;  but  as  the 

Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 

Sun 

Toward  thy  sister's  freeing.' 

Heaved  up  a  ponderous  arm  to  strike  the 

fifth, 

'  Ay,  Sir  Knave  ! 

The  hoof  of  his  horse  slipt  in  the  stream, 

Ay,  knave,  because    thou   strikest    as   a 

the  stream 

knight. 

Descended,    and    the    Sun    was   wash'd 

Being   but   knave,  I    hate  thee   all   the 

away. 

more.' 

Then  Gareth  laid  his  lance  athvi'art  the 

*  Fair  damsel,  you  should  worship  me 

ford; 

the  more, 

So  drew  him  home;   but  he  that  fought 

That,  being   but    knave,  I    throw    thine 

no  more. 

enemies.' 

As  being  all  bone-batter'd  on  the  rock. 

Yielded;    and    Gareth    sent   him    to  the 

'  Ay,  ay,'  she  said, '  but  thou  shalt  meet 

King. 

thy  match.' 

'  Myself  when    I    return  will   plead   for 

thee.' 
'  Lead,  and  I  follow.'     Quietly  she  led. 

So  when  they  touch'd  the  second  river- 

loop. 

'  Hath    not    the    good     wind,     damsel. 

Huge  on  a  huge  red  horse,  and  all  in  mail 

changed    again?' 

Burnish'd  to  blinding,  shone  the  Noon- 

' Nay,  not  a  point :    nor  art  thou  victor 

day  Sun 

here. 

Beyond   a   raging   shallow.      As    if  the 

There  lies  a  ridge  of  slate  across  the  ford ; 

flower, 

His  horse  thereon  stumbled  —  ay,  for  I 

That  blows  a  globe  of  after  arrowlets, 

saw  it. 

GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


329 


•"O  Sun"  (not  this  strong  fool  whom 

thou,  Sir  Knave, 
Hast  overthrown  thro'  mereunhappiness), 
"O    Sun,    that  wakenest  all  to    bliss  or 

pain, 
O  moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again, 
Shine    sweetly :     twice    my    love    hath 

smiled  on  me." 

*  What  knowest  thou  of  lovesong  or  of 

love  ? 
Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thou  wert  nobly 

born, 
Thou   hast    a   pleasant    presence.     Yea, 

perchance,  — 

* "  O  dewy  flowers  that   open  to  the 

sun, 
O  dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is 

done, 
Blow  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled 

on  me." 

*  What  knowest  thou  of  flowers,  except, 

belike. 
To   garnish    meats  with?    hath   not    our 

good  King 
Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of  kitchen- 

dom, 
A  foolish  love  for  flowers?  what  stick  ye 

round 
The  pasty?  wherewithal  deck  the  boar's 

head? 
Flowers?  nay,  the  boar  hath  rosemaries 

and  bay. 

* "  O  birds,  that  warble  to  the  morning 

sky, 
O  birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes  by. 
Sing  sweetly  :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled 

on  me." 

*  What   knowest    thou  of  birds,  lark, 

mavis,  merle, 
Linnet?  what  dream  ye  when  they  utter 

forth 
May-music   growing   with    the    growing 

light, 
Their  sweet  sun-worship?    these  be   for 

the  snare 
(So  runs  thy  fancy),  these  be  for  the  spit. 
Larding    and    basting.      See   thou   have 

not  now 


Larded  thy  last,  except   thou  turn  and 

fly. 
There    stands    the    third   fool   of    their 

allegory.' 

For  there  beyond  a  bridge   of  treble 

bow, 
All  in  a  rose-red  from  the  west,  and  all 
Naked    it   seem'd,   and    glowing  in   the 

broad 
Deep-dimpled    current    underneath,    the 

knight. 
That  named  himself  the  Star  of  Evening, 

stood. 

And    Gareth,    '  Wherefore    waits    the 

madman  there 
Naked  in  open   dayshine?'     'Nay,'  she 

cried, 
'  Not  naked,  only  wrapt  in  harden'd  skins 
That  fit  him  like   his  own;    and  so  ye 

cleave 
His  armour  off  him,  these  will  turn  the 

blade.' 

Then  the   third  brother  shouted   o'er 

the  bridge, 
*  O  brother-star,   why  shine  ye  here  so 

low? 
Thy  ward  is  higher  up  :  but  have  ye  slain 
The  damsel's  champion?  '  and  the  damsel 

cried, 

*  No  star  of  thine,  but  shot  from  Arthur's 

heaven 
With  all  disaster  unto  thine  and  thee  ! 
For  both  thy  younger  brethren  have  gone 

down 
Before  this  youth;   and  so  wilt  thou,  Sir 

Star; 
Art  thou  not  old?' 

*  Old,  damsel,  old  and  hard, 

Old,  with  the  might  and  breath  of  twenty 

boys.' 
Said    Gareth,    '  Old,    and    over-bold    in 

brag! 
But  that  same  strength  \a  hich  threw  the 

Morning  Star 
Can  throw  the  Evening.' 

Then  that  other  blew 
A  hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  horn. 


330 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


'  Approach    and    arm    me  !  '     With  slow 

steps  from  out 
An  old  storm-beaten,  russet,  many-stain'd 
Pavilion,  forth  a  grizzled  damsel  came, 
And  arm'd  him  in  old  arms,  and  brought 

a  helm 
With  but  a  drying  evergreen  for  crest, 
And  gave  a  shield  whereon  the  Star  of 

Even 
Half-tarnish'd  and  half-bright,  his  em- 
blem, shone. 
But  when  it  glitter'd  o'er  the  saddle-bow, 
They  madly  hurl'd  together  on  the  bridge ; 
And  Gareth  overthrew  him,  lighted,  drew, 
There  met  him  drawn,  and  overthrew  him 

again, 
But  up  like  fire  he  started :  and  as  oft 
As  Gareth  brought  him  grovelling  on  his 

knees. 
So  many  a  time  he  vaulted  up  again; 
Till  Gareth   panted  hard,  and  his  great 

heart. 
Foredooming  all  his  trouble  was  in  vain, 
Labour'd  within  him,  for  heseem'd  as  one 
That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins 
To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a  life. 
But  these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and  cry, 
'Thou  hast  made  us  lords,  and  canst  not 

put  us  down  ! ' 
He  half  despairs;    so  Gareth  seem'd  to 

strike 
Vainly,thedamsel  clamouringall  the  while, 
'  Well  done,  knave-knight,  well  stricken, 

O  good  knight-knave  — 
O   knave,   as    noble    as    any    of    all    the 

knights  — 
Shame  me  not,  shame  me  not.     I  have 

prophesied  — 
Strike,    thou   art    worthy    of    the   Table 

Round  — 
His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  harden'd 

skin  — 
Strike  —  strike  —  the    wind    will     never 

change  again.' 
And  Gareth  hearing  ever  stronglier  smote, 
And  hew'd  great  pieces  of  his  armour  off 

him, 
But  lash'd  in  vain  against  the  harden'd 

skin, 
And  could  not  wholly  bring  liim  undt-r, 

more 
Than  loud   Southwestenis,  rolling   ridge 

on  ridge, 


The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  and  dips  and 

springs 
For  ever;  till  at  length  Sir  Gareth's  brand 
Clash'd  his,  and  brake  it  utterly  to  the 

hilt. 
'  I  have  thee  now;  '  but  forth  that  other 

sprang. 
And,  all  unknightlike,  writhed  his  wiry 

arms 
Around  him,  till  he  felt,  despite  his  mail, 
Strangled,   but   straining   ev'n  his  utter- 
most 
Cast,  and  so  hurl'd  him  headlong  o'er  the 

bridge 
Down   to   the   river,  sink   or  swim,  and 

cried, 
'  Lead,  and  I  follow.' 

But  the  damsel  said, 
'  I  lead  no  longer;   ride  thou  at  my  side; 
Thou  art   the  kingliest   of  all   kitchen- 
■  knaves. 

' "  O    trefoil,    sparkling   on   the   rainy 

plain, 
O  rainbow  with  three  colours  after  rain, 
Shine    sweetly  :    thrice    my    love    hath 

smiled  on  me." 

'Sir,  —  and,   good   faith,    I    fain    had 

added  —  Knight, 
But    that    I    heard    thee    call    thyself    a 

knave,  — 
Shamed  am  I  that  I  so  rebuked,  reviled, 
Missaid  thee;   noble  I  am;   and  thought 

the  King 
Scorn'd    me    and    mine;     and    now    thy 

pardon,  friend. 
For  thou  hast  ever  answer'd  courteously. 
And    wholly    bold    thou    art,  and   meek 

withal 
As  any  of  Arthur's  best,  but,  being  knave, 
Hast  mazed  my  wit :   I  marvel  what  thou 

art.' 

'  Damsel,'  he  said,  '  you  be  not  all  to 

l)lame. 
Saving   that   you    mistrusted    our    good 

King 
Would  handle  scorn,  or  yield  you,  asking, 

one 
Not    lit    to   coiH'    your  (juest.      \'ou  said 

your  say; 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


2Z^ 


Mine    answer    was    my    deed.        Good 

sooth  1  I  hold 
He  scarce  is  knight,  yea  but  half-man, 

nor  meet 
To  fight  for  gentle  damsel,  he,  who  lets 
His  heart  be  stirr'd  with  any  foolish  heat 
At  any  gentle  damsel's  waywardness. 
Shamed !     care    not  I     thy    foul    sayings 

fought  for  me  : 
And  seeing  now  thy  words  are  fair,  me- 

thinks 
There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot,  his 

great  self. 
Hath  force  to  quell  me.' 

Nigh  upon  that  hour 
When  the  lone  hern  forgets  his  melan- 
choly. 
Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretching, 

dreams 
Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool, 
Then  turn'd  the  noble  damsel  smiling  at 

him, 
And  told  him  of  a  cavern  hard  at  hand, 
Where  bread  and  baken  meats  and  good 

red  wine 
Of  Southland,  which  the  Lady  Lyonors 
Had  sent  her  coming  champion,  waited 
him. 

Anon  they  past  a  narrow  comb  wherein 

Were  slabs  of  rock  with  figures,  knights 
on  horse 

Sculptured,  and  deckt  in  slowly-waning 
hues. 

*  Sir  Knave,  my  knight,  a  hermit  once 
was  here, 

Whose  holy  hand  hath  fashion'd  on  the 
rock 

The  war  of  Time  against  the  soul  of  man. 

And  yon  four  fools  have  suck'd  their  alle- 
gory 

From  these  damp  walls,  and  taken  but 
the  form. 

Know  ye  not  these?'  and  Gareth  lookt 
and  read  — 

In  letters  like  to  those  the  vexillary 

Hath  left  crag-carven  o'er  the  streaming 
Gelt  — 

'  Phosphorus,'  then  '  M kki i )i ks  '  — '  Hes- 
perus '  — 

'  X<^x  ' —  '  Mors,'  beneath  five  figures, 
armed  men. 


Slab  after  slab,  their  faces  forward  all, 
And  running  down  the  Soul,  a  Shape  that 

fled 
With    broken  wings,   torn   raiment   and 

loose  hair. 
For  help  and  shelter  to  the  hermit's  cave. 
'  Follow  the  faces,  and  we  find  it.    Look, 
Who  comes  behind  ! ' 

For  one  —  delay'd  at  first 
Thro'  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 
To   Camelot,    then    by    what    thereafter 

chanced, 
The   damsel's  headlong  error  thro'   the 

wood  — 
Sir    Lancelot,    having   swum    the    river- 
loops  — 
His  blue  shield-lions  cover'd  —  softly  drew 
Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw  the 

star 
Gleam,  on  Sir  Gareth's  turning  to  him, 

cried, 
'  Stay,  felon  knight,  I  avenge  me  for  my 

friend.' 
And  Gareth  crying  prick'd  against  the  cry; 
But  when  they  closed  —  in  a  moment  —  at 

one  touch 
Of  that  skill'd  spear,  the  wonder  of  the 

world  — 
Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell, 
That  when  he  found  the  grass  within  his 

hands 
He    laugh'd;    the    laughter  jarr'd    upon 

Lynette : 
Harshly  she  ask'd  him, '  Shamed  and  over- 
thrown, 
And  tumbled  back  into  the  kitchen-knave, 
Why  laugh  ye?  that  ye  blew  your  boast 

in  vain?  ' 
'Nay,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the  son 
Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  Belli- 

cent, 
And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford, 
And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  lie  thrown  by 

whom 
I  know  not,  all  thro'  mere  unhappiness  — 
Device  and  sorcery  and  unhappiness  — 
Out,    sword;    we    are    thrown!'      And 

Lancelot  answer'd  '  Prince, 
O  Gareth  —  thro'  the  mere  unhappiness 
(Jf  one  who  came  to  help  thee,  not  to  harm, 
Lancelot,  and  all  as  glad  to  find  thee  whole. 
As  on  the  dav  when  Arthur  knighted  him.' 


332 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Then    Gareth,    '  Thou  —  Lancelot !  — 

thine  the  hand 
'  That  threw  me  ?    And  some  chance  to  mar 

the  boast 
Thy  brethren  of  thee  make  —  which  could 

not  chance  — 
Had    sent    thee    down    before   a   lesser 

spear, 
Shamed  had  I  been,  and  sad — O  Lancelot 

—  thou !  ' 

Whereat  the  maiden,  petulant, '  Lance- 
lot, 
Why   came   ye    not,    when    call'd?   and 

wherefore   now 
Come  ye,  not   call'd?     I  gloried  in  my 

knave. 
Who  being  still  rebuked,  would  answer 

still 
Courteous  as  any  knight  —  but    now,   if 

knight. 
The   marvel  dies,  and  leaves  me  fool'd 

and  tricked, 
And    only   wondering   wherefore   play'd 

upon : 
And  doubtful   whether    I    and   mine    be 

scorn'd. 
Where  should  be  truth  if  not  in  Arthur's 

hall, 
In  Arthur's   presence?     Knight,  knave, 

prince  and  fool, 
I  hate  thee  and  for  ever.' 

And  Lancelot  said, 
'  Blessed   be   thou,    Sir   Gareth !   knight 

art  thou 
To  the  King's  best  wish.     O  damsel,  be 

you  wise 
To  call  him   shamed,  who  is  but   over- 
thrown? 
Thrown  have  I  been,  nor  once,  but  many 

a  time. 
Victor  from  vanquish'd  issues  at  the  last, 
And  overthrower  from  being  overthrown. 
With  sword  we  have  not  striven;  and  thy 

good  horse 
And  thou  are  weary;   yet  not  less  I  felt 
Thy  manhood  thro'  that  wearied    lance 

of  thine. 
Well  hast  thou  done;    for  all  the  stream 

is  freed. 
And  thou  hast  wreak'd  his  justice  on  his 

foes, 


And  when  reviled,  hast  answer'd  gra- 
ciously. 

And  makest  merry  when  overthrown. 
Prince,  Knight, 

Hail,  Knight  and  Prince,  and  of  our 
Table  Round ! ' 

And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette  he 
told 
The  tale  of  Gareth,  petulantly  she  said, 

*  Ay  well  —  ay  well  —  for  worse  than  being 

fool'd 
Of  others,  is  to  fool  one's  self.     A  cave. 
Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats  and 

drinks 
And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for  fire. 
But  all  about  it  flies  a  honeysuckle. 
Seek,    till    we    find.'      And    when    they 

sought  and  found. 
Sir  Gareth  drank  and  ate,  and  all  his  life 
Past  into   sleep;    on  whom   the    maiden 

gazed. 
'  Sound  sleep  be  thine  !  sound  cause  to 

sleep  hast  thou. 
Wake  lusty  !    Seem  I  not  as  tender  to  him 
As  any  mother?     Ay,  but  such  a  one 
As  all  day  long  hath  rated  at  her  child, 
And  vext  his  day,  but  blesses  him  asleep — 
Good  lord,  how  sweetly  smells  the  honey- 
suckle 
In  the  hush'd  night,  as  if  the  world  were 

one 
Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentleness  ! 
O  Lancelot,  Lancelot '  —  and  she  clapt 

her  hands  — 

*  Full  merry  am  I  to  find  my  goodly  knave 
Is  knight  and   noble.     See   now,  sworn 

have  I, 

Else  yon  black  felon  had  not  let  me  pass. 

To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle  with 
him. 

Thus  an  thou  goest,  he  will  fight  thee  first ; 

Who  doubts  thee  victor?  so  will  my 
knight-knave 

Miss  the  full  flower  of  this  accomplish- 
ment.' 

Said  Lancelot,  '  Peradventure  he,  you 

name. 
May  know  my  shield.     Let  Gareth,  an 

he  will, 
Cliange  his  for  mine,  and  take  my  charger, 

fresh, 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


333 


Not  to  be  spurr'd,  loving  the  battle  as  well 
As  he  that  rides  him.'     '  Lancelot-like,' 
she  said, 

*  Courteous  in  this.  Lord  Lancelot,  as  in 

all.' 

And  Gareth,  wakening,  fiercely  clutch'd 
the  shield; 

*  Ramp  ye  lance-splintering  lions,  on  whom 

all  spears 
Are  rotten  sticks  !  ye  seem  agape  to  roar  ! 
Yea,  ramp  and  roar  at  leaving  of  your 

lord  !  — 
Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  well  I  care  for 

you. 

0  noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold  on  these 
Streams  virtue  —  fire  —  thro'  one  that  will 

not  shame 
Even  the  shadow  of  Lancelot  under  shield. 
Hence  :  let  us  go.' 

Silent  the  silent  field 
They    traversed.       Arthur's     harp     tho' 

summer- wan. 
In  counter  motion  to  the  clouds,  allured 
The  glance  of  Gareth   dreaming  on  his 

liege. 
A  star  shot :   '  Lo,'  said  Gareth,  '  the  foe 

falls ! ' 
An  owl  whoopt :  *  Hark  the  victor  peal- 
ing there  ! ' 
Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 
Clung  to  the   shield   that   Lancelot  lent 

him,  crying, 
'  Yield,  yield  him  this  again  :   'tis  he  must 
fight : 

1  curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro'  yesterday 
Reviled    thee,    and    hath    wrought    on 

Lancelot  now 
To  lend  thee  horse  and  shield :  wonders 

ye  have  done; 
Miracles  ye"  cannot :  here  is  glory  enow 
In   having   flung  the   three  :   I  see   thee 

maim'd, 
Mangled :    I  swear  thou  canst  not  fling 

the  fourth.' 

'And  wherefore,  damsel?   tell  me  all 

ye  know. 
You  cannot  scare  me;   nor  rough  face,  or 

voice. 
Brute  bulk  of  limb,  or  boundless  savagery 
Appall  me  from  the  quest.' 


'Nay,  Prince,'  she  cried, 
'  God  wot,  I  never  look'd  upon  the  face, 
Seeing  he  never  rides  abroad  by  day; 
But  watch'd  him  have  I  like  a  phantom 

pass 
Chilling  the  night :  nor  have  I  heard  the 

voice. 
Always  he  made  his  mouthpiece  of  a  page 
Who  came  and  went,  and  still  reported 

him 
As  closing  in  himself  the  strength  of  ten. 
And  when  his  anger  tare  him,  massacring 
Man,  woman,  lad  and  girl  —  yea,  the  soft 

babe  ! 
Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallow'd  infant 

flesh. 
Monster !     O  Prince,  I  went  for  Lancelot 

first. 
The  quest  is  Lancelot's :  give  him  back 

the  shield.' 

Said  Gareth  laughing,  '  An  he  fight  for 
this. 
Belike  he  wins  it  as  the  better  man : 
Thus  —  and  not  else  ! ' 

But  Lancelot  on  him  urged 
All  the  devisings  of  their  chivalry 
When  one  might  meet  a  mightier  than 

himself; 
How  best  to  manage  horse,  lance,  sword 

and  shield, 
And  so  fill  up  the  gap  where  force  might 

fail 
With   skill   and  fineness.     Instant  were 

his  words. 

Then  Gareth,  *  Here  be  rules.     I  know 

but  one  — 
To    dash    against    mine    enemy   and    to 

win. 
Yet  have  I  watch'd  thee  victor  in   the 

joust. 
And  seen  thy  way.'    *  Heaven  help  thee,' 

sigh'd  Lynette. 

Then  for  a  space,  and  under  cloud  that 

grew 
To  thunder-gloom  palling  all  stars,  they 

rode 
In  converse  till  she  made  her  palfrey  halt. 
Lifted    an    arm,    and    softly    vvhisper'd, 

'There.' 


334 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And    all    the    three    were    silent    seeing, 

pitch'd 
Beside  the  Castle  Perilous  on  flat  field, 
A  huge  pavilion  like  a  mountain  peak 
Sunder    the    glooming    crimson    on    the 

marge. 
Black,  with    black   banner,   and  a   long 

black  horn 
Beside   it   hanging;    which    Sir   Gareth 

graspt. 
And  so,  before  the  two  could  hinder  him, 
Sent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro'  all  the 

horn. 
Echo'd  the  walls;   a  light  twinkled;  anon 
Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again 

he  blew; 
Whereon  were  hollow  tramplings  up  and 

down 
And  muffled  voices  heard,  and  shadows 

past; 
Till  high   above    him,   circled  with   her 

maids, 
The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a  window  stood, 
Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to  him 
White   hands,  and  courtesy;    but  when 

the  Prince 
Three  times  had  blown  —  after  long  hush 

—  at  last  — 
The  huge  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up, 
Thro'   those  black  foldings,  that  which 

housed  therein. 
High  on  a  nightblack  horse,  in  nightblack 

arms, 
With  white  breast-bone,  and  barren  ribs 

of  Death, 
And   crown'd  with   fleshless   laughter  — 

some  ten  steps  — 
In  the  half-light  —  thro'  the  dim  dawn  — 

advanced 
The  monster,  and  then  paused,  and  spake 

no  word. 

But  Gareth  spake  and  all  indignantly, 
'  Fool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the  strength 

of  ten, 
Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy  God 

hath  given. 
But  must,  to  make  the  terror  of  thee  more. 
Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 
Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with,  and 

the  clod, 
Less    dull    than     thou,    will     hide    with 

mantling  flowers 


As  if  for  pity?'     But  he  spake  no  word; 
Which  set  the  horror  higher  :  a  maiden 

svvoon'd; 
The  Lady  Lyonors  wrung  her  hands  and 

wept. 
As  doom'd  to  be  the  bride  of  Night  and 

Death; 
Sir  Gareth's  head  prickled  beneath  his 

helm; 
And   ev'n   Sir   Lancelot   thro'   his  warm 

blood  felt 
Ice  strike,  and  all  that  mark'd  him  were 

aghast. 

At  once  vSir  Lancelot's  charger  fiercely 

neigh'd. 
And    Death's    dark    war-horse    bounded 

forward  with  him. 
Then  those  that  did  not  blink  the  terror, 

saw 
That   Death    was    cast    to    ground,    and 

slowly  rose. 
But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split  the 

skull. 
Half  fell  to  right  and  half  to   left  and 

lay. 
Then  with  a  stronger  buffet  he  clove  the 

helm 
As  throughly  as  the  skull;   and  out  from 

this 
Issued    the    bright    face   of  a   blooming 

boy 
Fresh  as  a  flower  new-born,  and  crying, 

'  Knight, 
Slay  me  not :  my  three  brethren  bade  me 

do  it. 
To  make  a  horror  all  about  the  house, 
And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyonors. 
They  never  dream'd  the  passes  would  be 

past.' 
Answer'd  Sir  Gareth  graciously  to  one 
Not  many  a  moon  his  younger,  *  My  fair 

child. 
What  madness  made  thee  challenge  the 

chief  knight 
Of  xVrthur's  hall?'     '  Fair  Sir,  they  bade 

me  do  it. 
They  hate  the  King,  and  Lancelot,  the 

King's  friend. 
They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere  on 

the  stream, 
'Phey  never  dream'tl  the  passes  could  be 

past.' 


THE  MARRIAGE    OF  GERAINT. 


335 


Then    sprang   the    happier    day    from 

underground; 
And  Lady  Lyonors  and  her  house,  with 

dance 
And  revel  and   song,   made  merry  over 

Death, 
As  being  after  all  their  foolish  fears 
And  horrors  only  proven  a  blooming  boy. 
So  large  mirth  lived  and  Gareth  won  the 

quest. 

And  he  that  told  the  tale  in  older  times 
Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyonors, 
But  he,  that  told  it  later,  says  Lynette. 

THE   MARRLAGE   OF   GERAINT. 

The  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's 

court, 
A  tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 
Of  that  great  Order  of  the  Table  Round, 
Had  married  Enid,  Yniol's  only  child, 
And  loved  her,  as  he  loved  the  light  of 

Heaven. 
And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies,  now 
At  sunrise,  now  at  sunset,  now  by  night 
With  moon  and  trembling  stars,  so  loved 

Geraint 
To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  by  day. 
In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in  gems. 
And  Enid,  but  to  please  her  husband's 

eye, 
Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in  a 

state 
Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted  him 
In  some  fresh  splendour;  and  the  Queen 

herself. 
Grateful    to    Prince    Geraint   for   service 

done, 
Loved  her,  and  often  with  her  own  white 

hands 
Array'd  and  deck'd  her,  as  the  loveliest. 
Next  after  her  own  self,  in  all  the  court. 
And  Enid  loved  the  Queen,  and  with  true 

heart 
Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the  best 
And  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 
And  seeing  them  so  tender  and  so  close. 
Long   in   their    common    love    rejoiced 

Geraint. 
But    when    a    rumour    rose    about    the 

Queen, 
Touching  her  guilty  love  for  Lancelot, 


Tho'  yet  there  lived  no   proof,  nor   yet 

was  heard 
The  world's  loud  whisper  breaking  into 

storm. 
Not  less  Geraint  believed  it;   and  there 

fell 
A  horror  on  him,  lest  his  gentle  wife, 
Thro'  that  great  tenderness  for  Guinevere, 
Had  sufter'd,  or  should  suffer  any  taint 
In  nature  :   wherefore  going  to  the  King, 
He  made  this  pretext,  that  his  princedom 

lay 
Close  on  the  borders  of  a  territory. 
Wherein  were   bandit    earls,  and    caitiff 

knights. 
Assassins,  and  all  flyers  from  the  hand 
Of  Justice,  and  whatever  loathes  a  law  : 
And    therefore,    till    the    King    himself 

should  please 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  his 

realm, 
He  craved  a  fair  permission  to  depart, 
And  there  defend  his  marches;   and  the 

King, 
Mused  for  a  little  on  his  plea,  but,  last, 
Allowing  it,  the  Prince  and  Enid  rode. 
And  fifty  knights  rode  w'ith  them,  to  the 

shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 

land; 
Where,  thinking,  that  if  ever  yet  was  wife 
True  to  her  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to  me, 
He  compass'd  her  with  sweet  observances 
And  worship,  never  leaving  her,  and  grew 
Forgetful  of  his  promise  to  the  King, 
Forgetful  of  the  falcon  and  the  hunt, 
Forgetful  of  the  tilt  and  tournament. 
Forgetful  of  his  glory  and  his  name, 
Forgetful  of  his  princedom  and  its  cares. 
And  this  forgetfulness  was  hateful  to  her. 
And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they 

met 
In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  companies. 
Began  to  scoff  and  jeer  and  babble  of  him 
As  of  a  prince  whose  manhood  was  all 

gone, 
And  molten  down  in  mere  uxoriousness. 
And  this  she  gather'd  from  the  people's 

eyes : 
This   too    the    women    who    attired    her 

head. 
To  please  her,  dwelling  on  his  boundless 

love, 


336 


THE   MARRIAGE    OF  GERAINT. 


Told  Enid,  and  they  sadden'd   her   the 

more  : 
And  day  by  day  she  thought  to  tell  Geraint, 
But  could  not  out  of  bashful  delicacy; 
While  he  that  watched  her  sadden,  was 

the  more 
Suspicious  that  her  nature  had  a  taint. 

At  last,  it  chanced  that  on  a  summer 

morn 
(They  sleeping  each  by  either)  the  new 

sun 
Beat  thro'  the  blindless  casement  of  the 

room, 
And    heated   the   strong  warrior    in    his 

dreams; 
Who,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet  aside, 
And   bared  the  knotted   column   of  his 

throat, 
The  massive  square  of  his  heroic  breast. 
And  arms  on  which  the  standing  muscle 

sloped, 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone. 
Running  too  vehemently  to  break  upon  it. 
And  Enid  woke  and  sat  beside  the  couch. 
Admiring  him,  and  thought  within  herself, 
Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as  he? 
Then,  like  a  shadow,  past  the  people's  talk 
And  accusation  of  uxoriousness 
Across  her  mind,  and  bowing  over  him. 
Low  to  her  own  heart  piteously  she  said : 

*  O  noble  breast  and  all-puissant  arms. 
Am  I  the  cause,  I  the  poor  cause  that  men 
Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force  is 

gone? 
I  am  the  cause,  because  I  dare  not  speak 
And  tell  him  what  I  think  and  what  they 

say. 
And  yet  I  hate  that  he  should  linger  here ; 
I  cannot  love  my  lord  and  not  his  name. 
Far  liefer  had  I  gird  his  harness  on  him. 
And  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand  by. 
And  watch    his    mightful  hand   striking 

great  blows 
At  caitiffs  and  at  wrongers  of  the  world. 
Far  better  were  I  laid  in  the  dark  earth, 
Not  hearing  any  more  his  noble  voice. 
Not  to  be  folded  more  in  these  dear  arms, 
And  darken'd  from  the  high  light  in  his 

eyes, 
Than  that  my  lord  thro'  me  should  suffer 

shame. 


Am  I  so  bold,  and  could  I  so  stand  by, 
And  see  my  dear  lord  wounded  in  the 

strife. 
Or  maybe  pierced  to  death  before  mine 

eyes. 
And  yet  not  dare  to  tell  him  what  I  think, 
And  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  his  force 
Is  melted  into  mere  effeminacy? 

0  me,  I  fear  that  I  am  no  true  wife.' 

Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she  spoke, 
And  the  strong  passion  in  her  made  her 

weep 
True    tears  upon  his   broad   and  naked 

breast. 
And  these  awoke  him,  and  by  great  mis- 
chance 
He  heard  but  fragments  of  her  later  words, 
And  that  she  fear'd  she  was  not  a  true 

wife. 
And  then  he  thought,  '  In  spite  of  all  my 

care, 
For  all  my  pains,  poor  man,  for  all  my 

pains, 
She  is  jiot  faithful  to  me,  and  I  see  her 
Weeping  for  some  gay  knight  in  Arthur's 

hall.' 
Then  tho'  he  loved  and  reverenced  her 

too  much 
To  dream  she  could  be  guilty  of  foul  act. 
Right  thro'  his  manful  breast  darted  the 

pang 
That  makes  a  man,  in  the  sweet  face  of 

her 
Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  miser- 
able. 
At  this  he  hurl'd  his  huge   limbs  out  of 

bed. 
And  shook  his  drowsy  squire  awake  and 

cried, 
'My  charger  and  her  palfrey;  '  then  to 

her, 
'  I  will  ride  forth  into  the  wilderness; 
For  tho'  it  seems  my  spurs    are  yet  to 

win, 

1  have  not  fall'n  so  low  as  some  would 

wish. 
And  thou,  put  on  thy  worst  and  meanest 

dress 
And   ride  with    me.'     And   Enid    ask'd, 

amazed, 
'  If  Enid  errs,  let  Enid  learn  her  fault.' 
But  he, '  I  charge  thee,  ask  not,  but  obey.' 


THE  MARRIAGE    OF  GERAINT. 


337 


Then  she  bethought  her  of  a  faded  silk, 
A  faded  mantle  and  a  faded  veil, 
And  moving  toward  a  cedarn  cabinet, 
Wherein  she  kept  them  folded  reverently 
With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between  the 

folds, 
She    took    them,    and    array'd     herself 

therein, 
Remembering  when  first  he  came  on  her 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 

her  in  it, 
And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress, 
And  all  his  journey  to  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 

court. 

For  Arthur  on  the  Wliitsuntide  before 
Held  court  at  old  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There  on  a  day,  he  sitting  high  in  hall, 
Before  him  came  a  forester  of  Dean, 
Wet    from    the  woods,  with  notice  of  a 

hart 
Taller  than  all  his  fellows,  milky-white, 
First  seen  that  day  :  these  things  he  told 

the  King. 
Then  the  good  King  gave  order  to  let 

blow 
His  horns  for  hunting  on   the  morrow 

morn. 
And  when  the  Queen  petition'd  for  his 

leave 
To  see  the  hunt,  allow'd  it  easily. 
So  with  the  morning  all  the  court  were 

gone. 
But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  morn. 
Lost  in  sweet  dreams,  and  dreaming  of 

her  love 
For  Lancelot,  and  forgetful  of  the  hunt; 
But  rose  at  last,  a  single  maiden  with  her. 
Took  horse,  and  forded  Usk,  and  gain'd 

the  wood; 
There,  on  a  little  knoll  beside  it,  stay'd 
Waiting  to  hear  the  hounds;   but  heard 

instead 
A    sudden   sound    of  hoofs,    for   Prince 

Geraint, 
Late  also,  wearing  neither  hunting-dress 
Nor  weapon,  save  a  golden-hilted  brand. 
Came  quickly  flashing  thro'  the  shallow 

ford 
Behind    them,  and    so    gallop'd    up  the 

knoll. 
A  purple  scarf,  at  either  end  whereof 

z 


There  swung  an  apple  of  the  purest  gold, 
Sway'd  round  about  him,  as  he  gallop'd 

To  join  them,  glancing  like  a  dragon-fly 
In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 
Low  bow'd  the  tributary  Prince,  and  she, 
Sweetly  and  statelily,  and  with  all  grace 
Of  womanhood  and  queenhood,  answer'd 

him  : 
'Late,  late,  Sir  Prince,' she  said,  Mater 

than  we  !  ' 
'Yea,  noble    Queen,'  he  answer'd,  'and 

so  late 
That  I  but  come  like  you  to  see  the  hunt, 
Not  join  it.'     '  Therefore  wait  with  me,' 

she  said ; 
'  For  on  this  little  knoll,  if  anywhere. 
There  is  good  chance  that  we  shall  hear 

the  hounds : 
Here  often  they  break  covert  at  our  feet.' 

And  while  they  listen'd  for  the  distant 

hunt. 
And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 
King  Arthur's  hound  of  deepest  mouth, 

there  rode 
Full  slowly  by  a  knight,  lady,  and  dwarf; 
W^hereof  the  dwarf  lagg'd  latest,  and  the 

knight 
Had   vizor    up,    and    show'd  a  youthful 

face. 
Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  lineaments. 
And  Guinevere,  not  mindful  of  his  face 
In  the  King's  hall,  desired  his  name,  and 

sent 
Her  maiden  to  demand  it  of  the  dwarf; 
Who  being  vicious,  old  and  irritable, 
And   doubling   all  his   master's   vice  of 

pride. 
Made  answer  sharply  that  she  should  not 

know. 
'  Then  will  I  ask  it  of  himself,'  she  said. 
'  Nay,  by  my  faith,  thou  shalt  not,'  cried 

the  dwarf; 
'  Thou  art  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak  of 

him;' 
And  when  she  put  her  horse  toward  the 

knight, 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  re- 
turn'd 
Indignant  to  the  Queen;  whereat  Geraint 
Exclaiming,     '  Surely    I    will    learn    the 

name,' 


I 


338 


THE  MARRIAGE    OF  GERAINT. 


Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask'd  it 

of  him, 
Who  answer'd  as  before;   and  when  the 
,  Prince 

Had  put  his  horse  in  motion  toward  the 

knight, 
Struck  at  him  with  his  whip,  and  cut  his 

cheek. 
The  Prince's  blood  spirted  upon  the  scarf, 
Dyeing  it;  and  his  quick,  instinctive  hand 
Caught  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him : 
But  he,  from  his  exceeding  manfulness 
And  pure  nobility  of  temperament, 
Wroth  to  be  wroth  at  such  a  worm,  re- 

frain'd 
From  ev'n  a  word,  and  so  returning  said  : 

'  I  will  avenge  this  insult,  noble  Queen, 
Done  in  your  maiden's  person  to  yourself : 
And   I    will   track    this  vermin  to  their 

earths : 
For  tho'  I  ride  unarm'd,  I  do  not  doubt 
To  find,  at  some  place  I  shall  come  at, 

arms 
On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge;   and,  being 

found. 
Then  will  I  fight  him,  and  will  break  his 

pride, 
And  on  the  third  day  will  again  be  here, 
So  that  I  be  not  fall'n  in  fight.   Farewell.' 

'Farewell,  fair   Prince,'  answer'd   the 

stately  Queen. 
*Be  prosperous  in  this  journey,  as  in  all; 
And  may  you  light  on  all  things  that  you 

love, 
And  live  to  wed  with  her  whom  first  you 

love : 
But  ere   you   wed  with  any,  bring  your 

bride, 
And  I,  were  she  the  daughter  of  a  king. 
Yea,  tho'  she  were  a  beggar   from  the 

hedge, 
Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like  the 

sun.' 

And  Prince  Geraint,  now  thinking  that 

he  heard 
The  noble  hart  at  bay,  now  the  far  horn, 
A  little  vext  at  losing  of  the  hunt, 
A  little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode. 
By  ups  and  downs,  thro'  many  a  grassy 

glade 


And   valley,  with   fixt   eye  following  the 

three. 
At   last   they  issued  from    the  world   of 

wood. 
And  climb'd  upon  a  fair  and  even  ridge, 
And  show'd  themselves  against  the  sky, 

and  sank. 
And  thither  came  Geraint,  and    under- 
neath 
Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In  a  long  valley,  on  one  side  whereof. 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  a  fortress 

rose; 
And  on  one  side  a  castle  in  decay, 
Beyond   a    bridge    that    spann'd   a    dry 

ravine  : 
And  out  of  town  and  valley  came  a  noise 
As  of  a  broad  brook  o'er  a  shingly  bed 
Brawling,  or  like  a  clamour  of  the  rooks 
At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the  night. 

And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the 

three. 
And  enter'd,  and  were  lost  behind  the 

walls. 
'  So,'    thought    Geraint, '  I   have   track'd 

him  to  his  earth.' 
And  down  the  long  street  riding  wearily. 
Found  every  hostel  full,  and  everywhere 
Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the  hot 

hiss 
And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth  who 

scour'd 
His  master's  armour;   and  of  such  a  one 
He  ask'd,  '  What  means    the    tumult   in 

the  town?' 
Who     told     him,     scouring    still,    'The 

sparrow-hawk ! ' 
Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient  churl, 
Who,  smitten  by  the  dusty  sloping  beam. 
Went    sweating    underneath    a    sack   of 

corn, 
Ask'd   yet    once    more  what  meant    the 

hubbub  here? 
Who  answer'd  gruffly, '  Ugh  !  the  sparrow- 
hawk.' 
Then  riding  further  past  an  armourer's. 
Who,  with  back  turn'd,  and  bow'd  above 

his  work, 
Sat  riveting  a  helmet  on  his  knee, 
He  put  the  self-same  query,  but  the  man 
Not  turning  round,  nor  looking  at  him, 

said : 


THE  MARRIAGE    OF  GERAINT. 


339 


'  Friend,  he  that  labours  for  the  sparrow- 
hawk 

Has  Httle  time  for  idle  questioners.' 

Whereat  Geraint  flash'd  into  sudden 
spleen : 

'  A  thousand  pips  eat  up  vour  sparrow- 
hawk  ! 

Tits,  wrens,  and  all  wing'd  nothings  peck 
him  dead  ! 

Ve  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  your  bourg 

The  murmur  of  the  world  I  What  is  it 
to  me? 

O  wretched  set  of  sparrows,  one  and  all, 

Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow- 
hawks  I 

Speak,  if  ye  be  not  like  the  rest,  hawk- 
mad, 

Where  can  I  get  me  harbourage  for  the 
night? 

And  arms,  arms,  arms  to  tight  my  enemy? 
Speak  ! ' 

W'hereat  the  armourer  turning  all  amazed 

And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks. 

Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in 
hand 

And  answer'd,  '  Pardon  me,  O  stranger 
knight; 

We  hold  a  tourney  here  to-morrow  morn, 

And  there  is  scantly  time  for  half  the  work. 

Arms?  truth!  I  know  not:  all  are 
wanted  here. 

Harbourage?  truth,  good  truth,  I  know 
not,  save, 

It  may  be,  at  Earl  Yniol's,  o'er  the  bridge 

Yonder.'  He  spoke  and  fell  to  work 
again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a  little    spleenful 

yet. 
Across  the  bridge  that  spann'd  the  dry 

ravine. 
There  rhusing  sat  the  hoary-headed  Earl, 
(His  dress  a  suit  of  fray'd  magnificence. 
Once    fit    for    feasts    of   ceremony)    and 

said  : 
'  Whither,  fair    son  ?  '  to   whom    Geraint 

replied, 
'O  friend,  I  seek  a  harbourage  for  the 

night.' 
Then  Yniol,  '  Enter  therefore  and  partake 
The  slender  entertainment  of  a  house 
Once    rich,    now    poor,   but    ever    open- 

door'd.' 


*  Thanks,  veneraVile  friend,'  replied 
-    Geraint; 

'  So  that  ye  do  not  serve  me  sparrow- 
hawks 

For  supper,  I  will  enter,  I  will  eat 

With  all  the  passion  of  a  twelve  hours' 
fast.' 

Then  sigh'd  and  smiled  the  hoary-headed 
Earl, 

And  answer'd,  '  Graver  cause  than  yours 
is  mine 

To  curse  this  hedgerow'  thief,  the  sparrow- 
hawk  : 

But  in,  go  in ;   for  save  yourself  desire  it. 

We  will  not  touch  upon  him  ev'n  in  jest.' 

Then  rode  Geraint  into  the  castle  court. 
His  charger  trampling  many  a  prickly  star 
Of  sprouted  thistle  on  the  broken  stones. 
He  look'd  and  saw  that  all  was  ruinous. 
Here  stood  a  shatter'd  archway  plumed 

with  fern; 
And   here    had    fall'n  a  great  part  of  a 

tower, 
Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from  the 

cHff, 
And  like    a   crag  was  gay  with  wilding 

flowers : 
And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair. 
Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  silent, 

wound 
Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy-stems, 
Claspt   the  gray  walls  with   hairy-fibred 

arms. 
And  suck'd  the  joining  of  the  stones,  and 

look'd 
A  knot,  beneath,  of  snakes,  aloft,  a  grove. 

And  while  he  waited  in  the  castle  court. 
The  voice  of  Enid,  Yniol's  daughter,  rang 
Clear  thro'  the  open  casement  of  the  hall, 
Singing;   and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a  bird, 
Heard  by  the  lander  in  a  lonely  isle. 
Moves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird  it  is 
That  sings  so  delicately  clear,  and  make 
Conjecture  of  the  plumage  and  the  form  : 
So  the  sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved  Geraint ; 
And  made  him  like  a  man  abroad  at  morn 
When  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of  men 
Conies  flying  over  many  a  windy  wave 
To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 
Breaks  from  a  coppice  gemm'd  with  green 
and  red, 


340 


THE  MARRIAGE    OF  GERAINT. 


And    he    suspends    his    converse  with   a 

friend, 
Or  it  may  be  the  labour  of  his  hands, 
To  think  or  say, '  There  is  the  nightingale ; ' 
So  fared  it  with    Geraint,  who    thought 

and  said, 
*  Here,  by  God's  grace,  is  the  one  voice 

for  me.' 

It  chanced  the  song  that    Enid   sang 
was  one 
Of   Fortune    and   her   wheel,    and    Enid 
sang : 

'Turn,  Fortune,   turn    thy  wheel   and 

lower  the  proud; 
Turn    thy    wild    wheel    thro'    sunshine, 

storm,  and  cloud; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor 

hate. 

'Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with 

smile  or  frown; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or 

down; 
Our    hoard    is    little,  but  our  hearts  are 

great. 

*  Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many 

lands; 
Frown  and  we   smile,  the   lords   of  our 

own  hands; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

'  Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring 

crowd ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the 

cloud; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor 

hate.' 

*  Hark,  by  the  bird's  song  ye  may  learn 

the  nest,' 
Said  Yniol;    'enter    quickly.'      Entering 

then, 
Right  o'er  a  mount  of  newly-fallen  stones. 
The  dusky-rafter'd  many-cobwebb'd  hall. 
He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim  bro- 
cade; 
And  near  her,  like    a    blossom  vermeil- 
white. 
That  lightly  breaks  a  faded  flower-sheath, 
Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded  silk, 


Her  daughter.     In    a    moment    thought 

Geraint, 
'  Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for 

me.' 
But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary 

Earl : 
'  Enid,  the  good  knight's  horse  stands  in 

the  court; 
Take  him  to  stall,  and  give  him  corn,  and 

then 
Go  to  the  town   and   buy  us    flesh    and 

wine ; 
And  we  will  make  us  merry  as  we  may. 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our   hearts   are 

great.' 

He  spake :    the  Prince,  as  Enid  past 
him,  fain 
To  follow^  strode  a  stride,  but  Yniol  caught 
His  purple  scarf,  and  held,  and  said, '  For- 
bear ! 
Rest !  the  good  house,  tho'  ruin'd,  O  my 

son. 
Endures  not  that  her  guest  should  serve 

himself.' 
And  reverencing  the  custom  of  the  house 
Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forbore. 

So  Enid  took  his  charger  to  the  stall; 
And  after  went  her  way  across  the  bridge, 
And  reach'd    the    town,   and  while   the 

Prince  and  Earl 
Yet  spoke  together,  came  again  with  one, 
A  youth,  that  following  with  a  costrel  bore 
The  means  of  goodly  welcome,  flesh  and 

wine. 
And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to  make 

them  cheer. 
And  in  her  veil  enfolded,  manchet  bread. 
And  then,  because  their  hall  must  also 

serve 
For  kitchen,  boil'd  the  flesh,  and  spread 

the  board, 
And  stood  behind,   and  waited   on    the 

three. 
And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  serviceable, 
Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermore 
To  stoop  and  kiss  the  tender  little  thumb. 
That  crost  the  trencher  as  she  laid  it  down  : 
But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Geraint, 
For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his 

veins, 
Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  rest 


THE  MARRIAGE    OF  GERAINT. 


341 


On  Enid  at  her  lowly  handmaid-work, 
Now  here,  now  there,  about  the   dusky 

hall; 
Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoary  Earl  : 

'  Fair  Host  and  Earl,  I  pray  your  cour- 
tesy; 
This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he?  tell  me 

of  him. 
His  name?  but  no,  good  faith,  I  will  not 

have  it : 
For  if  he  be  the  knight  whom  late  I  saw 
Ride  into  that  new  fortress  by  your  town, 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  then  have 

I  sworn 
From   his   own   lips   to   have  it  —  I  am 

Geraint 
Of  Devon  —  for  this  morning  when  the 

Queen 
Sent   her   own   maiden   to   demand    the 

name, 
His  dwarf,  a  vicious  under-shapen  thing, 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  re- 

turn'd 
Indignant  to  the  Queen ;  and  then  I  swore 
That  I  would  track  this  caitiff  to  his  hold, 
And  fight  and  break  his  pride,  and  have 

it  of  him. 
And  all  unarm'd  I  rode,  and  thought  to 

find 
Arms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men  are 

mad; 
They    take   the    rustic   murmur  of  their 

bourg 
For  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round  the 

world ; 
They  would  not  hear  me  speak  :  but  if  ye 

know 
Where  I  can  light  on  arms,  or  if  yourself 
Should  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  I  have 

sworn 
That  I  will  break  his  pride  and  learn  his 

name. 
Avenging    this    great    insult    done    the 

Queen.' 

Then  cried  Earl  Yniol,  '  Art   thou  he 

indeed, 
Geraint,  a  name  far-sounded  among  men 
For  noble  deeds?  and  truly  I,  when  first 
I  saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the  bridge. 
Felt  ye  were  somewhat,  yea,  and  by  your 

state 


And  presence  might  have  guess'dyouone 

of  those 
That  eat  in  Arthur's  hall  at  Camelot. 
Nor  speak  I  now  from  foolish  flattery; 
For  this  dear  child  hath  often  heard  me 

praise 
Your  feats  of  arms,   and  often  when   I 

paused 
Hath  ask'd  again,  and  ever  loved  to  hear; 
So  grateful  is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 
To  noble    hearts   who    see    but    acts    of 

wrong : 

0  never  yet  had  woman  such  a  pair 

Of  suitors  as  this  maiden;    first  Limours, 
A  creature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and 

wine, 
Drunk  even  when  he  woo'd;   and  be  he 

dead 

1  know  not,  but  he  past  to  the  wild  land. 
The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow- 
hawk, 

My  curse,  my  nephew  —  I  will  not  let  his 

name 
Slip  from  my  lips  if  I  can  help  it  —  he. 
When  I  that  knew  him  fierce  and  turbu- 
lent 
Refused  her  to  him,  then  his  pride  awoke ; 
And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the 

mean, 
He  sow'd  a  slander  in  the  common  ear, 
Affirming  that  his  father  left  him  gold, 
And  in  my  charge,  which  was  not  ren- 

der'd  to  him; 
Bribed  with  large  promises  the  men  who 

served 
About  my  person,  the  more  easily 
Because  my  means  were  somewhat  broken 

into 
Thro'  open  doors  and  hospitality; 
Raised  my  own  town  against  me  in  the 

night 
Before  my   Enid's    birthday,   sack'd   my 

house; 
From  mine  own  earldom  foully   ousted 

me; 
Built  that  new  fort  to  overawe  my  friends. 
For  truly  there  are  those  who  love  me 

And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle  here. 
Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me  soon 

to  death, 
But  that  his  pride  too  much  despises  me  : 
And  I  myself  sometimes  despise  myself; 


342 


THE  MARRIAGE    OF  G  ERA  INT. 


For  I  have  let  men  be,  and  have  their  way; 
Am  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used  my 

power : 
Nor  know  I  whether  I  be  very  base 
Or  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 
Or  very  foolish;   only  this  I  know, 
That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 
I  seem  to  suffer  nothing  heart  or  limb, 
But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently.' 

'  Well 'said,  true  heart,'  replied  Geraint, 

'  but  arms. 
That  if  the  sparrow-hawk,  this  nephew, 

fight 
In  next  day's  tourney  I  may  break  his 

pride.' 

AndYniol  answer'd,  'Arms,  indeed,  but 
old 
And  rusty,  old  and  rusty.  Prince  Geraint, 
Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  thine  asking, 

thine. 
But  in  this  tournament  can  no  man  tilt, 
Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be  there. 
Two    forks    are    fixt    into    the    meadow 

ground, 
And  over  these  is  placed  a  silver  wand, 
And  over  that  a  golden  sparrow-hawk, 
The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest  there. 
And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in  field 
Lays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his  side. 
And  tilts  with  my  good  nephew  there- 
upon. 
Who  being  apt  at  arms  and  big  of  bone 
Has  ever  won  it  for  the  lady  with  him. 
And  toppling  over  all  antagonism 
Has  earn'd  himself  the  name  of  sparrow- 
hawk. 
But  thou,  that  hast  no  lady,  canst  not 
fight.' 

To  whom  Geraint  with  eyes  all  bright 
replied. 
Leaning  a  little  toward  him,  '  Thy  leave  ! 
Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  O  noble  host, 
For  this  dear  child,  because  I  never  saw, 
Tho'  having  seen  all  beauties  of  our  time, 
Nor  can  see  elsewhere,  anything  so  fair. 
And  if  I  fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 
Untarnish'd  as  before;   but  if  I  live, 
So  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  utter- 
most, 
As  I  will  make  her  truly  my  true  wife.' 


Then,  howsoever  patient,  Yniol's  heart 
Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  better  days. 
And   looking   round    he    saw    not    Enid 

there, 
(Who  hearing  her  own  name  had  stol'n 

away) 
But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  full  tenderly 
And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  his  he  said, 
'  Mother,  a  maiden  is  a  tender  thing. 
And  best  by   her  that  bore  her  under- 
stood. 
Go  thou  to  rest,  but  ere  thou  go  to  rest 
Tell  her,  and  prove  her  heart  toward  the 
Prince.' 

So  spake  the  kindly-hearted  Earl,  and 

she 
With  frequent  smile  and  nod  departing 

found. 
Half  disarray'd  as  to  her  rest,  the  girl; 
Whom  first  she  kiss'd  on  either  cheek, 

and  then 
On  either  shining  shoulder  laid  a  hand 
And  kept  her   off  and  gazed  upon  her 

face. 
And  told   her  all   their  converse  in  the 

hall. 
Proving  her  heart:   but  never  light  and 

shade 
Coursed    one    another    more    on    open 

ground 
Beneath  a  troubled  heaven,  than  red  and 

pale 
Across  the  face  of  Enid  hearing  her; 
While  slowly  falling  as  a  scale  that  falls. 
When  weight    is   added    only   grain    by 

grain, 
Sank   her   sweet  head  upon  her  gentle 

breast; 
Nor  did  she  lift  an  eye  nor  speak  a  word, 
Rapt  in  the  fear  and  in  the  wonder  of  it; 
So  moving  without  answer  to  her  rest 
She  found  no  rest,  and  ever  fail'd  to  draw 
The  quiet  night  into  her  blood,  but  lay 
Contemplating  her  own  unworthiness; 
And  when  the   pale  and   bloodless  east 

began 
To  quicken  to  the  sun,  arose,  and  raised 
Her  mother  too,  and  hand  in  hand  they 

moved 
Down  to  the  meadow  where  the  jousts 

were  held. 
And  waited  there  {ox  Vniol   and  Geraint. 


THE  MARRIAGE    OF  G  ERA  INT. 


343 


And  thither  came  the  twain,  and  when 

Geraint 
Beheld  her  first  in  field,  awaiting  him, 
He    felt,   were   she  the  prize   of  bodily 

force, 
Himself  beyond  the  rest  pushing  could 

move 
The  chair  of  Idris.     Yniol's  rusted  arms 
Were  on  his  princely  person,  but  thro' 

these 
Princelike  his  bearing  shone;    and  errant 

knights 
And  ladies  came,  and  by  and  by  the  town 
Flow'd    in,   and   settling   circled  all  the 

lists. 
And    there    they  fixt  the  forks  into   the 

ground, 
And   over  these   they   placed  the   silver 

wand, 
And  over  that  the  golden  sparrow-hawk. 
Then     Yniol's     nephew,    after    trumpet 

blown, 
Spake  to  the   lady   with  him    and    pro- 

claim'd, 
'  Advance  and  take,  as  fairest  of  the  fair, 
What  I  these  two  years  past  have  won 

for  thee, 
The  prize  of  beauty.' .    Loudly  spake  the 

Prince, 
'Forbear:  there  is  a  worthier,'  and  the 

knight 
W^ith  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  much 

disdain 
Turn'd,  and  beheld  the  four,  and  all  his 

face 
Glow'd  like  the  heart  of  a  great  fire  at 

Yule, 
So    burnt   he   was  with    passion,   crying 

out, 
'Do  battle   for   it  then,'  no  more;    and 

thrice 
They  clash'd    together,  and    thrice  they 

brake  their  spears. 
Then  each,  dishorsed  and  drawing,  lash'd 

at  each 
So  often  and  with  such  blows,  that  all 

the  crowd 
Wonder'd,  and  now  and  then  from  distant 

walls 
There  came  a  clapping  as  of  phantom 

hands. 
So    twice   they  fought,   and    twice    they 

breathed,  and  still 


The  dew  of  their  great  labour,  and  the 

blood 
Of  their  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain'd 

their  force. 
But  cither's  force  was  match'd  till  Yniol's 

cry, 
'  Remember   that    great  insult  done  the 

Queen,' 
Increased    Geraint's,    who    heaved    his 

blade  aloft. 
And  crack'd  the  helmet  thro',  and  bit  the 

bone. 
And   fell'd  him,   and   set  foot  upon  his 

breast, 
And  said,  'Thy  name?'     To  whom  the 

fallen  man 
Made  answer,  groaning,  '  Edyrn,  son  of 

Nudd ! 
Ashamed  am  I  that  I  should  tell  it  thee. 
jNIy  pride  is  broken :  men  have  seen  my 

fall.' 
'  Then,    Edyrn,    son    of    Xudd,'    replied 

Geraint, 
*  These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  else 

thou  diest. 
First,  thou  thyself,  with  damsel  and  with 

dwarf, 
Shalt  ride  to  Arthur's  court,  and  coming 

there. 
Crave   pardon   for   that   insult   done   the 

Queen, 
And   shalt  abide    her    judgment  on   it; 

next. 
Thou  shalt  give  back  their  earldom  to 

thy  kin. 
These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  thou 

shalt  die.' 
And  Edyrn  answer'd,  'These  things  will 

I  do. 
For  I  have  never  yet  been  overthrown, 
x\nd  thou  hast  overthrown  me,  and  my 

pride 
Is  broken  down,  for  Enid  sees  my  fall !  ' 
And    rising    up,    he    rode    to    Arthur's 

court. 
And  there  the  Queen  forgave  him  easily. 
And  being  young,  he  changed  and  came 

to  loathe 
His  crime   of  traitor,  slowly  drew  him- 
self 
Bright  from  his  old  dark  life,  and  fell  at 

last 
In  the  great  battle  fighting  for  the  King. 


344 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  GERAINT. 


But  when  the  third  day  from  the  hunt- 
ing-morn 
Made  a  low  splendour  in  the  world,  and 

wings 
Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she  lay 
With   her   fair  head  in  the  dim-yellow 

light, 
Among  the  dancing  shadows  of  the  birds. 
Woke  and  bethought  her  of  her  promise 

given 
No  later  than  last  eve  to  Prince  Geraint — 
So  bent  he  seem'd  on  going  the  third  day. 
He  would  not  leave  her,  till  her  promise 

given  — 
To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the 

court. 
And  there  be  made  known  to  the  stately 

Queen, 
And    there    be   wedded   with    all    cere- 
mony. 
At    this    she    cast    her    eyes    upon    her 

dress. 
And  thought  it  never  yet  had  look'd  so 

mean. 
For  as  a  leaf  in  mid-November  is 
To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem'd 
The  dress  that  now  she  look'd  on  to  the 

dress 
She  look'd  on  ere  the  coming  of  Geraint. 
And  still  she  look'd,  and  still  the  terror 

grew 
Of  that  strange  bright  and  dreadful  thing, 

a  court. 
All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk : 
And  softly  to  her  own  sweet  heart  she 

said: 

'  This  noble  prince  who  won  our  earl- 
dom back, 
So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire, 
Sweet  heaven,  how  much  I  shall  discredit 

him  ! 
Would    he    could    tarry    with    us    here 

awhile. 
But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince, 
It  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us, 
Bent  as  he  seem'd  on  going  this   third 

day, 
To  seek  a  second  favour  at  his  hands. 
Yet  if  he  could  but  tarry  a  day  or  two, 
Myself  would  work  eye  dim,  and  tinger 

lame, 
Far  liefer  than  so  much  discredit  him.'    • 


And  Enid  fell  in  longing  for  a  dress 
All  branch'd  and    flower'd  with  gold,  a 

costly  gift 
Of  her  good  mother,  given  her  on  the 

night 
Before  her  birthday,  three  sad  years  ago, 
That  night   of   fire,  when  Edyrn  sack'd 

their  house. 
And   scatter'd    all   they  had    to   all   the 

winds : 
For  while  the  mother  show'd  it,  and  the 

two 
Were  turning  and  admiring  it,  the  work 
To  both  appear'd  so  costly,  rose  a  cry 
That    Edyrn's    men  were  on  them,  and 

they  fled 
With  little  save  the  jewels  they  had  on. 
Which  being  sold  and  sold  had  bought 

them  bread  : 
And  Edyrn's  men  had  caught   them  in 

their  flight, 
And  placed  them  in  this  ruin;   and  she 

wish'd 
The  Prince  had  found  her  in  her  ancient 

home ; 
Then  let  her  fancy  flit  across  the  past. 
And    roam  the    goodly  places    that    she 

knew; 
And  last    bethought  her  how  she  used 

to  watch, 
Near   that  old  home,  a  pool  of  golden 

carp; 
And    one  was  patch'd  and  blurr'd    and 

lustreless 
Among  his   burnish'd    brethren    of    the 

pool; 
And  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 
Of  that  and  these  to  her  own  faded  self 
And  the  gay  court,  and  fell  asleep  again; 
And    dreamt    herself  was   such  a  faded 

form 
Among  her  burnish'd  sisters  of  the  pool; 
But  this  was  in  the  garden  of  a  king; 
And  tho'  she  lay  dark   in  the  pool,  she 

knew 
That  all  was  bright;   that  all  about  were 

birds 
Of  'sunny  plume  in  gilded   trellis-work; 
That  all  the  turf  was  rich  in  plots  that 

look'd 
Each  like  a  garnet  or  a  turkis  in  it; 
And  lords  and  ladies  of  the  high  court 

went 


THE  MARRIAGE    OE  GERAINT. 


345 


In  silver  tissue  talking  things  of  state; 
And    children   of  the   King  in  cloth   of 

gold 
Glanced  at  the  doors  or  gamboll'd  down 

the  walks; 
And  while  she  thought  'They  will  not 

see  me,'  came 
A  stately  queen  whose  name  was  Guine- 
vere, 
And  all  the   children   in   their  cloth   of 

gold 
Ran  to  her,  crying,  'If  we  have  fish  at  all 
Let    them    be    gold;     and    charge    the 

gardeners  now 
To   pick    the    faded    creature    from    the 

pool, 
And  cast  it  on  the  mixen  that  it  die.' 
And  therewithal  one  came  and  seized  on 

her, 
And  Enid  started  waking,  with  her  heart 
All  overshadow'd  by  the  foolish  dream. 
And  lo  !  it  was  her  mother  grasping  her 
To  get  her  well  awake;  and  in  her  hand 
A  suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she  laid 
Flat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exultingly : 

'  See    here,  my  child,   how   fresh   the 

colours  look, 
How    fast   they  hold  like   colours    of   a 

shell 
That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the 

wave. 
Why    not?     It   never   yet    was  worn,    I 

trow : 
Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  me  if  ye  know 

it.' 

And  Enid  look'd,  but  all  confused  at 
first. 

Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish 
dream  : 

Then  suddenly  she  knew  it  and  rejoiced, 

And  answer'd,  *  Yea,  I  know  it ;  your 
good  gift. 

So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night; 

Your  own  good  gift!'  'Yea,  surfly,' 
said  the  dame, 

'  And  gladly  given  again  this  happy 
morn. 

For  when  the  jousts  were  ended  yester- 
day, 

Went  Yniol  thro'  the  town,  and  every- 
where 


He  found  the  sack  and  plunder  of  our 

house 
All   scatter'd    thro'    the    houses    of    the 

town ; 
And  gave  command  that  all  which  once 

was  ours 
Should  now  be  ours  again :  and  yester-eve, 
While  ye  were  talking  sweetly  with  your 

Prince, 
Came  one  with  this  and  laid   it  in   my 

hand. 
For  love  or  fear,  or  seeking  favour  of  us, 
Because    we    have    our    earldom    back 

again. 
And  yester-eve  I  would  not  tell  you  of  it, 
But  kept  it  for  a  sweet  surprise  at  morn. 
Yea,  truly  is  it  not  a  sweet  surprise? 
For  I  myself  unwillingly  have  worn 
My  faded  suit,  as  you,  my  child,  have 

yours, 
And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 
Ah,  dear,  he    took   me    from    a   goodly 

house, 
With   store   of  rich   apparel,   sumptuous 

fare, 
And  page,   and   maid,   and   squire,    and 

seneschal. 
And  pastime  both  of  hawk  and  hound, 

and  all 
That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 
Yea,   and  he   brought  me   to    a   goodly 

house; 
But  since  our  fortune  swerved  from  sun 

to  shade, 
And  all  thro'   that  young  traitor,  cruel 

need 
Constrain'd   us,   but    a   better    time    has 

come  ; 
So  clothe  yourself  in  this,  that  better  fits 
Our   mended    fortunes    and    a    Prince's 

bride : 
For  tho'  ye  won  the  prize  of  fairest  fair, 
And  tho'  I  heard  him  call  you  fairest  fair, 
Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair, 
She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than  old. 
And  should  some  great   court-lady  say, 

the  Prince 
Hath   pick'd   a   ragged-robin    from   the 

hedge, 
And  like  a  madman  brought  her  to  the 

court. 
Then  were  ye  shamed,  and,  worse,  might 

shame  the  Prince 


346 


THE  MARRIAGE    OF  GERAINT. 


To  whom  we  are  beholden;    but  I  know, 
When  my  dear  child  is  set  forth  at  her 

best, 
That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho'  they 

sought 
Thro'  all  the  provinces  like  those  of  old 
That  lighted  on  Queen  Esther,  has  her 

match.' 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out  of 

breath ; 
And  Enid  listen'd  brightening  as  she  lay; 
Then,  as  the  white  and  glittering  star  of 

morn 
Parts  from  a  bank  of  snow,  and  by  and 

by 
Slips  into  golden  cloud,  the  maiden  rose, 
And  left  her  maiden  couch,   and  robed 

herself, 
Help'd  by  the  mother's  careful  hand  and 

eye, 
Without  a  mirror,  in  the  gorgeous  gown; 
Who,  after,  turn'd  her  daughter  round, 

and  said. 
She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  so  fair; 
And  call'd  her  like  that  maiden  in  the 

tale. 
Whom  Gwydion  made    by  glamour  out 

of  flowers, 
And  sweeter  than  the  bride  of  Cassive- 

laun, 
Flur,  for  whose  love  the  Roman  Caesar 

first 
Invaded  Britain,  'But  we  beat  him  back. 
As  this  great  Prince  invaded  us,  and  we. 
Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him 

with  joy. 
And   I    can    scarcely    ride    with    you    to 

court, 
For  old  am  I,  and  rough  the  ways  and 

wild ; 
But  Yniol  goes,  and  I  full  oft  shall  dream 
I  see  my  princess  as  I  see  her  now. 
Clothed  with  my  gift,   and   gay   among 

the  gay.' 

But  while   the   women   thus    rejoiced, 

Geraint 
Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall, 

and  call'd 
For  Enid,  and  when  \'niul  made  report 
Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid  gay 
In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 


His  princess,  or  indeed  the  stately  Queen, 
He  answer'd :   '  Earl,  entreat  her  by  my 

love, 
Albeit  I  give  no  reason  but  my  wish, 
That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded  silk.' 
Yniol  with  that  hard  message  went;    it 

fell 
Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty  corn : 
For  Enid,  all  abash'd  she  knew  not  why, 
Dared  not  to  glance  at  her  good  mother's 

face. 
But  silently,  in  all  obedience, 
Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her. 
Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broider'd 

gift, 
And    robed    them    in    her    ancient    suit 

again, 
And  so  descended.     Never  man  rejoiced 
More    than   Geraint    to   greet   her    thus 

attired; 
And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at  her 
As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil, 
Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid 

fall. 
But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satisfied; 
Then   seeing   cloud    upon    the    mother's 

brow. 
Her    by   both    hands    he    caught,    and 

sweetly  said, 

'  O  my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth  or 

grieved 
At  thy  new  son,  for  my  petition  to  her. 
When    late    I    left   Caerleon,    our   great 

Queen, 
In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were  so 

sweet. 
Made    promise,    that   whatever   bride    I 

brought. 
Herself  would   clothe    her    like  the  sun 

in  Heaven. 
Thereafter,  when    I    reach'd    this  ruin'd 

hall, 
Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 
I  vow'd  that  could  I  gain  her,  our  fair 

(^ueen. 
No    hand    but    hers,  should    make   your 

Enid  burst 
Sunlike     from     cloud  —  and      likewise 

thought  perhaps, 
That    service    done  so  graciously  wouUl 

bind 
The  two  together;   fain  I  would  the  two 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


347 


Should  love  each  other  :  how  can  Enid  find 
A  nobler  friend?     Another  thought  was 

mine; 
I  came  among  you  here  so  suddenly, 
That  tho'  her  gentle  presence  at  the  lists 
Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that  I 

was  loved, 
I  doubted  whether  daughter's  tenderness, 
Or  easy  nature,  might  not  let  itself 
Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her  weal; 
Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her  own 

self 
Of  my  contrasting  brightness,  overbore 
Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusky  hall; 
And  such  a  sense  might  make  her  long 

for  court 
And    all    its    perilous    glories :     and     I 

thought, 
That  could  I  someway  prove  such  force 

in  her 
Link'd  with  such    love    for  me,   that  at 

a  word 
(No  reason  given    her)   she  could    cast 

aside 
A  splendour  dear  to  women,  new  to  her, 
And  therefore  dearer;   or  if  not  so  new, 
Yet  therefore  tenfold  dearer  by  the  power 
Of  intermitted  usage;   then  I  felt 
That   I  could  rest,  a  rock    in  ebbs  and 

flows, 
Fixt  on  her  faith.     Now,  therefore,  I  do 

rest, 
A  prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy, 
That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can  cross 
Between  us.     Grant  me  pardon   for  my 

thoughts : 
And  for  my  strange  petition  I  will  make 
Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-day, 
When  your    fair    child    shall    wear  your 

costly  gift 
Beside  jour  own  warm  hearth,  with,  on 

her  knees. 
Who  knows?   another  gift  of  the    high 

God, 
Which,  maybe,  shall  have  learn'd  to  lisp 

you  thanks.' 

He    spoke :     the    mother    smiled,    but 

half  in  tears, 
Then  brought  a  mantle  down  and  wrapt 

her  in  it. 
And  claspt  and  kiss'd  her,  and  they  rode 

away. 


Now  thrice    that    morning    Guinevere 

had  climb'd 
The  giant  tower,  from  whose  high  crest, 

they  say, 
Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 
And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow  sea; 
But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 
Look'd  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the  vale 

of  Usk, 
By  the   flat  meadow,  till   she  saw  them 

come; 
And    then  descending  met  them  at  the 

gates. 
Embraced   her  with    all   welcome    as    a 

friend, 
xAnd  did  her  honour  as  the  Prince's  bride, 
And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like  the 

sun; 
And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerleon  gay, 
For   by  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  high 

saint, 
They  twain  were  wedded  with  all  cere- 
mony. 

And  this  was  on  the  last  year's  Whit- 
suntide. 
But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk. 
Remembering  how  first  he  came  on  her, 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and    how  he  loved 

her  in  it. 
And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress. 
And  all  his  journey  toward  her,  as  him- 
self 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 
court. 

And  now  this  morning  when  he  said 
to  her, 
'  Put  on  your  worst  and  meanest  dress,' 

she  found 
And  took  it,  and  array'd  herself  therein. 

GERAINT  AND    ENID. 

O  PURBLIND  race  of  miserable  men, 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a  life-long  trouble  for  ourselves, 
By  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  for  true ; 
Here,  thro'    the    feeble  twilight   of  this 

world 
Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and 

reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  ^s  we  are  seen ! 


348 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  issuing 
forth 

That  morning,  when  they  both  had  got 
to  horse, 

Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passion- 
ately, 

And  felt  that  tempest  brooding  round 
his  heart, 

Which,  if  he  spoke  at  all,  would  break 
perforce 

Upon  a  head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said : 

*  Not   at   my  side.     I    charge    thee  ride 

before, 
Ever  a  good  way  on  before;   and  this 
I  charge  thee,  on  thy  duty  as  a  wife, 
Whatever  happens,  not  to  speak  tc  me. 
No,  not  a  word  ! '  and  Enid  was  aghast; 
And    forth    they  rode,  but  scarce   three 

paces  on. 
When  crying  out,  '  Effeminate  as  I  am, 
I  will  not  fight  my  way  with  gilded  arms, 
All  shall  be  iron;  '  he  loosed  a  mighty 

purse. 
Hung  at  his  belt,  and  hurl'd  it  toward 

the  squire. 
So  the  last  sight  that  Enid  had  of  home 
Was  all   the  marble  threshold    flashing, 

strown 
With   gold   and   scatter'd   coinage,   and 

the  squire 
Chafing    his    shoulder :    then    he    cried 

again, 

*  To  the  wilds !  '  and  Enid  leading  down 

the  tracks 
Thro'  which  he  bade  her  lead  him  on, 

they  past 
The    marches,    and    by   bandit-haunted 

holds. 
Gray  swamps  and  pools,  waste  places  of 

the  hern, 
And   wildernesses,   perilous   paths,  they 

rode : 
Round  was  their  pace  at  first,  but  slack- 

en'd  soon : 
A   stranger   meeting    them    had    surely 

thought 
They  rode  so  slowly  and  they  look'd  so 

pale, 
That  each  had  suffer'd  some  exceeding 

wrong. 
For  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself, 
'  O  I  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon  her, 
To  compass  her  with  sweet  observances. 


To  dress  her  beautifully  and   keep    her 

true '  — 
And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  in  his 

heart 
Abruptly,  as  a  man  upon  his  tongue 
May  break  it,  when  his  passion  masters 

him. 
And   she   was   ever    praying   the   sweet 

heavens 
To  save  her   dear  lord  whole  from  any 

wound. 
And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast  about 
For  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself. 
Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and  so 

cold; 
Till   the   great    plover's    human   whistle 

amazed 
Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the  waste 

she  fear'd 
In    every    wavering    brake    an    ambus- 
cade. 
Then  thought  again,  '  If  there  be  such  in 

me, 
I    might    amend    it    by    the    grace    of 

Heaven, 
If  he  would  only  speak  and  tell  me  of  it.' 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the   day 

was  gone. 
Then    Enid    was   aware    of    three    tall 

knights 
On  horseback,   wholly  arm'd,   behind   a 

rock 
In  shadow,  waiting  for  them,  caitiffs  all; 
And   heard    one    crying    to    his    fellow, 

'  Look, 
Here  comes  a  laggard  hanging  down  his 

head,   , 
Who    seems   no  bolder   than    a   beaten 

hound; 
Come,  we  will  slay  him    and    will    have 

his  horse 
And  armour,  and    his    damsel   shall  be 

ours.' 

Then  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart,  and 
said: 
'  I  will  go  back  a  little  to  my  lord, 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  caitiff  talk; 
For,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me, 
Far  liefer  by  his  dear  hand  had  I  die. 
Than  that  my  lord  should   suffer  loss  or 
shame.' 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


349 


Then    she  went    back  some   paces   of 

return, 
Met  his  full  frown  timidly  firm,  and  said; 
*  My    lord,   I    saw   three  bandits  by  the 

rock 
Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard  them 

boast 
That  they  would  slay  you,   and  possess 

your  horse 
And  armour,  and  your  damsel  should  be 

theirs.' 

He  made  a  wrathful  answer :   '  Did  I 
wish 
Your  warning  or  your  silence?  one  com- 
mand 
I  laid  upon  you,  not  to  speak  to  me, 
And  thus  ye  keep  it !     Well  then,  look 

—  for  now, 
Whether  ye  wish  me  victory  or  defeat, 
Long    for   my   life,    or    hunger    for   my 

death, 
Yourself  shall  see  my  vigour  is  not  lost.' 

Then  Enid  waited,  pale  and  sorrowful. 
And  down   upon    him   bare  the    bandit 

three. 
And  at   the    midmost    charging,    Prince 

Geraint 
Drave  the  long  spear  a  cubit    thro'  his 

breast 
And  out  beyond;   and  then  against  his 

brace 
Of  comrades,  each  of  whom  had  broken 

on  him 
A  lance  that  splinter'd  like  an  icicle, 
Swung  from    his  brand    a  windy  buffet 

out 
Once,  twice,  to  right,  to  left,  and  stunn'd 

the  twain 
Or  slew  them,   and  dismounting  like  a 

man 
That  skins  the  wild   beast  after  slaying 

him, 
Stript    from    the   three    dead    wolves  of 

woman  born 
The  three  gay  suits  of  armour  which  they 

wore, 
And  let  the  bodies   lie,  but   bound  the 

suits 
Of   armour    on    their    horses,    each    on 

each. 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 


Together,  and  said  to  her,  '  Drive  them 

on 
Before  you;  '  and  she  drove  them  thro' 

the  waste. 

He  follow'd   nearer  :    ruth   began    to 

work 
Against    his    anger    in    him,    while    he 

watch'd 
The  being  he  loved  best  in  all  the  world, 
With  difficulty  in  mild  obedience 
Driving  them  on:  he  fain  had  spoken  to 

her. 
And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  fire  the 

wrath 
And   smoulder'd  wrong  that  burnt  him 

all  within; 
But  evermore  it  seem'd  an  easier  thing 
At    once  without  remorse  to  strike  her 

dead, 
Than  to   cry   '  Halt,'    and   to   her   own 

bright  face 
Accuse  her  of  the  least  immodesty  : 
And  thus  tongue-tied,  it  made  him  wroth 

the  more 
That  she  could  speak  whom  his  own  ear 

had  heard 
Call  herself  false  :   and  suffering  thus  he 

made 
Minutes  an  age  :  but  in  scarce  longer  time 
Than  at  Caerleon  the  full-tided  Usk, 
Before  he  turn  to  fall  seaward  again. 
Pauses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  behold 
In  the  first  shallow  shade  of  a  deep  wood, 
Before  a  gloom  of  stubborn-shafted  oaks, 
Three  other   horsemen   waiting,   wholly 

arm'd, 
Whereof  one  seem'd  far  larger  than  her 

lord. 
And  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  '  Look,  a 

prize  ! 
Three  horses  and  three  goodly  suits  of 

arms, 
And  all  in  charge  of  whom?  a  girl :    set 

on.' 
'Nay,'  said  the  second,  *  yonder  comes  a 

knight.' 
The  third,  '  A  craven;   how  he  hangs  his 

head.' 
The  giant  answer'd   merrily,    'Yea,   but 

one? 
Wait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall  upon 

him.' 


350 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


And  Enid  ponder'd   in  her   heart    and 
said, 

*  I  will  abide  the  coming  of  my  lord, 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  villainy. 
My  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  before, 
And  they  will  fall  upon  him  unawares. 
I  needs  must  disobey  him  for  his  good; 
How   should    I    dare    obey   him    to    his 

harm  ? 
Needs  must  I  speak,  and  tho'  he  kill  me 

for  it, 
I  save  a  life  dearer  to  me  than  mine.' 

And  she  abode  his  coming,   and  said 

to  him 
With  timid  firmness,   '  Have  I  leave  to 

speak? ' 
He  said,  '  Ye  take  it,  speaking,'  and  she 

spoke. 

'  There  lurk  three  villains  yonder  in  the 

wood. 
And  each  of  them  is  wholly   arm'd,  and 

one 
Is  larger-limb'd  than  you  are,  and  they 

say 
That   they  will  fall  upon  you  while  ye 

pass.' 

To  which  he  flung  a  wrathful  answer 
back  : 

*  And  if  there  were   an  hundred  in   the 

wood. 
And  every  man  were  larger-limb'd  than  I, 
And  all  at  once  should  sally  out  upon  me, 
I  swear  it  would  not  ruffle  me  so  much 
As  you  that  not  obey  me.     Stand  aside, 
And  if  I  fall,  cleave  to  the  better  man.' 

And  Enid  stood  aside  to  wait  the  event. 
Not    dare    to   watch   the    combat,    only 

breathe 
Short  fits  of  prayer,   at    every   stroke    a 

breath. 
And  he,  she   dreaded  most,  bare  down 

upon  him. 
Aim'd  at  the  helm,  his  lance   err'd;    but 

Geraint's, 
A  little  in  the  late  encounter  strain'd. 
Struck  thro'  the  bulky  bandit's  corselet 

home. 
And    then    brake   short,   and   down    his 

enemy  roU'd, 


And  there  lay  still;   as  he  that  tells  the 

tale 
Saw  once  a  great  piece  of  a  promontory, 
That  had  a  sapling  growing  on  it,  slide 
From  the  long  shore-cliff's  windy  walls  to 

the  beach, 
And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling 

grew : 
So  lay  the  man  transfixt.       His  craven 

pair 
Of     comrades    making    slowlier    at    the 

Prince, 
When  now  they  saw  their  bulwark  fallen, 

stood ; 
On  whom  the  victor,  to   confound  them 

more, 
Spurr'd  with  his  terrible  war-cry;   for  as 

one, 
That    listens   near   a  torrent   mountain- 
brook, 
All  thro'  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract 

hears 
The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger  fall 
At   distance,  were  the   soldiers  wont  to 

hear 
His  voice  in  battle,  and  be  kindled  by  it. 
And  foemen  scared,  like  that  false  pair 

who  turn'd 
Flying,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death 
Themselves  had    wrought   on    many  an 

innocent. 

Thereon  Geraint,  dismounting,  pick'd 

the  lance 
That  pleased  him  best,  and   drew  from 

those  dead  wolves 
Their  three  gay  suits  of  armour,  each  from 

each. 
And  bound  them  on  their  horses,  each  on 

each, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,  and  said  to  her, '  Drive  them  on 
Before  you,'  and  she  drove  them  thro'  the 

wood. 

He  foUow'd  nearer  still:  the  pain  she 

had 
To  keep  them  in  the  wild  ways  of  the 

wood. 
Two  sets  of  three  laden  with  jingling  arms, 
Together,  served  a  little  to  disedge 
The  sharpness  of   that   pain   about    her 

heart : 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


351 


And  they  themselves,  Uke  creatures  gently 

born 
But  into  bad  hands  fall'n,  and  now  so  long 
By  bandits  groom'd,   prick'd  their  light 

ears,  and  felt 
Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  government. 

So  thro'  the  green  gloom  of  the  wood 

they  past. 
And  issuing  under  open  heavens  beheld 
A  little  town  with  towers,  upon  a  rock, 
And  close  beneath,  a   meadow  gemlike 

chased 
In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mowing 

in  it: 
And  down  a  rocky  pathway  from  the  place 
There  came  a  fair-hair'd  youth,  that  in  his 

hand 
Bare  victual  for  the  mowers  :  and  Geraint 
Had  ruth  again  on  Enid  looking  pale  : 
Then,  moving  downward  to  the  meadow 

ground. 
He,  when  the  fair-hair'd  youth  came  by 

him,  said, 
'Friend,  let  her  eat;     the  damsel  is  so 

faint.' 
*  Yea,  willingly,'  replied  the  youth ;    '  and 

thou. 
My  lord,  eat  also,  tho'  the  fare  is  coarse, 
And   only  meet  for  mowers;'   then   set 

down 
His  basket,  and  dismounting  on  the  sward 
They  let  the  horses  graze,  and  ate  them- 
selves. 
•      And  Enid  took  a  little  delicately, 

Less  having  stomach  for  it  than  desire 
To   close  with   her  lord's  pleasure;    but 

Geraint 
Ate  all  the  mowers'  victual  unawares, 
And    when    he    found    all    empty,    was 

amazed ; 
And  '  Boy,'  said  he,   '  I  have  eaten   all, 

but  take 
A  horse  and  arms  for  guerdon;   choose 

the  best.' 
He,  reddening  in  extremity  of  delight, 
'  My  lord,  you  overpay  me  fifty-fold.' 
'  Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier,'  cried  the 

Prince. 
'  I  take  it  as  free  gift,  then,'  said  the  boy, 
'Not  guerdon;   for  myself  can  easily, 
While    your  good   damsel   rests,   return, 

and  fetch 


Fresh  victual   for   these   mowers   of  our 

Earl; 
For  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  is  his, 
And  I  myself  am  his ;   and  I  will  tell  him 
How  great  a  man  thou  art :   he  loves  to 

know 
When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  territory : 
And  he  will  have  thee  to  his  palace  here. 
And  serve  thee  costlier  than  with  mowers' 

fare.' 

Then  said  Geraint,  '  I  wish  no  better 

fare : 
I  never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 
Than  when  I  left  your  mowers  dinnerless. 
And  into  no  Earl's  palace  will  I  go. 
I  know,  God  knows,  too  much  of  palaces  ! 
And  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to  me. 
But  hire   us  some  fair  chamber  for  the 

night, 
And  stalling  for  the  horses,  and  return 
With  victual  for  these  men,  and  let  us 

know.' 

'  Yea,   my   kind   lord,'   said   the  glad 

youth,  and  went, 
Held  his  head  high,  and  thought  himself 

a  knight. 
And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disappear'd. 
Leading  the  horse,  and   they  were  left 

alone. 

But  when  the  Prince  had  brought  his 

errant  eyes 
Home   from   the  rock,  sideways    he    let 

them  glance 
At  Enid,  where  she  droopt :  his  own  false 

doom. 
That  shadow  of  mistrust  should  never  cross 
Betwixt  them,  came   upon  him,  and  he 

sigh'd; 
Then   with   another   humorous   ruth   re- 

mark'd 
The  lusty  mowers  labouring  dinnerless, 
And  watch'd  the  sun  blaze  on  the  turning 

scythe, 
And  after  nodded  sleepily  in  the  heat. 
But  she,  remembering  her  old  ruin'd  hall, 
And  all  the  windy  clam.our  of  the  daws 
About    her    hollow   turret,    pluck'd    the 

grass 
There  growing  longest  by  the  meadow's 

edge, 


352 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


And  into  many  a  listless  annulet, 

Now   over,   now    beneath    her    marriage 

ring, 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  return'd 
And  told  them  of  a  chamber,  and  they 

went; 
Where,  after  saying  to  her,  '  If  ye  will. 
Call    for   the   woman   of   the    house,'   to 

which 
She  answer'd,  'Thanks,  my  lord;  '    the 

two  remain'd 
Apart  by  all  the    chamber's  width,  and 

mute 
As  creatures  voiceless  thro'  the  fault  of 

birth. 
Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a  shield, 
Painted,  who  stare  at   open  space,  nor 

glance 
The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a  sudden,  many  a  voice  along  the 

street, 
And  heel  against  the  pavement  echoing, 

burst 
Their  drowse;   and  either  started  while 

the  door, 
Push'd  from  without,  drave  backward  to 

the  wall. 
And  midmost  of  a  rout  of  roisterers, 
Femininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale, 
Her  suitor  in  old  years  before  Geraint, 
Enter'd,    the    wild   lord    of    the    place, 

Limours. 
He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtliness, 
Greeted  Geraint  full  face,  but  stealthily, 
In  the  mid-warmth  of  welcome  and  graspt 

hand. 
Found  Enid  with  the  corner  of  his  eye. 
And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 
Then  cried  Geraint  for  wine  and  goodly 

cheer 
To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sumptu- 
ously 
According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the  host 
Call  in  what  men  soever  were  his  friends. 
And  feast  with  these  in  honour  of  their 

Earl; 
'And  care  not  for  the  cost;   the  cost  is 

mine.' 

And  wine  and  food  were  brought,  and 
Earl  Limours 
Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and  told 


Free  tales,  and  took  the  word  and  play'd 

upon  it. 
And  made  it  of  two  colours;   for  his  talk, 
When  wine  and  free  companions  kindled 

him, 
W^as  wont  to  glance  and  sparkle  like  a  gem 
Of  fifty  facets;   thus  he  moved  the  Prince 
To  laughter  and  his  comrades  to  applause. 
Then,  when  the  Prince  was  merry,  ask'd 

Limours, 
*  Your  leave,  my  lord,  to  cross  the  room, 

and  speak 
To  your  good  damsel  there  who  sits  apart, 
And  seems  so  lonely?  '     '  My  free  leave,' 

he  said; 
'  Get  her  to  speak  :  she  doth  not  speak  to 

me.' 
Then  rose  Limours,  and  looking  at  his 

feet, 
Like  him  who  tries  the  bridge  he  fears 

may  fail, 
Crost  and  came  near,  lifted  adoring  eyes, 
Bow'd  at  her  side  and  utter'd  vvhisper- 

ingly : 

'  Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 
Enid,  my  early  and  my  only  love, 
Enid,  the  loss  of  whom  hath  turn'd  me 

wild  — 
What  chance  is  this?  how  is  it  I  see  you 

here? 
Ye  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my 

power. 
Yet  fear  me  not :   I  call  mine  own  self 

wild, 
But  keep  a  touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  and  wilderness. 
I    thought,   but    that    your    father    came 

between. 
In  former  days  you  saw  me  favourably. 
And  if  it  were  so  do  not  keep  it  back  : 
Make  me  a  little  happier  :  let  me  know  it  : 
Owe  you  me  nothing  for  a  life  half-lost? 
Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all  you 

are. 
And,  Enid,  you  and  he,  I  see  with  joy. 
Ye  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to  him. 
You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or 

maid. 
To  serve  you  —  doth  he  love  you  as  of  old  ? 
For,  call  it  lovers'  quarrels,  yet  I  know 
Tho'   men   may   bicker  with    the   things 

they  love, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


353 


They  would  not  make  them  laughable  in 

all  eyes, 
Not  while   they  loved   them;    and   your 

wretched  dress, 
A  wretched  insult  on  you,  dumbly  speaks 
Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  you  no 

more. 
Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now : 
A  common  chance  —  right  well  I  know 

it  — pall'd  — 
For  I  know  men :  nor  will  ye  win  him 

back, 
For    the   man's   love    once    gone    never 

returns. 
But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of  old; 
With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of  old  : 
Good,  speak  the  word  :  my  followers  ring 

him  round : 
He  sits  unarm'd;   I  hold  a  finger  up; 
They  understand:  nay;   I  do  not  mean 

blood : 
Nor  need  ye  look  so  scared  at  what  I 

say : 
My  malice  is  no  deeper  than  a  moat. 
No  stronger  than  a  wall :    there  is  the 

keep; 
He  shall  not  cross  us  more;   speak  but 

the  word : 
Or  speak  it  not;   but  then  by  Him  that 

made  me 
The  one  true  lover  whom  you  ever  own'd, 
I  will  make  use  of  all  the  power  I  have, 
O  pardon  me  !  the  madness  of  that  hour, 
When  first  I  parted  from  thee,  moves  me 

yet.' 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own 

voice 
And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancy  of  it, 
Made  his  eye  moist;   but  Enid  fear'd  his 

eyes. 
Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from  the 

feast; 
And  answer'd  with  such  craft  as  women 

use. 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a  chance 
That  breaks  upon  them  perilously,  and 

said  : 

'  Earl,  if  you  love   me  as   in   former 
years. 
And  do  not  practise  on  me,  come  with 
morn, 

2A 


And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by  violence; 
Leave  me  to-night :  I  am  weary  to  the 
death.' 

Low  at  leave-taking,  with  his  brandish'd 

plume 
Brushing  his  instep,  bow'd  the  all-amorous 

Earl, 
And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a  loud 

good-night. 
He  moving  homeward  babbled  to  his  men, 
How  Enid  never  loved  a  man  but  him, 
Nor  cared  a  broken  egg-shell  for  her  lord. 

But  Enid  left  alone  with  Prince  Geraint, 
Debating  his  command  of  silence  given. 
And  that  she  now  perforce  must  violate  it, 
Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while 

she  held 
He  fell  asleep,  and  Enid  had  no  heart 
To  wake  him,  but  hung  o'er  him,  wholly 

pleased 
To  find  him  yet  unwounded  after  fight, 
And  hear  him  breathing  low  and  equally. 
Anon    she    rose,   and    stepping    lightly, 

heap'd 
The  pieces  of  his  armour  in  one  place. 
All  to  be  there  against  a  sudden  need; 
Then  dozed  awhile  herself,  but  overtoil'd 
By  that  day's  grief  and  travel,  evermore 
Seem'd  catching  at  a  rootless  thorn,  and 

then 
Went  slipping  down  horrible  precipices. 
And    strongly   striking    out    her    limbs 

awoke; 
Then  thought  she  heard  the  wild  Earl  at 

the  door, 
W^ith  all  his  rout  of  random  followers, 
Sound  on  a  dreadful  trumpet,  summoning 

her; 
Which  was  the  red  cock  shouting  to  the 

light. 
As  the  gray  dawn  stole  o'er  the  dewy 

world. 
And  glimmer'd  on  his  armour  in  the  room. 
And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at  it, 
But  touch'd  it  unawares ;  jangling,  the 

casque 
Fell,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at  her. 
Then  breaking  his  command  of  silence 

given, 
She  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limours  had 

said, 


354 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her  not; 
Nor  left  untold  the  craft  herself  had  used; 
But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet, 
Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  words,  and 

seem'd 
So  justified  by  that  necessity, 
That  tho'  he  thought  *  was  it  for  him  she 

wept 
In  Devon?  '  he  but  gave  a  wrathful  groan, 
Saying,   '  Your  sweet    faces   make  good 

fellows  fools 
And  traitors.     Call  the  host  and  bid  him 

bring 
Charger  and  palfrey.'     So  she  glided  out 
Among    the    heavy    breathings    of    the 

house, 
And  like  a  household  Spirit  at  the  walls 
Beat,    till   she    woke   the   sleepers,    and 

return'd : 
Then   tending  her  rough    lord,  tho'    all 

unask'd. 
In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a  squire; 
Till  issuing  arm'd  he  found  the  host  and 

cried, 
'Thy    reckoning,    friend?'    and    ere    he 

learnt  it,  '  Take 
Five  horses  and  their  armours;  '  and  the 

host 
Suddenly  honest,  answer'd  in  amaze, 
*  My  lord,  I  scarce  have  spent  the  worth 

of  one ! ' 
'  Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier,'  said  the 

Prince, 
And  then  to  Enid, '  Forward  !  and  to-day 
I  charge  you,  Enid,  more  especially, 
What  thing  soever  ye  may  hear,  or  see, 
Or  fancy   (tho'  I  count  it  of  small  use 
To  charge  you)  that  ye  speak  not  but 

obey.' 

And    Enid   answer'd,  '  Yea,  my   lord, 
I  know 
Your  wish,  and  would  obey ;  but  riding 

first, 
I  hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not  hear, 
I  see  the  danger  which  you  cannot  see  : 
Then  not  to  give  you  warning,  that  seems 
I  hard ; 

Almost  beyond  me  :  yet  I  would  obey.' 

*Yea  so,'  said  he,  'do  it:  be  not  too 
wise ; 
Seeing  that  ye  are  wedded  to  a  man, 


Not  all  mismated  with  a  yawning  clown. 
But  one  \\  ith  arms  to  guard  his  head  and 

yours. 
With  eyes  to  find  you  out  however  far. 
And  ears  to  hear  you  even  in  his  dreams.' 

With    that   he    turn'd    and    look'd    as 

keenly  at  her 
As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil; 
And  that  within  her,  which  a  wanton  fool. 
Or   hasty  judger  would  have  call'd    her 

guilt, 
Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid  fall. 
And  Geraint  look'd  and  was  not  satisfied. 

Then  forward  by  a  way  which,  beaten 

broad. 
Led  from  the  territory  of  false  Limours 
To  the  waste  earldom  of  another  earl, 
Doorm,  whom  his  shaking  vassals  call'd 

the  Bull, 
Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower  on. 
Once  she  look'd  back,  and  when  she  saw 

him  ride 
More  near  by  many  a  rood  than  yester- 

morn. 
It    wellnigh     made     her    cheerful;     till 

Geraint 
Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  should  say 
'Ye  watch  me,'  sadden'd  all   her   heart 

again. 
But  while  the  sun  yet  beat  a  dewy  blade. 
The  sound  of  many  a  heavily-galloping 

hoof 
Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round  she 

saw 
Dust,  and  the  points  of  lances  bicker  in  it. 
Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord's  behest, 
And  yet  to  give  him  warning,  for  he  rode 
As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she  held 
Her  finger  up,  and  pointed  to  the  dust. 
At  which  the  warrior  in  his  obstinacy, 
Because  she  kept  the  letter  of  his  word. 
Was  in  a  manner  pleased,  and  turning, 

stood. 
And  in  the  moment  after,  wild  Limours, 
Borne  on  a  black  horse,  like  a  thunder- 
cloud 
Whose  skirts  are  loosen' d  by  the  breaking 

storm, 
Half  ridden    off  with   by   the   thing  he 

rode, 
And  all  in  passion  uttering  a  dry  shriek, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


355 


Dash'd  on  Geraint,  who  closed  with  him, 

and  bore 
Down  by  the  length  of  lance  and    arm 

beyond 
The  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stunn'd  or 

dead, 
And  overthrew  the  next  that  follow'd  him, 
And  blindly  rush'd  on  all  the  rout  behind. 
But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the  man 
They  vanish'd  panic-stricken,  like  a  shoal 
Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a  summer  morn 
Adown  the  crystal  dykes  at  Camelot 
Come  slipping  o'er  their  shadows  on  the 

sand, 
But  if  a  man  who  stands  upon  the  brink 
But  lift  a  shining  hand  against  the  sun, 
There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a  fin 
Betwixt  the  cressy  islets  white  in  flower; 
So,  scared  but  at  the  motion  of  the  man, 
Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the  Earl, 
And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way; 
So  vanish  friendships  only  made  in  wine. 

Then   like    a    stormy  sunlight    smiled 
Geraint, 
Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that  fell 
Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and  wildly 

fly, 

Mixt  with  the  flyers.     '  Horse  and  man,' 

he  said, 
'  All  of  one  mind   and   all   right-honest 

friends ! 
Not  a  hoof  left :  and  I  methinks  till  now 
Was  honest  —  paid  with  horses  and  with 

arms; 
I  cannot  steal  or  plunder,  no  nor  beg : 
And  so  what  say  ye,  shall  we  strip  him 

there 
Your  lover?  hasyour  palfrey  heart  enough 
To  bear  his  armour?    shall  we    fast,    or 

dine? 
No?  —  then  do  thou,  being  right  honest, 

pray 
That  we  may  meet  the  horsemen  of  Earl 

Doorm, 
I   too  would  still  be  honest.'     Thus   he 

said : 
And  sadly  gazing  on  her  bridle-reins, 
And  answering  not  one  word,  she  led  the 

way. 

But  as  a  man  to  whom  a  dreadful  loss 
Falls  in  a  far  land  and  he  knows  it  not, 


But  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the  loss 
So  pains  him   that   he   sickens   nigh    to 

death; 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  being  prick'd 
In  combat  w-ith  the  follower  of  Limours, 
Bled  underneath  his  armour  secretly, 
And  so  rode  on,  nor  told  his  gentle  wife 
What  ail'd  him,  hardly  knowing  it  himself. 
Till    his    eye    darken'd    and    his    helmet 

wagg'd ; 
And  at  a  sudden  swerving  of  the  road, 
Tho'  happily  down  on  a  bank  of  grass. 
The    Prince,  without    a    word,  from   his 

horse  fell. 

And  Enid  heard  the  clashing  of  his  fall, 
Suddenly  came,  and  at  his  side  all  pale 
Dismounting,  loosed  the  fastenings  of  his 

arms. 
Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue  eye 
Moisten,  till  she  had  lighted  on  his  wound, 
And  tearing  off  her  veil  of  faded  silk 
Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blistering 

sun. 
And   swathed  the  hurt  that  drain'd  her 

dear  lord's  life. 
Then  after  all  was  done  that  hand  could  do, 
She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 
Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the  way. 

And  many  past,  but  none  regarded  her, 
For  in  that  realm  of  lawless  turbulence, 
A  woman  weeping  for  her  murder'd  mate 
Was  cared  as  much    for    as    a    summer 

shower : 
One  took  him  for  a  victim  of  Earl  Doorm, 
Nor  dared  to  waste  a  perilous  pity  on  him  : 
Another  hurrying  past,  a  man-at-arms. 
Rode  on  a  mission  to  the  bandit  Earl; 
Half  whistling  and  half  singing  a  coarse 

song, 
He  drove  the   dust  against  her  veilless 

eyes: 
Another,  flying  from  the  wrath  of  Doorm 
Before  an  ever-fancied  arrow,  made 
The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in  his 

fear; 
At    which   her   palfrey  whinnying  lifted 

heel, 
And  scour'd  into  the  coppices  and  was 

lost, 
While  the  great  charger  stood,  grieved 

like  a  man. 


356 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge  Earl 

Doorm, 
Broad-faced  with  under-fringe  of  russet 

beard, 
Bound  on  a  foray,  rolling  eyes  of  prey, 
Came  riding  with  a  hundred  lances  up; 
But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a  ship, 
Cried  out  with  a  big  voice,  '  What,  is  he 

dead?' 
'  No,  no,  not  dead  !  '  she  answer'd  in  all 

haste. 
*  Would  some  of  your  kind  people  take 

him  up. 
And  bear  him  hence  out  of  this  cruel  sun? 
Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  he  is  not  dead.' 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm :  '  Well,  if  he 

be  not  dead, 
Whywailyeforhimthus?  ye  seem  a  child. 
And  be  he  dead,  I  count  you  for  a  fool; 
Your  wailing  will  not  quicken  him  :  dead 

or  not. 
Ye  mar  a  comely  face  with  idiot  tears. 
Yet,  since  the  face  is  comely  —  some  of 

you. 
Here,  take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to  our 

hall: 
And  if  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our 

band; 
And  if  he  die,  why  earth  has  earth  enough 
To  hide  him.    See  ye  take  the  charger  too, 
A  noble  one.' 

He  spake,  and  past  away, 
But    left    two    brawny    spearmen,   who 

advanced, 
Each  growling  like  a  dog,  when  his  good 

bone 
Seems  to  be  pluck'd  at  by  the  village  boys 
Who  love  to  vex  him  eating,  and  he  fears 
To  lose  his  bone,  and  lays  his  foot  upon  it. 
Gnawing  and  growling:    so  the  ruffians 

growl'd, 
Fearing  to  lose,  and  all  for  a  dead  man. 
Their  chance  of  booty  from  the  morning's 

raid. 
Yet  raised  and  laid  him  on  a  litter-bier, 
Such  as  they  brought  upon  their  forays 

out 
For  those  that  might  be  wounded;    laid 

him  on  it 
All  in  the  hollow  of  his  shield,  and  took 
And  bore  him  to  the  naked  hall  of  Doorm 
(His  gentle  charger  following  him  unled). 


And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which  he 

lay 
Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the  hall, 
And  then  departed,  hot  in  haste  to  join 
Their    luckier    mates,    but   growling   as 

before, 
And  cursing  their  lost  time,  and  the  dead 

man, 
And  their  own  Earl,  and  their  own  souls, 

and  her. 
They  might  as  well  have  blest  her :  she 

was  deaf 
To  blessing  or  to  cursing  save  from  one. 

So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her  lord, 
There  in  the  naked   hall,  propping   his 

head, 
And  chafing  his  pale  hands,  and  calling 

to  him. 
Till  at  the  last  he  waken'd  from  his  swoon, 
And  found  his  own  dear  bride  propping 

his  head. 
And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and  calling 

to  him; 
And  felt  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his  face ; 
And  said  to  his  own  heart, '  She  weeps  for 

me: ' 
And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign'd  himself  as 

dead. 
That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  uttermost. 
And  say  to  his  own  heart, '  She  weeps  for 

me.' 

But  in  the  falling  afternoon  return'd 
The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder  to 

the  hall. 
His   lusty   spearmen    foUow'd   him  with 

noise  : 
Each  hurling  down  a  heap  of  things  that 

rang 
Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance  aside, 
And   doff'd   his   helm :    and   then   there 

flutter'd  in. 
Half-bold,  half-frighted,  with  dilated  eyes, 
A  tribe  of  women,  dress'd  in  many  hues. 
And   mingled  with   the   spearmen :    and 

Earl  Doorm 
Struck  with  a  knife's  haft  hard  against 

the  board. 
And  call'd  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed  his 

spears. 
And    men    brought    in  whole    hogs   and 

quarter  beeves, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


357 


And  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam  of 

flesh: 
And  none  spake  word,  but  all  sat  down 

at  once, 
And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked  hall, 
Feeding  like  horses  when  you  hear  them 

feed; 
Till  Enid  shrank  far  back  into  herself, 
To  shun  the  wild  ways  of  the  lawless  tribe. 
But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all  he 

would, 
He  roU'd  his   eyes  about   the   hall,  and 

found 
A  damsel  drooping  in  a  corner  of  it. 
Then  he  remember'd  her,  and  how  she 

wept; 
And  out  of  her  there  came  a  power  upon 

him; 
And  rising  on  the  sudden  he  said,  '  Eat  I 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  pale. 
God's  curse,  it  makes  me  mad  to  see  you 

weep. 
Eat !     Look   yourself.     Good   luck   had 

your  good  man, 
For  were  I  dead  who  is  it  would  weep  for 

me? 
Sweet  lady,  never  since  I  first  d*ew  breath 
Have  I  beheld  a  lily  like  yourself. 
And  so  there  lived  some  colour  in  your 

cheek, 
There  is  not  one  among  my  gentlewomen 
Were  fit  to  wear  your  slipper  for  a  glove. 
But  listen  to  me,  and  by  me  be  ruled. 
And  I  will  do  the  thing  I  have  not  done. 
For  ye  shall  share  my  earldom  with  me, 

girl, 
And  we  will  live  like  two  birds  in  one 

nest. 
And  I  will  fetch  you  forage  from  all  fields. 
For  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will.' 

He  spoke :    the  brawny  spearman  let 

his  cheek 
Bulge  with  the  unswallow'd    piece,  and 

turning  stared; 
While  some,  whose  souls  the  old  serpent 

long  had  drawn 
Down,  as  the  worm  draws  in  the  wither'd 

leaf 
And  makes  it  earth,  hiss'd  each  at  other's 

ear 
What   shall   not    be    recorded  —  women 

they, 


Women,  or  what  had  been  those  gracious 

things. 
But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their 

best. 
Yea,  would  have  help'd  him  to  it :   and 

all  at  once 
They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought  of 

them. 
But  answer'd  in  low  voice,  her  meek  head 

yet 
Drooping,  '  I  pray  you  of  your  courtesy. 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be.' 

She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  heard  her 
speak, 
But  like  a  mighty  patron,  satisfied 
With  what  himself  had  done  so  graciously. 
Assumed  that  she  had  thank'd  him,  add- 
ing, '  Yea, 
Eat  and  be  glad,  for  I  account  you  mine.' 

She  answer'd  meekly,  *  How  should  I 
be  glad 
Henceforth  in  all  the  world  at  anything, 
Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon  me?' 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon  her 

talk, 
As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 
And  sickly  nothing;  suddenly  seized  on 

her, 
And   bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the 

board. 
And  thrust  the  dish  before  her,  crying, 

'  Eat.' 

'  No,  no,'  said  Enid,  vext, '  I  will  not  eat 
Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise. 
And   eat   with   me.'     '  Drink,   then,'  he 

answer'd.     *  Here  !  ' 
(And  fiU'd  a  horn  with  wine  and  held  it 

to  her,) 
'  Lo  !  I,  myself,  when  flush'd  with  fight, 

or  hot, 
God's  curse,  with  anger  —  often  I  myself, 
Before  I  well  have  drunken,  scarce  can 

eat : 
Drink  therefore  and  the  wine  will  change 

your  will.' 

'  Not  so,'  she  cried,  '  by  Heaven,  I  will 
not  drink 
Till  my  dear  lord  arise  and  bid  me  do  it, 


358 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


And  drink  with  me;    and  if  he  rise  no 

more, 
I  will  not  look  at  wine  until  I  die.' 

At  this  he  turn'd  all  red  and  paced  his 

hall, 
Now  gnaw'd  his  under,  now  his    upper 

hp, 
And  coming  up  close  to  her,  said  at  last  : 
'  Girl,  for  I  see  ye  scorn  my  courtesies, 
Take    warning :     yonder    man    is    surely 

dead; 
And  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will. 
Not  eat  nor  drink?     And  wherefore  wail 

for  one, 
Who  put  your   beauty  to  this  flout  and 

scorn 
By  dressing  it  in  rags?     Amazed  am  I, 
13eholding  how  ye  butt  against  my  wish, 
That   I   forbear  you  thus :    cross  me  no 

more. 
At  least  put  off  to  please  me  this  poor 

gown, 
This    silken    rag,    this    beggar-woman's 

weed : 
I  love  that  beauty  should  go  beautifully: 
For  see  ye  not  my  gentlewomen  here. 
How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of  one 
Who  loves  that  beauty  should  go  beauti- 
fully? 
Rise    therefore;     robe    yourself   in  this: 

obey.' 

He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gentle- 
women 

Display'd  a  splendid,  silk  of  foreign  loom, 

Where  like  a  shoaling  sea  the  lovely 
blue 

Play'd  into  green,  and  thicker  down  the 
front 

With  jewels  than  the  sward  with  drops  of 
dew. 

When  all  night  long  a  cloud  clings  to  the 
hill, 

And  with  the  dawn  ascending  lets  the  day 

Strike  where  it  clung:  so  thickly  shone 
the  gems. 

But  Enid  answer'd.  harder  to  be  moved 

Than  hardest  tyrants  in  their  day  of  power, 

With  life-long  injuries  burning  unavenged, 

And    now    their    hour    has    come;     and 

l'',nid  said : 


*  In  this  poor  gown  my  dear  lord  found 

me  first, 
And  loved  me  serving  in  my  father's  hall : 
In  this  poor  gown  I  rode  with  him  to 

court, 
And  there  the  Queen  array'd  me  like  the 

sun : 
In   this  poor  gown   he   bade  me   clothe 

myself, 
When  now  we  rode  upon  this  fatal  quest 
Of  honour,    where    no    honour    can    be 

gain'd : 
And  this  poor  gown  I  will  not  cast  aside 
Until  himself  arise  a  living  man. 
And  bid  me  cast  it.    I  have  griefs  enough  : 
Pray  you  be  gentle,  pray  you  let  me  be : 
I  never  loved,  can  never  love  but  him  : 
Yea,  God,  I  pray  you  of  your  gentleness, 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be.' 

Then   strode  the   brute   Earl   up    and 

down  his  hall. 
And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his 

teeth; 
Last,  coming  up  quite  close,  and  in  his 

mood 
Crying,  '  It  count  it  of  no  more  avail, 
Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with 

you; 
Take  my  salute,'  unknightly  with  flat  hand, 
However  lightly,  smote  her  on  the  cheek. 

Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness, 
And   since   she    thought,   '  He    had  not 

dared  to  do  it, 
Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was  dead,' 
Sent  forth  a  sudden  sharp  and  bitter  cry. 
As  of  a  wild  thing  taken  in  the  trap. 
Which  sees  the  trapper  coming  thro'  the 
wood. 

This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at 

his  sword 
(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow  shield), 
Alade  but  a  single    bound,   and   with  a 

sweep  of  it 
Shore  thro'  the  swarthv  neck,  and  like  a 

ball 
The    russet-bearded    head    roll'd   on    the 

floor. 
vSo  died  Earl   Doorm  by  him   he  counted 

dead. 
And  all  the  men  and  ^^o^■len  in  tlie  hall 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


359 


Rose  \vhen  they  saw  the  dead  man  rise, 

and  fled 
Yelling  as  from  a  spectre,  and  the  two 
Were  left  alone  together,  and  he  said : 

'  Enid,   I   have   used    you  worse   than 

that  dead  man; 
Done    you  more  wrong :  we  both   have 

undergone 
That    trouble  which   has  left  me  thrice 

your  own : 
Henceforward  I  will  rather  die  than  doubt. 
And  here  I  lay  this  penance  on  myself, 
Not,    tho'    mine    own    ears    heard    you 

yestermorn  — 
Vou   thought  me   sleeping,  but  I   heard 

you  say, 
I  heard  you  say,  that  you  were'  no  true 

wife  : 
I  swear  I  will  not  ask  your  meaning  in  it : 
I  do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 
And  will  henceforward    rather  die  than 

doubt.' 

And  Enid    could  not  say  one  tender 

word. 
She  felt  so  blunt  and  stupid  at  the  heart : 
She    only    pray'd    him,    '  Fly,    they    will 

return 
And  slay  you;    fly,  your  charger  is  with- 
out, 
My  palfrey  lost.'     'Then,  Enid,  shall  you 

ride 
Behind  me.'    '  Yea,'  said  Enid, '  let  us  go.' 
And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately 

horse, 
Who  now  no  more  a  vassal  to  the  thief. 
But  free  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  lawful 

fight, 
Neigh'd  with  all  gladness  as  they  came, 

and  stoop'd 
With  a  low  whinny  toward  the  pair  :   and 

she 
Kiss'd    the   white    star    upon    his    noble 

front. 
Glad  also;   then  Geraint  upon  the  horse 
Mounted,  and  reach'd  a  hand,  and  on  his 

foot 
She  set  her  own  and  climb'd;    he  turn'd 

his  face 
And   kiss'd  her   climbing,  and  she   cast 

her  arms 
About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode  away. 


And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Paradise 
O'er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew, 
Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind 
Than  lived  thro'  her,  who  in  that  perilous 

hour 
Put  hand  to  hand  beneath  her  husband's 

heart, 
And   felt  him  hers  again  :   she   did  not 

weep, 
But  o'er  her  meek  eyes  came  a  happy 

mist 
Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden 

green 
Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain  : 
Yet  not  so  misty  were    her   meek  blue 

eyes 
As  not  to  see  before  them  on  the  path, 
Right  in  the  gateway  of  the  bandit  hold, 
A  knight  of  Arthur's  court,  who  laid  his 

lance 
In  rest,  and  made  as  if  to  fall  upon  him. 
Then,  fearing   for  his  hurt   and   loss   of 

blood, 
She,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what  had 

chanced, 
Shriek'd  to  the  stranger  '  Slay  not  a  dead 

man ! ' 
'The  voice   of   Enid,'  said   the   knight; 

but  she, 
Beholding  it  was  Edyrn  son  of  Nudd, 
Was    moved    so    much    the    more,    and 

shriek'd  again, 
'  O  cousin,  slav  not  him  who  gave  you 

life.' 
And  Edyrn  moving  frankly  forward  spake  : 
'  My  lord  Geraint,  I  greet  you  with  all 

love; 
I  took  you  for  a  bandit  knight  of  Doorm; 
And  fear  not,  Enid,  I  should  fall  upon 

him, 
Who  love  you,  Prince,  with  something  of 

the  love 
Wherewith    we    love    the    Heaven    that 

chastens  us. 
For  once,  when  I  was  up  so  high  in  pride 
That  I  was  halfwav  down  the  slope  to 

Hell, 
By  overthrowing  me  you  threw  me  higher. 
Now,  made  a  knight  of  Arthur's  Table 

Round, 
And  since  I  knew  this  Earl,  when  I  my- 
self 
Was  half  a  bandit  in  my  lawless  hour, 


36o 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


I  come  the  mouthpiece  of  our  King  to 

Doorm 
(The  King  is  close  behind  me)  bidding 

him 
Disband  himself,  and  scatter  all  his  powers, 
Submit,  and  hear  the  judgment  of  the 

King.' 

'  He  hears  the  judgment  of  the  King  of 

kings,' 
Cried    the   wan    Prince;     'and   lo,    the 

powers  of  Doorm 
Are  scatter'd,'  and  he  pointed  to  the  field, 
Where,  huddled  here  and  there  on  mound 

and  knoll, 
Were  men  and  women  staring  and  aghast, 
While  some  yet  fled ;  and  then  he  plainlier 

told 
How  the  huge  Earl  lay  slain  within  his 

hall. 
But   when    the    knight    besought    him, 

'  Follow  me, 
Prince,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King's 

own  ear 
Speak    what    has    chanced;     ye   surely 

have  endured 
Strange  chances  here  alone;'  that  other 

flush' d. 
And  hung  his  head,  and  halted  in  reply, 
Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless 

King, 
And  after  madness  acted  question  ask'd  : 
Till  Edyrn  crying,  '  If  ye  will  not  go 
To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to  you,' 
*  Enough,'  he  said,  '  I  follow,'  and  they 

went. 
But  Enid  in  their  going  had  two  fears, 
One  from  the  bandit  scatter'd  in  the  field, 
And  one  from  Edyrn.     Every  now  and 

then, 
When    Edyrn  rein'd  his  charger  at  her 

side. 
She  shrank  a  little.     In  a  hollow  land. 
From  which  old  fires  have  broken,  men 

may  fear 
Fresh  fire  and  ruin.   He,  perceiving,  said  : 

'  Fair  and  dear  cousin,  you  that  most 
had  cause 
To  fear  me,  fear  no  longer,  I  am  changed. 
Yourself  were  first  the  blameless  cause  to 

make 
?^Ty  nature's  prideful  sparkle  in  the  blood 


Break  into  furious  flame;  being  repulsed 
By  Yniol  and   yourself,  I  schemed    and 

wrought 
Until  I  overturn'd  him;   then  set  up 
(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my  heart) 
My  haughty  jousts,  and  took  a  paramour; 
Did  her  mock-honour  as  the  fairest  fair. 
And,  toppling  over  all  antagonism. 
So  wax'd  in  pride,  that  I  believed  myself 
Unconquerable,  for  I  was  wellnigh  mad : 
And,  but  for  my  main  purpose  in  these 

jousts, 
I  should  have  slain   your  father,  seized 

yourself. 
I  lived  in  hope  that  sometime  you  would 

come 
To  thes^  my  lists  with  him  whom   best 

you  loved; 
And  there,  poor  cousin,  with  your  meek 

blue  eyes. 
The     truest    eyes    that    ever    answer'd 

Heaven, 
Behold  me  overturn  and  trample  on  him. 
Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  or  pray'd 

to  me, 
I  should  not  less  have  kill'd  him.     And 

you  came, — 
But   once   you   came,  —  and   with   your 

own  true  eyes 
Beheld  the  man  you  loved  (I  speak  as 

one 
Speaks  of  a  service  done  him)  overthrow 
My  proud    self,   and   my  purpose  three 

years  old. 
And  set  his  foot  upon  me,  and  give  me 

Hfe. 
There  was  I  broken  down;   there  was  I 

saved : 
Tho'   thence   I   rode   all-shamed,  hating 

the  life 
He  gave  me,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  it. 
And  all  the  penance  the  Queen  laid  upon 

me 
Was  but  to  rest  awhile  within  her  court; 
Where  first  as  sullen  as  a  beast  new-caged, 
And  waiting  to  be  treated  like  a  wolf, 
Because  I  knew  my  deeds  were  known, 

I  found. 
Instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scorn, 
Such  fine  reserve  and  noble  reticence, 
Manners  so  kind,  yet  stately,  such  a  grace 
Of  tenderest  courtesy,  that  I  began 
To  glance  behind  me  at  my  former  life, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


361 


And    find   that   it   had    been    the  wolf's 

indeed : 
And  oft  I  talk'd  with  Dubric,  the  high 

saint, 
Who,  with  mild  heat  of  holy  oratory, 
Subdued  me  somewhat  to  that  gentleness, 
Which,    when    it    weds    with    manhood, 

makes  a  man. 
And    you   were   often   there    about   the 

Queen, 
But  saw  me  not,  or  mark'd  not  if  you 

saw; 
Nor  did  I  care  or  dare  to  speak  with  you. 
But  kept  myself  aloof  till  I  was  changed; 
And    fear    not,  cousin;     I    am    changed 

indeed.' 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believed. 
Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulous 
Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend  or 

foe. 
There  most  in  those  who  most  have  done 

them  ill. 
And  when   they  reach'd   the    camp  the 

King  himself 
Advanced  to  greet  them,  and  beholding 

her 
Tho'   pale,  yet  happy,  ask'd  her  not  a 

word. 
But  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he  held 
In  converse  for  a  little,  and  return'd. 
And,    gravely   smiling,    lifted    her    from 

horse. 
And  kiss'd  her  with  all  pureness,  brother- 
like, 
And  show'd  an  empty  tent  allotted  her. 
And  glancing  for  a  minute,  till  he  saw  her 
Pass  into  it,  turn'd    to    the  Prince,  and 

said : 

'Prince,  when  of  late  ye  pray'd  me  for 

my  leave 
To  move   to  your  own  land,  and  there 

defend 
Your  marches,  I  was  prick'd  with  some 

reproof, 
As  one  that  let  foul  wrong  stagnate  and  be, 
By  having  look'd   too   much  thro'  alien 

eyes. 
And    wrought   too   long  with  delegated 

hands. 
Not  used  mine  own  :  but  now  behold  me 

come 


To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  my 

realm, 
With  Edyrn  and  with  others:   have  ye 

look'd 
At    Edyrn?    have    ye   seen   how   nobly 

changed? 
This  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonderful. 
His  very  face  with  change   of  heart   is 

changed. 
The  world  will  not  believe  a  man  repents  : 
And  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly 

right. 
Full  seldom  doth  a  man  repent,  or  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious 

quitch 
Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of  him, 
And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself 

afresh. 
Edyrn  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his  heart 
As  I  will  weed  this  land  before  I  go. 
I,    therefore,    made    him    of   our   Table 

Round, 
Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him  every- 
way 
One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous. 
Sanest  and  most  obedient :  and  indeed 
This  work  of  Edyrn  wrought  upon  him- 
self 
After  a  life  of  violence,  seems  to  me 
A  thousand-fold  more  great  and  wonderful 
Than  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking  his 

life. 
My  subject  with  my  subjects  under  him. 
Should  make  an  onslaught   single  on  a 

realm 
Of  robbers,  tho'  he  slew  them  one  by  one. 
And  were  himself  nigh  wounded  to  the 

death.' 

So   spake  the    King;    low  bow'd    the 

Prince,  and  felt 
His  work  was  neither  great  nor  wonder- 
ful, 
And  past    to    Enid's   tent;    and    thither 

came 
The   King's  own  leech  to  look  into  his 

hurt; 
And    Enid   tended   on    him  there;    and 

there 
Her  constant  motion  round  him,  and  the 

breath 
Of    her   sweet    tendance    hovering   over 

him, 


362 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


Fill'd  all  the  genial  courses  of  his  blood 
With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper  love, 
As  the  south-west  that  blowing  Bala  lake 
Fills  all  the   sacred    Dee.     So   past  the 
days. 

But  while  Geraint  lay  healing  of  his 
hurt, 
The  blameless  King  went  forth  and  cast 

his  eyes 
On  each  of  all  whom  Uther  left  in  charge 
Long  since,  to  guard  the  justice  of  the 

King: 
He  look'd  and  found  them  wanting;   and 

as  now 
Men  weed  the  white  horse  on  the  Berk- 
shire hills 
To  keep  him  bright  and  clean  as  hereto- 
fore. 
He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 
Or  guilty,  which  for  bribe  had  wink'd  at 

wrong. 
And  in  their  chairs  set  up  a  stronger  race 
With  hearts  and  hands,  and  sent  a  thou- 
sand men 
To  till  the  wastes,  and  moving  everywhere 
Clear'd  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the  law. 
And  broke  the  bandit  holds  and  cleansed 
the  land. 

Then,  when  Geraint  was  whole  again, 

they  past 
With  Arthur  to  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There  the  great  Queen  once  more  em- 
braced her  friend, 
And  clothed  her  in  apparel  like  the  day. 
And  tho'  Geraint  could  never  take  again 
That  comfort  from  their  converse  which 

he  took 
Before  the  Queen's  fair  name  was  breathed 

upon. 
He  rested  well  content  that  all  was  well. 
Thence  after  tarrying  for  a  space  they 

rode. 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them  to  the 

shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 

land. 
And  there  he  kept  the  justice  of  the  King 
So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all  hearts 
Applauded,  and  the  spiteful  whisper  died  : 
And  being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase, 
And  victor  at  the  tilt  and  tournament, 


They  call'd  him  the  great  Prince  and  man 

of  men. 
But  Enid,  whom  her  ladies  loved  to  call 
Enid  the  Fair,  a  grateful  people  named 
Enid  the  Good;   and  in  their  halls  arose 
The  cry  of  children,  Enids  and  Geraints 
Of  times  to  be;    nor  did  he  doubt  her 

more, 
But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he  crown'd 
A  happy  life  with  a  fair  death,  and  fell 
Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea 
In  battle,  fighting  for  the  blameless  King. 

BALIN   AND   BALAN. 

PellaM  the  King,  who  held  and  lost  with 

Lot 
In  that  first  war,  and  had  his  realm  restored 
But  render'd  tributary,  fail'd  of  late 
To  send   his  tribute;    wherefore  Arthur 

call'd 
His  treasurer,  one    of  many  years,  and 

spake, 
'  Go  thou  W'ith  him  and  him  and  bring  it 

to  us. 
Lest  we  should  set  one  truer  on  his  throne. 
Man's  word  is  God  in  man.' 

His  Baron  said 
'  We  go  but  harken :  there  be  two  strange 

knights 
Who  sit  near  Camelot  at  a  fountain-side, 
A  mile  beneath  the  forest,  challenging 
And    overthrowing    every    knight    who 

comes. 
Wilt  thou  I  undertake  them  as  we  pass, 
And  send  them  to  thee?  ' 

Arthur  laugh'd  upon  him. 
'  Old    friend,  too    old   to    be    so   young, 

depart. 
Delay  not  thou  for  aught,  but  let  them 

sit. 
Until  they  find  a  lustier  than  themselves.' 

So   these    departed.     Early,    one    fair 

dawn. 
The    light-wing'd    spirit    of    his    youth 

return'd 
On  Arthur's  heart;   he  arm'd  himself  and 

went, 
So  coming  to  the  fountain-side  beheld 
Balin  and  Halan  sitting  statuelike, 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


363 


Brethren,  to  right  and  left  the  spring,  that 

down, 
From  underneath  a  plume  of  lady-fern. 
Sang,  and  the  sand  danced  at  the  bottom 

of  it. 
And  on  the  right  of  BaUn  Balin's  horse 
Was  fast  beside  an  alder,  on  the  left 
Of  Balan  Balan's  near  a  poplartree. 
'Fair  Sirs,'  said    Arthur,  'wherefore  sit 

ye  here?' 
Balin  and  Balan  answer'd,  '  For  the  sake 
Of  glory;   we  be  mightier  men  than  all 
In   Arthur's    court;    that    also    have  we 

proved; 
For  whatsoever  knight  against  us  came 
Or  I  or  he  have  easily  overthrown.' 
'  I    too,'    said    Arthur,  '  am   of   Arthur's 

hall. 
But  rather  proven  in  his  Paynim  wars 
Than  famous  jousts;   but  see,  or  proven 

or  not. 
Whether  me  likewise  ye  can  overthrow.' 
And  Arthur  lightly  smote  the   brethren 

down, 
And  lightly  so  return'd,  and  no  man  knew. 

Then  Balin  rose,  and  Balan,  and  beside 
The  carolling  water  set  themselves  again, 
And  spake   no  word    until    the    shadow 

turn'd; 
When  from  the  fringe  of  coppice  round 

them  burst 
A  spangled  pursuivant,  and  crying  '  Sirs, 
Rise,    follow !     ye    be    sent   for    by    the 

King,' 
They  follow'd ;   whom  when  Arthur  seeing 

ask'd 
'Tell  me  vour  names;   why  sat  ye  bv  the 

well?' 
Balin  the  stillness  of  a  minute  broke 
Saying,  '  An  unmelodious  name  to  thee, 
Balin,    "the     Savage "  —  that    addition 

thine  — 
My  brother  and  my  better,  this  man  here, 
Balan.     I  smote  upon  the  naked  skull 
A  thrall  of  thine  in  open  hall,  my  hand 
Was   gauntleted,  half  slew  him;     for    I 

heard 
He  had  spoken  evil  of  me;   thy  just  wrath 
Sent  me  a  three-years'  exile  from  thine 

eyes. 
I  have  not  lived  my  life  delightsomely : 
For  I  that  did  that  violence  to  thv  thrall. 


Had  often  wrought  some  fury  on  myself, 
Saving  for  Balan :    those  three  kingless 

years 
Have    past  —  were    wormwood-bitter    to 

me.     King, 
Methought  that  if  we  sat  beside  the  well, 
And  hurl'd  to  ground  what  knight  soever 

spurr'd 
Against  us,  thou  would'st  take  me  gladlier 

back. 
And  make,  as  ten-times  worthier  to  be 

thine 
Than    twenty    Balins,    Balan    knight.     I 

have  said. 
Not  so  —  not  all.     A  man  of  thine  to-day 
Abash'd  us  both,  and    brake    my  boast. 

Thy  will?' 
Said   Arthur,  'Thou    hast    ever    spoken 

truth; 
Thy  too  tierce   manhood  would   not  let 

thee  lie. 
Rise,  my  true  knight.    As  children  learn, 

be  thou 
Wiser    for    falling  I    walk  with    me,  and 

move 
To  music  with  thine  Order  and  the  King. 
Thy    chair,  a  grief  to  all  the  brethren, 

stands 
Vacant,  but  thou  retake  it,  mine  again  1  ' 

Thereafter,  when  Sir  Balin  enter'd  hall, 

The  Lost  one  Found  was  greeted  as  in 
Heaven 

With  joy  that  blazed  itself  in  woodland 
wealth 

Of  leaf,  and  gayest  garlandage  of  flowers, 

Along  the  walls  and  down  the  board; 
they  sat, 

And  cup  clash'd  cup;  they  drank  and 
some  one  sang, 

Sweet-voiced,  a  song  of  welcome,  where- 
upon 

Their  common  shout  in  chorus,  mount- 
ing, made 

Those  banners  of  twelve  battles  overhead 

Stir,  as  they  stirr'd  of  old,  when  Arthur's 
host 

Proclaim'd  him  Victor,  and  the  day  was 
won. 

Then  Balan  added  to  their  Order  lived 
A  wealthier  life  than  heretofore  with  these 
And  Balin,  till  their  embassage  return'd. 


3^4 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


'  Sir  King,'  they  brought  report,  '  we 

hardly  found, 
So  bush'd  about  it  is  with  gloom,  the  hall 
Of  him  to  whom  ye  sent  us,  Pellam,  once 
A  Christless  foe  of  thine  as  ever  dash'd 
Horse  against  horse;   but  seeing  that  thy 

realm 
Hath  prosper'd  in  the  name  of  Christ,  the 

King 
Took,  as  in  rival  heat,  to  holy  things; 
And   finds  himself   descended   from  the 

Saint 
Arimathaean  Joseph;   him  who  first 
Brought  the  great  faith  to  Britain  over 

seas; 
He  boasts  his  life  as  purer  than   thine 

own; 
Eats  scarce  enow  to  keep  his  pulse  abeat; 
Hath  push'd  aside  his  faithful  wife,  nor  lets 
Or  dame  or  damsel  enter  at  his  gates 
Lest  he  should  be  polluted.     This  gray 

King 
Show'd  us  a  shrine  wherein  were  wonders 

—  yea  — 
Rich  arks  with  priceless  bones  of  martyr- 
dom, 
Thorns  of  the  crown  and  shivers  of  the 

cross, 
And   therewithal  (for  thus  he  told  us) 

brought 
By  Holy  Joseph  hither,  that  same  spear 
Wherewith  the  Roman  pierced  the  side 

of  Christ. 
He  much   amazed   us;    after,  when  we 

sought 
The  tribute,  answer'd  "  1  have  quite  fore- 
gone 
All  matters  of  this  world  :  Garlon,  mine 

heir, 
Of  him  demand  it,"  which  this  Garlon  gave 
With  much  ado,  railing  at  thine  and  thee. 

'  But  when  we  left,  in  those  deep  woods 

we  found 
A  knight   of  thine    spear-stricken    from 

behind, 
Dead,  whom  we  buried;   more  than  one 

of  us 
Cried  out  on  Garlon,  but  a  woodman  there 
Reported  of  some  demon  in  the  woods 
Was   once    a  man,  who   driven   by   evil 

tongues 
From  all  bis  fellows,  lived  alone,  and  came 


To  learn  black  magic,  and  to  hate  his  kind 
With  such  a  hate,  that  when  he  died,  his 

soul 
Became  a  Fiend,  which,  as  the  man  in  life 
Was  wounded  by  blind  tongues  he  saw 

not  whence, 
Strikes    from    behind.      This   woodman 

show'd   the   cave 
From  which  he  sallies,  and  wherein  he 

dwelt. 
We  saw  the    hoof-print   of  a  horse,  no 

more.' 

Then  Arthur,   '  Let  who   goes   before 

me,  see 
He  do  not  fall  behind  me  :  foully  slain 
And  villainously !  who  will  hunt  for  me 
This  demon  of  the  woods?  '     Said  Balan, 

'I!' 
So  claim'd  the  quest  and  rode  away,  but 

first, 
Embracing    Balin,    '  Good    my    brother, 

hear ! 
Let  not  thy  moods  prevail,  when  I  am 

gone 
Who  used  to  lay  them  !  hold  them  outer 

fiends, 
Who  leap  at  thee  to    tear  thee;    shake 

them  aside. 
Dreams  ruling  when  wit  sleeps !  yea,  but 

to  dream 
That    any   of  these  would  wrong   thee, 

wrongs  thyself. 
Witness  their  flowery  welcome.     Bound 

are  they 
To  speak  no  evil.     Truly  save  for  fears. 
My  fears  for  thee,  so  rich  a  fellowship 
Would  make  me  wholly  blest :  thou  one 

of  them, 
Be  one  indeed  :  consider  them,  and  all 
Their  bearing  in  their  common  bond  of 

love, 
No  more  of  hatred  than  in  Heaven  itself, 
No  more  of  jealousy  than  in  Paradise.' 

So    Balan    warn'd,    and    went;    Balin 

remain'd : 
Who — for  but  three    brief  moons   had 

glanced  away 
From  being  knighted  till  he  smote   the 

thrall. 
And  faded  from  the  presence  into  years 
Of  exile  —  now  would  strictlier  set  himself 


BALIN  AND   BALAN. 


365 


To  learn  what  Arthur  meant  by  courtesy, 
Manhood,    and    knighthood;     wherefore 

hover'd  round 
Lancelot,  but  when  he  mark'd  his  high 

sweet  smile 
In  passing,  and  a  transitory  word 
Make  knight  or  churl  or  child  or  damsel 

seem 
From  being  smiled  at  happier  in  them- 
selves — 
Sigh'd,   as  a  boy  lame-born    beneath    a 

height, 
That  glooms  his  valley,  sighs  to  see  the 

peak 
Sun-flush'd,  or  touch  at  night  the  north- 
ern star; 
For  one  from  out  his  village  lately  climb'd 
And  brought  report  of  azure  lands  and  fair, 
Far  seen  to  left  and  right;  and  he  himself 
Hath  hardly  scaled  with  help  a  hundred 

feet 
Up  from  the  base:    so  Balin  marvelling 

oft 
How  far  beyond  him  Lancelot  seem'd  to 

move, 
Groan'd,    and   at    times    would    mutter, 

'These   be   gifts. 
Born  with  the  blood,  not  learnable,  divine, 
Beyond  my  reach.    Well  had  I  foughten 

—  well  — 

In  those  fierce  wars,  struck  hard — and 

had  I  crown'd 
With  my  slain  self  the  heaps  of  whom  I 

slew  — 
So — better! — But  this  worship   of  the 

Queen, 
That  honour  too  wherein  she  holds  him 

—  this, 

This  was  the  sunshine  that  hath  given  the 

man 
x\  growth,  a  name  that  branches  o'er  the 

rest, 
And  strength  against  all  odds,  and  what 

the  King 
So  prizes  —  overprizes — gentleness. 
Her  likewise  would  I  worship  an  I  might. 
I  never  can  be  close  with  her,  as  he 
That  brought  her  hither.     Shall  I  pray  the 

King 
To  let  me  bear  some  token  of  his  Queen 
Whereon   to    gaze,   remembering   her  — 

forget 
My  heats  and  violences?  live  afresh? 


What,  if  the  Queen  disdain'd  to  grant  it ! 

nay 
Being  so  stately-gentle,  would  she  make 
My  darkness  blackness?  and  with   how 

sweet  grace 
She  greeted  my  return  !     Bold  will  I  be  — 
Some  goodly  cognizance   of  Guinevere, 
In  lieu  of  this  rough  beast  upon  my  shield, 
Langued  gules,  and  tooth'd  vs-ith  grinning 

savagery.' 

And  Arthur,   when   Sir    Balin    sought 

him,  said 
'  What  wilt  thou  bear  ?  '     Balin  was  bold, 

and  ask'd 
To    bear    her    own    crown-royal     upon 

shield, 
Whereat  she  smiled  and  turn'd  her  to  the 

King, 
Who  answer'd,  'Thou  shalt  put  the  crown 

to  use. 
The   crown    is   but    the   shadow    of  the 

King, 
And    this  a  shadow's   shadow,    let    him 

have  it, 
So  this  will  help  him  of  his  violences  !  ' 
'  No  shadow,'  said  Sir  Balin,  'O  my  Queen, 
But  light  to  me  !  no  shadow,  O  my  King, 
But  golden  earnest  of  a  gentler  life  ! ' 

So  Balin  bare  the  crown,  and  all  the 
knights 
Approved  him,  and  the  Queen,  and  all 

the  world 
Made  music,  and  he  felt  his  being  move 
In  music  with  his  Order,  and  the  King. 

The  nightingale,  full-toned  in  middle 

May, 
Hath  ever  and  anon  a  note  so  thin 
It  seems  another  voice  in  other  groves; 
Thus,  after  some  quick  burst  of  sudden 

wrath, 
The  music  in  him  seem'd  to  change,  and 

grow 
Faint  and  far-off. 

And  once  he  saw  the  thrall 
His  passion  half  had  gauntleted  to  death, 
That  causer  of  his  banishment  and  shame, 
Smile  at  him,  as  he  deem'd,  presumptu- 
ously : 
His  arm  half  rose  to  strike  again,  but  fell : 


?66 


BALIN  AND   BALAN. 


The  memory  uf  that  cognizance  on  shield 

To  whom  Sir  Lancelot  with  his  eyes  on 

Weighted    it    down,   but    in    himself  he 

earth, 

moan'd : 

'  Fain  would  I  still  be  loyal  to  the  Queen.' 

'  Yea  so,'  she  said,  *  but  so  to   pass  me 

*  Too  high  this  mount  of  Camelot  for 

by- 

me  : 

So  loyal  scarce  is  loyal  to  thyself, 

These  high-set  courtesies  are  not  for  me. 

Whom  all  men  rate  the  king  of  courtesy. 

Shall  I  not  rather  prove  the  worse   for 

Let   be :    ye    stand,    fair    lord,    as    in    a 

these? 

dream.' 

Fierier    and    stormier    from    restraining, 

break 

Then  Lancelot  with  his  hand  among 

Into    some    madness    ev'n    before     the 

the  flowers. 

Queen?' 

'Yea  —  for    a    dream.      Last    night    me- 

thought  I  saw 

Thus,   as  a  hearth  lit  in  a  mountain 

That  maiden  Saint  who  stands  with  lily 

home, 

in  hand 

And  glancing  on  the  window,  when  the 

In  yonder  shrine.     All  round  her  prest 

gloom 

the  dark. 

Of  twilight  deepens   round   it,   seems   a 

And  all  the  light  upon  her  silver  face 

flame 

Flow'd   from   the   spiritual  lily  that  she 

That  rages  in  a  woodland  far  below. 

held. 

So  when  his  moods  were  darken'd,  court 

Lo  !   these  her  emblems  drew  mine  eyes 

and  King 

—  away : 

And  all  the  kindly  warmth  of  Arthur's 

For  see,  how  perfect-pure  !     As  light  a 

hall 

flush 

Shadow'd    an    angry    distance :     yet    he 

As  hardly  tints  the  blossom  of  the  quince 

strove 

Would    mar    their    charm    of    stainless 

To  learn  the  graces  of  their  Table,  fought 

maidenhood.' 

Hard  with  himself,  and  seem'd  at  length 

in  peace. 

'  Sweeter  to  me,'  she  said,  '  this  garden 
rose 
Deep-hued    and    manv-folded !    sweeter 

Then  chanced,  one  morning,  that  Sir 

Balin  sat 

still 

Close-bower'd  in   that  garden   nigh   the 

The  wild-wood  hyacinth  and  the  bloom 

hall. 

of  May. 

A  walk  of  roses  ran  from  door  to  door; 

Prince,  we  have  ridd'n  before  among  the 

A  walk  of  lilies  crost  it  to  the  bower  : 

flowers 

And  down  that  range  of  roses  the  great 

In  those  fair  days  —  not  all  as  cool  as 

Queen 

these. 

Came  with  slow  steps,  the   morning  on 

Tho'   season-earlier.     Art  thou  sad?    or 

her  face; 

sick  ? 

And  all  in  shadow  from  the  counter  door 

Our  noble  King  will  send  thee  his  own 

Sir    Lancelot    as    to   meet    her,   then   at 

leech  — 

once. 

Sick?  or  for  any  matter  anger'd  at  me?' 

As  if   he    saw  not,   glanced    aside,   and 

paced 

Then   Lancelot   lifted  his   large   eyes; 

The  long  white  walk  of  lilies  toward  the 

they  dwelt 

bower. 

Deep-tranced  on  hers,  and  could  not  fall : 

FoUow'd  the  Queen;  Sir  Balin  heard  her 

her  hue 

'  Prince, 

Changed  at  his  gaze :   so  turning  side  by 

Art  thou  so  little  loyal  to  thy  Queen, 

side 

As   pass    without    good    morrow   to    thy 

They  past,   and    Balin   started   from   his 

Queen?' 

bower. 

BALhX  AND   BALAX. 


3^7 


'Queen?  subject?  but  I  see  not  what 

I  see. 
Damsel    and    lover?    hear    not    what    I 

hear. 
My  father  hath  begotten  me  in  his  wrath. 
I    suffer    from    the    things    before    me, 

know, 
Learn   nothing;    am    not   worthy  to    be 

knight; 
A  churl,  a  clown  I  '  and  in  him  gloom  on 

gloom 
Deepen'd :   he  sharply  caught  his  lance 

and  shield, 
Nor  stay'd   to  crave   permission    of  the 

King, 
But,  mad  for  strange  adventure,  dash'd 

away. 

He  took  the  selfsame  track  as  Balan, 

saw 
The   fountain  where   they  sat    together, 

sigh'd, 
'Was  I  not  better  there  with  him?  '  and 

rode 
The  skyless  woods,  but  under  open  blue 
Came    on  the  hoarhead  woodman   at  a 

bough 
Wearily   hewing.      '  Churl,    thine    axe  !  ' 

he  cried, 
Descended,  and  disjointed  it  at  a  blow : 
To  whom  the  woodman  utter'd  wonder- 

'  Lord,    thou    couldst    lay   the    Devil    of 

these  woods 
If  arm  of  flesh   could   lay   him.'     Balin 

cried, 
'  Him,  or  the  viler  devil  who   plays   his 

part. 
To  lay  that  devil  would  lay  the  Devil  in 

me.' 
*Nay,'    said   the    churl,  'our    devil    is    a 

truth, 
I  saw  the  flash  of  him  but  yestereven. 
And  some  do  say  that  our  Sir  Garlon  too 
Hath  learn'd  black  magic,   and  to  ride 

unseen. 
Look  to  the  cave.'     But  Balin  answer'd 

him, 
'  Old  fabler,  these  be  fancies  of  the  churl. 
Look  to  thy  woodcraft,'  and  so  leaving 

him. 
Now  with  slack  rein  and  careless  of  him- 
self. 


Now  with  dug  spur  and  raving  at  him- 
self, 
Now  with   droopt  brow  down   the   long 

glades  he  rode; 
So  mark'd  not  on  his  right  a  cavern-chasm 
Yawn    over    darkness,    where,    not    far 

within, 
The  whole  day  died,  but,  dying,  gleam'd 

on  rocks 
Roof-pendent,  sharp;    and    others  from 

the  floor, 
Tusklike,   arising,  made    that   mouth  of 

night 
Whereout    the    Demon    issued   up  from 

Hell. 
He  mark'd  not  this,  but  blind  and  deaf 

to  all 
Save  that  chain'd  rage,  which  ever  yelpt 

within. 
Past  eastward  from  the  falling  sun.     At 

once 
He  felt  the  hollow-beaten  mosses  thud 
And  tremble,  and  then  the  shadow  of  a 

spear, 
Shot   from   behind    him,  ran   along  the 

ground. 
Sideways  he  started  from  the  path,  and 

saw, 
With    pointed    lance    as   if  to  pierce,  a 

shape, 
A  light  of  armour  by  him  flash,  and  pass 
And  vanish  in  the  woods;   and  follow'd 

this. 
But  all  so  blind  in  rage  that  unawares 
He  burst  his  lance  against  a  forest  bough 
Dishorsed  himself,   and  rose  again,  and 

fled 
Far,  till  the  castle  of  a  King,  the  hall 
Of  Pellam,  lichen-bearded,  grayly  draped 
W^ith  streaming  grass,  appear'd,  low-built 

but  strong; 
The  ruinous  donjon  as  a  knoll  of  moss, 
The  battlement  overtopt  with  ivytods, 
A  home  of  bats,  in  every  tower  an  owl. 

Then  spake  the  men  of  Pellam  crying, 

'  Lord, 
Why    wear   ye    this    crown-royal    upon 

shield  ? ' 
Said  Balin,  '  For  the  fairest  and  the  best 
Of  ladies  living  gave  me  this  to  l)ear,' 
So  stall'd  his  horse,  and  strode  acruss  the 

court, 


368 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


But  found  the  greetings  both  of  knight 

and  King 
Faint  in  the  low  dark  hall  of  banquet : 

leaves 
Laid    their   green  faces  flat  against  the 

panes, 
Sprays  grated,  and  the  canker'd  boughs 

without 
Whined  in  the  wood;   for  all  was  hush'd 

within, 
Till   when    at  feast  Sir  Garlon    likewise 

ask'd 
'  Why  wear  ye  that  crown-royal  ?'  Balin 

said 
'The    Queen    we    worship,  Lancelot,    I, 

and  all, 
As  fairest,  best  and  purest,  granted  me 
To  bear  it !  '    Such  a  sound  (for  Arthur's 

knights 
Were    hated   strangers   in    the    hall)   as 

makes 
The   white   swan-mother,   sitting,    when 

she  hears 
A   strange    knee   rustle  thro'  her  secret 

reeds, 
Made    Garlon,    hissing;    then  he  sourly 

smiled. 
'Fairest  I  grant  her-   I  have  seen;   but 

best. 
Best,   purest?  thou   from   Arthur's   hall, 

and  yet 
So   simple !    hast   thou   eyes,    or  if,  are 

these 
So  far  besotted  that  they  fail  to  see 
This   fair   wife-worship    cloaks  a   secret 

shame? 
Truly,  ye  men  of  Arthur  be  but  babes.' 

A   goblet    on    the    board    by    Balin, 

boss'd 
With  holy  Joseph's  legend,  on  his  right 
Stood,  all  of  massiest  bronze :   one  side 

had  sea 
And  ship  and  sail  and  angels  blowing  on 

it: 
And  one  was  rough  with  wattling,  and 

the  walls 
Of  that  low  church  he  built  at  Glaston- 
bury. 
This    Balin    graspt,  but  while  in  act  to 

hurl. 
Thro'    memory    of    that    token    on   the 

shield 


Relax'd  his  hold  :  '  I  will  be  gentle,'  he 

thought, 
'And   passing  gentle,'    caught  his  hand 

away. 
Then  fiercely  to  Sir  Garlon,  *  Eyes  have  I 
That  saw  to-day  the  shadow  of  a  spear. 
Shot    from    behind   me,    run    along   the 

ground; 
Eyes    too    that   long  have  watch' d  how 

Lancelot  draws 
From    homage    to    the  best  and  purest, 

might, 
Name,    manhood,    and     a     grace,     but 

scantly  thine, 
W^ho,    sitting    in    thine  own    hall,  canst 

endure 
To    mouth  so  huge  a   foulness  —  to  thy 

guest, 
Me,  me  of  Arthur's  Table.     Felon  talk  ! 
Let  be  !  no  more  ! ' 

But  not  the  less  by  night 
The  scorn  of  Garlon,  poisoning  all  his 

rest. 
Stung  him  in    dreams.     At  length,  and 

dim  thro' leaves 
Blinkt  the  white    morn,   sprays   grated, 

and  old  boughs 
Whined    in    the    wood.     He    rose,    de- 
scended, met 
The  scorner  in  the  castle  court,  and  fain, 
For  hate  and  loathing,  would  have  past 

him  by; 
But  when  Sir   Garlon    utter'd  mocking- 

wise, 
'  What,  wear   ye  still  that  same  crown- 
scandalous?' 
His     countenance    blacken'd,    and    his 

forehead  veins 
Bloated,  and  branch'd;   and  tearing  out 

of  sheath 
The  brand,  Sir  Balin  with  a  fiery  '  Ha  ! 
So  thou  be  shadow,  here    I  make  thee 

ghost,' 
Hard    upon    helm    smote    him,  and   the 

blade  flew 
Splintering   in  six,  and  clinkt    upon  the 

stones. 
Then  Garlon,  reeling   slowly  backward, 

fell, 
And  l>alin  by  the  banneret  of  his  helm 
Dragg'd  him,  and  struck,  but  from  the 

castle  a  cry 


BALIN  AND   BALAN. 


369 


Sounded  across  the  court,  and  —  men-at- 
arms, 
A  score  with  pointed  lances,  making  at 

him  — 
He  dash'd  the  pummel  at  the  foremost 

face, 
Beneath  a  low  door  dipt,  and  made  his 

feet 
Wings  thro'  a  glimmering  gallery,  till  he 

mark'd 
The  portal  of  King  Pellam's  chapel  wide 
And  inward  to  the  wall ;   he  stept  behind ; 
Thence  in  a  moment  heard  them  pass 

like  wolves 
Howling;   but  while  he  stared  about  the 

shrine, 
In  which  he  scarce  could  spy  the  Christ 

for  Saints, 
Beheld  before  a  golden  altar  lie 
The  longest  lance  his  eyes  had  ever  seen, 
Point-painted  red;  and  seizing  thereupon 
Push'd  thro'    an   open   casement    down, 

lean'd  on  it. 
Leapt  in  a  semicircle,  and  lit  on  earth; 
Then  hand  at  ear,  and  harkening  from 

what  side 
The    blindfold   rummage    buried    in  the 

walls 
Might  echo,  ran  the  counter  path,  and 

found 
His  charger,  mounted  on  him  and  away. 
An  arrow  whizz'd  to  the  right,  one  to  the 

left, 
One  overhead;   and  Pellam's  feeble  cry 
'  Stay,  stay    him  I    he    defileth    heavenly 

things 
With  earthly  uses  ' — made  him  quickly 

dive 
Beneath  the  boughs,  and  race  thro'  many 

a  mile 
Of  dense  and  open,  till  his  goodly  horse, 
Arising  wearily  at  a  fallen  oak, 
Stumbled  headlong,  and  cast  him  face  to 

ground. 

Half-wroth  he  had  not  ended,  but  all 

glad, 
Knightlike,  to  find  his  charger  yet  un- 

lamed. 
Sir  Balin   drew  the   shield  from   off  his 

neck, 
Stared  at  the  priceless  cognizance,  and 

thought 

2B 


'  I  have  shamed  thee  so  that  now  thou 

shamest  me, 
Thee   will  I  bear  no  more,'  high   on  a 

branch 
Hung  it,  and  turn'd  aside  into  the  woods, 
And    there    in   gloom    cast    himself    all 

along. 
Moaning  '  My  violences,  my  violences  ! ' 

But  now  the  wholesome  music  of  the 

wood 
Was  dumb'd  by  one  from  out  the  hall  of 

Mark, 
A  damsel- errant,  warbling,  as  she  rode 
The  woodland  alleys,   Vivien,  with    her 

Squire. 

'  The  fire    of   Heaven   has   kill'd   the 

barren  cold. 
And    kindled  all  the  plain  and    all  the 

wold. 
The  new  leaf  ever  pushes  off  the  old. 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame  of 

Hell. 

'  Old   priest,  who  mumble  worship  in 

your  quire  — 
Old  monk  and  nun,  ye  scorn  the  world's 

desire. 
Yet  in  your  frosty  cells  ye  feel  the  fire ! 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame  of 

Hell. 

'  The  fire  of  Heaven  is  on  the   dusty 

ways. 
The  wayside  blossoms  open  to  the  blaze. 
The  whole  wood-world  is  one  full  peal 

of  praise. 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame  of 

Hell. 

'  The  fire  of  Heaven  is  lord  of  all  things 

good, 
And  starve  not  thou  this  fire  within  thy 

blood. 
But  follow  Vivien  thro'  the  fiery  flood  ! 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame  of 

Hell !  ' 

Then  turning  to  her  Squire,  'This  fire 
of  Heaven, 
This    old    sun-worship,    boy,    will    rise 
again. 


!70 


BALIN  AND   BALAN. 


And  beat  the  cross  to  earth,  and  break 

the  King 
And  all  his  Table,' 

Then  they  reach'd  a  glade, 
Where  under  one  long  lane  of  cloudless 

air 
Before  another  wood,  the  royal  crown 
Sparkled,  and  swaying  upon  a  restless  elm 
Drew  the  vague  glance  of  Vivien,  and  her 

Squire ; 
Amazed    were    these;    '  Lo   there,'    she 

cried,  '  a  crown  — 
Borne    by    some     high     lord-prince    of 

Arthur's  hall. 
And  there  ahorse!  the  rider?  where  is 

he? 
See,  yonder   lies    one    dead   within    the 

wood. 
Not  dead;    he  stirs! — but  sleeping.      I 

will  speak. 
Hail,  royal  knight,  we  break  on  thy  sweet 

rest, 
Not,    doubtless,    all    unearn'd    by    noble 

deeds. 
But  bounden  art  thou,  if  from  Arthur's 

hall, 
To  help  the  weak.     Behold,  I  fly  from 

shame, 
A  lustful  King,  who   sought  to  win  my 

love 
Thro'  evil  ways :  the  knight,  with  whom 

I  rode. 
Hath    sufifer'd    misadventure,    and    my 

squire 
Hath  in  him  small  defence;    but  thou. 

Sir  Prince, 
Wilt  surely  guide  me  to  the  warrior  King, 
Arthur  the  blameless,  pure  as  any  maid, 
To  get  me  shelter  for  my  maidenhood. 
I  charge  thee  by  that  crown   upon  thy 

shield, 
And  by  the   great   Queen's  name,  arise 

and  hence.' 

And    Bahn    rose,    'Thither  no  more! 

nor  Prince 
Nor   knight   am    I,   but    one    that    hath 

defamed 
The    cognizance    she  gave   me :    here   I 

dwell 
Savage  among  the   savage   woods,  here 

die  — 


Die :  let  the  wolves'  black  maws  en- 
sepulchre 

Their  brother  beast,  whose  anger  was  his 
lord. 

0  me,  that  such  a  name  as  Guinevere's, 
Which  our  high  Lancelot  hath  so  lifted 

up, 
And  been  thereby  uplifted,  should  thro' 

me, 
My  violence,  and   my  villainy,  come  to 

shame.' 

Thereat    she    suddenly    laugh'd    and 

shrill,  anon 
Sigh'd  all  as  suddenly.     Said  Balin  to  her 
'  Is  this  thy  courtesy  —  to  mock  me,  ha? 
Hence,  for  I  will  not  with  thee.'     Again 

she  sigh'd 
'  Pardon,  sweet  lord  !  we  maidens  often 

laugh 
.  When   sick    at    heart,    when    rather    we 

should  weep. 

1  knew  thee  wrong'd.     I  brake  upon  thy 

rest. 
And  now   full  loth   am   I   to  break  thy 

dream, 
But  thou  art  man,  and  canst  abide  a  truth, 
Tho'    bitter.      Hither,   boy  —  and   mark 

me  well. 
Dost  thou  remember  at  Caerleon  once  — 
A  year  ago  —  nay,  then  I  love  thee  not  — 
Ay,  thou  rememberest  well  —  one  summer 

dawn  — 
By    the    great    tower  —  Caerleon    upon 

Usk  — 
Nay,    truly   we   were   hidden :    this   fair 

lord. 
The  flower  of  all  their  vestal  knighthood, 

knelt 
In  amorous  homage  —  knelt  — what  else? 

—  Oay 
Knelt,    and    drew    down    from    out    his 

night-black  hair 
And    mumbled   that  white    hand   whose 

ring'd  caress 
Had    wander'd    from    her    own    King's 

golden  head, 
And    lost    itself    in    darkness,    till    she 

cried  — 
I  thought  the  great  tower  would   crash 

down  on  both  — 
"  Rise,  my  sweet  King,  and  kiss  me  on 

the  lips, 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


371 


Thou   art  my  King,"     This  lad,   whose 

lightest  word 
Is  mere  white  truth  in  simple  nakedness, 
Saw  them  embrace  :  he  reddens,  cannot 

speak. 
So  bashful,  he  I  but  all  the  maiden  Saints, 
The    deathless     mother-maidenhood     of 

Heaven, 
Cry  out  upon  her.     Up  then,  ride  with 

me  ! 
Talk  not  of  shame  !  thou  canst  not,  an 

thou  would'st. 
Do  these  more   shame  than  these   have 

done  themselves,' 

She  lied  with  ease;   but  horror-stricken 

he, 
Remembering  that  dark  bower  at  Came- 

lot. 
Breathed    in    a    dismal    whisper    '  It    is 

truth.' 

Sunnily  she  smiled  '  And  even  in  this 

lone  wood. 
Sweet  lord,  ye  do  right  well  to  whisper 

this. 
Fools  prate,  and  perish  traitors.     Woods 

have  tongues. 
As  walls  have   ears :    but   thou  shalt  go 

with  me, 
And   we  will   speak    at    first    exceeding 

low. 
Meet  is  it  the  good  King  be  not  deceived. 
See    now,  I   set   thee    high   on  vantage 

ground, 
From  whence   to   watch    the    time,   and 

eagle-like 
Stoop  at  thy  will  on  Lancelot  and  the 

Queen,' 

She  ceased;    his  evil  spirit  upon  him 

leapt, 
He  ground    his    teeth    together,   sprang 

with  a  yell, 
Tore  from  the  branch,  and  cast  on  earth, 

the  shield, 
Drove  his  mail'd  heel  athwart  the  royal 

crown, 
Stampt  all  into  defacement,  hurl'd  it  from 

him 
Among  the  forest  weeds,  and  cursed  the 

tale. 
The  told-of,  and  the  teller. 


That  weird  yell, 
Unearthlier   than   all  shriek   of   bird   or 

beast, 
Thrill'd    thro'    the    woods;     and    Balan 

lurking  there 
(His   quest  was   unaccomplish'd)    heard 

and  thought 
'  The  scream  of  that  Wood-devil  I  came 

to  quell !  ' 
Then  nearing  '  Lo  !  he  hath  slain  some 

brother-knight. 
And   tramples  on   the  goodly  shield   to 

show 
His  loathing  of  our  Order  and  the  Queen. 
My  quest,  meseems,  is  here.      Or   devil 

or  man 
Guard  thou  thine  head,'     Sir  Balin  spake 

not  word. 
But  snatch'd  a  sudden  buckler  from  the 

Squire, 
And  vaulted  on  his  horse,  and  so  they 

crash'd 
In  onset,  and  King  Pellam's  holy  spear. 
Reputed  to  be  red  with  sinless  blood, 
Redden'd    at  once  with   sinful,   for    the 

point 
Across  the  maiden  shield  of  Balan  prick'd 
The  hauberk   to   the   flesh;  and  Balin's 

horse 
Was  wearied   to   the   death,   and,   when 

they  clash'd, 
Rolling  back  upon  Balin,  crush'd  the  man 
Inward,  and  either  fell,  and  swoon'd  away. 

Then    to    her     Squire    mutter'd    the 

damsel  '  Fools  1 
This  fellow  hath  wrought  some  foulness 

with  his  Queen : 
Else  never  had  he  borne  her  crown,  nor 

raved 
And  thus  foam'd  over  at  a  rival  name  : 
But    thou.   Sir    Chick,   that   scarce   hast 

broken  shell, 
Art    yet    half-yolk,    not    even   come    to 

down  — 
Who  never  sawest  Caerleon  upon  Usk  — 
And  yet  hast  often  pleaded  for  my  love  — 
See  what  I  see,  be  thou  where  I  have 

been, 
Or  else  Sir  Chick  —  dismount  and  loose 

their  casques, 
I  fain  would  know  what  manner  of  men 

they  be,' 


372 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


And  when  the  Squire  had  loosed  them, 

'  Brother,  I  dwelt  a    day  in    Pellam's 

*  Goodly  !  —  look  ! 

hall  : 

They  might  have  cropt  the  myriad  flower 

This  Garlon  mock'd  me,  but   I   heeded 

of  May, 

not. 

And  butt  each  other  here,  like  brainless 

And    one    said    *'  Eat    in    peace !    a   liar 

bulls, 

is  he, 

Dead  for  one  heifer  !  ' 

And   hates   thee   for   the   tribute !  "   this 

good  knight 

Then  the  gentle  Squire 

Told   me   that    twice    a    wanton    damsel 

M  hold  them  happy,  so   they  died  for 

came, 

love  : 

And    sought    for    Garlon    at   the    castle- 

And,  Vivien,  tho'  ye  beat  me  like  your 

gates. 

dog, 

Whom    Pellam    drove    away   with    holy 

I  too  could  die,  as  now  I  live,  for  thee.' 

heat. 

I  well  believe  this  damsel,  and  the  one 

'  Live    on,    Sir    Boy,'    she    cried.       *  I 

Who  stood   beside   thee  even  now,  the 

better  prize 

same. 

The  living  dog  than  the  dead  lion  :  away  ! 

"  She  dwells  among  the  woods,"  he  said. 

I  cannot  brook  to  gaze  upon  the  dead.' 

"  and  meets 

Then  leapt  her  palfrey  o'er  the  fallen  oak, 

And  dallies  with  him  in  the  Mouth  of 

And  bounding  forward  '  Leave  them  to 

Hell." 

the  wolves.' 

Foul  are  their  lives;   foul  are  their  lips; 

they  lied. 

But   when    their    foreheads    felt    the 

Pure    as    our    own    true    Mother   is   our 

cooling  air, 

Queen.' 

Balin   first  woke,   and   seeing   that  true 

face, 

*  0  brother,'  answer'd  Balin,  '  woe   is 

Familiar  up  from  cradle-time,  so  wan, 

me ! 

Crawl'd  slowly  with  low  moans  to  where 

My  madness   all  thy  life  has  been  thy 

he  lay, , 

doom, 

And  on  his  dying  brother  cast  himself 

Thy  curse,  and   darken'd   all    thy  day; 

Dying;   and  he  lifted  faint  eyes;   he  felt 

and  now 

One  near  him;    all   at  once  they  found 

The  night  has  come.     I  scarce  can  see 

the  world. 

thee  now. 

Staring  wild-wide;   then  with  a  childlike 

Goodnight !   for  we  shall  never  bid  again 

wail, 

Goodmorrow — Dark  my  doom  was  here, 

And  drawing  down  the  dim   disastrous 

and  dark 

brow 

It  will  be  there.     I    see   thee   now   no 

That  o'er  him  hung,  he  kiss'd  it,  moan'd 

more. 

and  spake  : 

I  would  not  mine  again  should  darken 

thine. 

*  O  Balin,  Balin,  I  that  fain  had  died 

Goodnight,  true  brother.' 

To  save  thy  life,  have   brought  thee  to 

thy  death. 

Balan  answer'd  low 

Why  had  ye  not  the  shield  I  knew?  and 

'Goodnight,   true    brother    here!    good- 

why 

morrow  there ! 

Trampled  ye  thus  on  that  which  bare  the 

We  two    were    born   together,    and   we 

Crown  ? ' 

die 

Together  by  one  doom : '  and  while  he 

Then  Balin  told  him  brokenly,  and  in 

spoke 

gasps. 

Closed  his  death-drowsing  eyes,  and  slept 

All  that  had  chanced,  and  Balan  moan'd 

the  sleep 

again. 

With  Balin,  either  lock'd  in  cither's  arm. 

MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


373 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 

A    STORM   was  coming,    but    the    winds 

were  still, 
And  in  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande, 
Before  an  oak,  so  hollow,  huge  and  old 
It  look'd  a  tower  of  ivied  masonwork, 
At  Merlin's  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 

For    he    that    always    bare    in    bitter 
grudge 
The   slights    of  Arthur    and    his   Table, 

The  Cornish  King,  had  heard  a  wander- 
ing voice, 
A  minstrel  of  Caerleon  by  strong  storm 
Blown  into  shelter  at  Tintagil,  say 
That  out  of  naked  knightlike  purity 
Sir  Lancelot  worshipt  no  unmarried  girl 
But  the  great  Queen  herself,  fought  in 

her  name, 
Sware    by  her  —  vows   like    theirs,    that 

high  in  heaven 
Love  most,  but    neither  marry,  nor  are 

given 
In  marriage,  angels  of  our  Lord's  report. 

He    ceased,    and    then  —  for    Vivien 
sweetly  said 
(She   sat    beside    the   banquet    nearest 

Mark), 
'And  is  the  fair  example  follow'd,  Sir, 
In  Arthur's  household?  ' — answer'd  inno- 
cently : 

*  Ay,  by  some  few  —  ay,  truly  —  youths 

that  hold 
It  more  beseems  the  perfect  virgin  knight 
To  worship  woman  as  true  wife  beyond 
All  hopes   of  gaining,   than   as   maiden 

girl. 
They  place  their  pride  in  Lancelot  and 

the  Queen. 
So  passionate  for  an  utter  purity 
Beyond  the  limit  of  their  bond,  are  these. 
For  Arthur  bound  them  not  to  singleness. 
Brave   hearts  and  clean!   and  yet  —  Go 

guide  them  —  young.' 

Then  Mark  was  half  in  heart  to  hurl 
his  cup 
Straight  at  the  speaker,  but  forbore :  he 
rose 


To  leave  the  hall,  and,  Vivien  following 

him, 
Turn'd  to  her :  '  Here  are  snakes  within 

the  grass; 
And  you  methinks,   O    Vivien,  save  ye 

fear 
The  monkish  manhood,  and  the  mask  of 

pure 
Worn  by   this   court,   can  stir   them   till 

they  sting.' 

And    Vivien   answer'd,  smiling  scorn- 
fully, 
'  Why  fear?  because  that  foster'd  at  thy 

court 
I  savour  of  thy  —  virtues?  fear  them?  no. 
As   Love,  if  Love  be   perfect,  casts  out 

fear. 
So  Hate,  if  Hate  be  perfect,   casts  out 

fear. 
My    father    died    in    battle    against   the 

King, 
My  mother  on  his  corpse  in  open  field; 
She  bore  me  there,  for  born  from  death 

was  I 
Among   the   dead    and   sown    upon    the 

wind  — 
And  then  on  thee  !  and  shown  the  truth 

betimes. 
That  old  true   filth,  and  bottom  of  the 

well, 
Where  Truth  is  hidden.    Gracious  lessons 

thine 
And  maxims  of  the  mud  !     "  This  Arthur 

pure ! 
Great  Nature  thro'  the  flesh  herself  hath 

made 
Gives  him  the  lie  !     There  is  no  being 

pure. 
My   cherub;     saith    not   Holy   Writ   the 

same?  "  — 
If  I  were  Arthur,  I  would  have  thy  blood. 
Thy   blessing,   stainless  King !      I    bring 

thee  back, 
When  I  have  ferreted  out  their  burrow- 

ings. 
The    hearts    of   all    this  Order  in   mine 

hand  — 
Ay  —  so  that    fate    and    craft   and  folly 

close. 
Perchance,  one  curl  of  x\rthur's  golden 

beard. 
To  me  this  narrow  grizzled  fork  of  thine 


374 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


Is  cleaner-fashion'd  —  Well,  I  loved  thee 

first, 
That  warps  the  wit.' 

Loud  laugh'd  the  graceless  Mark. 
But  Vivien,  into  Camelot  stealing,  lodged 
Low  in  the  city,  and  on  a  festal  day 
When  Guinevere  was  crossing  the  great 

hall 
Cast  herself  down,  knelt  to  the  Queen, 

and  wail'd. 

'  Why  kneel  ye  there?  What  evil  have 
ye  wrought? 

Rise  !  '  and  the  damsel  bidden  rise  arose 

And  stood  with  folded  hands  and  down- 
ward eyes 

Of  glancing  corner,  and  all  meekly  said, 

'  None  wrought,  but  suffer'd  much,  an 
orphan  maid  ! 

My  father  died  in  battle  for  thy  King, 

My  mother  on  his  corpse  —  in  open 
held, 

The  sad  sea-sounding  wastes  of  Lyon- 
esse  — 

Poor  wretch  —  no  friend  !  —  and  now  by 
Mark  the  King 

For  that  small  charm  of  feature  mine, 
pursued  — 

If  any  such  be  mine  —  I  fly  to  thee. 

Save,  save  me  thou  —  Woman  of  women 
—  thine 

The  wreath  of  beauty,  thine  the  crown  of 
power. 

Be  thine  the  balm  of  pity,  O  Heaven's 
own  white 

Earth-angel,  stainless  bride  of  stainless 
King  — 

Help,  for  he  follows !  take  me  to  thy- 
self! 

O  yield  me  shelter  for  mine  innocency 

Among  thy  maidens  ! ' 

Here  her  slow  sweet  eyes 
Fear-tremulous,  but  humbly  hopeful,  rose 
Fixt  on   her   hearer's,   while  the  Queen 

who  stood 
All  glittering  like  May  sunshine  on  May 

leaves 
In   green    and   gold,   and    plumed    with 

green  replied, 
'  Peace,  child  !    of  overpraise  and  over- 
blame 


We  choose  the  last.     Our  noble  Arthur, 

him 
Ye  scarce  can  overpraise,  will  hear  and 

know. 
Nay —  we  believe  all  evil  of  thy  Mark  — 
Well,  we  shall  test  thee  farther;   but  this 

hour 
We  ride  a- hawking  with  Sir  Lancelot. 
He  hath  given  us  a  fair  falcon  which  he 

train'd; 
We  go  to   prove  it.     Bide  ve   here   the 

while.' 

She  past;  and  Vivien  murmur'd  after, 
'Go! 

I  bide  the  while.'  Then  thro'  the  portal- 
arch 

Peering  askance,  and  muttering  broken- 
wise, 

As  one  that  labours  with  an  evil  dream. 

Beheld  the  Queen  and  Lancelot  get  to 
horse, 

'Is  that  the   Lancelot?   goodly  —  ay, 

but  gaunt : 
Courteous  —  amends     for     gauntness  — 

takes  her  hand  — 
That  glance  of  theirs,  but  for  the  street, 

had  been 
A    clinging   kiss  —  how  hand  lingers  in 

hand  ! 
Let   go   at  last !  —  they  ride    away  —  to 

hawk 
For  waterfowl.     Royaller  game  is  mine. 
For  such  a  supersensual  sensual  bond 
xA.s   that   gray   cricket   chirpt    of  at    our 

hearth  — 
Touch   flax  with   flame  —  a    glance   will 

serve  —  the  liars  ! 
Ah  little  rat  that  borest  in  the  dyke 
Thy  hole  by  night  to  let  the  boundless  deep 
Down    upon    far-off    cities    while    they 

dance  — 
Or  dream  —  of  thee  they  dream'd  not  — 

nor  of  me 
These  —  ay,  but  each  of  either  :  ride,  and 

dream 
The    mortal    dream    that   never  yet  was 

mine  — 
Ride,  ride  and  dream  until  ye  wake  — 

to  me ! 
Then,   narrow   court    and    lubber    King, 

farewell  ! 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


375 


For  Lancelot  will  be  gracious  to  the  rat, 
And  our  wise  Queen,  if  knowing  that  I 

know, 
Will  hate,  loathe,  fear  —  but  honour  me 

the  more.' 

Yet  while  they  rode  together  down  the 

plain. 
Their  talk  was  all  of  training,  terms  of  art. 
Diet  and  seeling,  jesses,  leash  and  lure. 
'  She  is  too  noble,'  he  said,  '  to  check  at 

pies, 
Nor  will  she  rake  :  there  is  no  baseness 

in  her.' 
Here  when  the  Queen  demanded  as  by 

chance, 
*  Know  ye  the  stranger  woman?'     'Let 

her  be,' 
Said  Lancelot  and  unhooded  casting  off 
The   goodly    falcon    free;    she    tower'd; 

her  bells. 
Tone  under  tone,,5hriird;   and  they  lifted 

Their    eager    faces,    wondering    at    the 

strength, 
Boldness    and   royal  knighthood  of   the 

bird 
Who   pounced   her   quarry  and  slew  it. 

Many  a  time 
As  once  —  of  old  —  among  the  flowers  — 

they  rode. 

But  Vivien  half-forgotten  of  the  Queen 
Among  her  damsels  broidering  sat,  heard, 

watch'd 
And  whisper'd :   thro'  the  peaceful  court 

she  crept 
And  whisper'd :    then   as  Arthur  in  the 

highest 
Leaven'd   the  world,   so   Vivien    in    the 

lowest, 
Arriving  at  a  time  of  golden  rest. 
And  sowing  one  ill  hint  from  ear  to  ear, 
While  all  the  heathen  lay  at  Arthur's  feet. 
And  no  quest  came,  but  all  w-as  joust  and 

play, 
Leaven'd  his  hall.     They  heard  and  let 

her  be. 

Thereafter  as  an  enemy  that  has  left 
Death   in    the   living  waters,   and  with- 
drawn, 
The  wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthur's  court. 


She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard 

in  thought 
Their    lavish    comment  when  her  name 

was  named. 
For  once,  when  Arthur  walking  all  alone, 
Vext  at  a  rumour  issued  from  herself 
Of    some    corruption    crept    among    his 

knights. 
Had  met  her,  Vivien,  being  greeted  fair, 
Would  fain  have  wrought  upon  his  cloudy 

mood 
With   reverent  eyes  mock-loyal,  shaken 

voice. 
And  flutter'd  adoration,  and  at  last 
With    dark    sweet   hints    of   some    who 

prized  him  more 
Than   who    should    prize    him  most;    at 

which  the  King 
Had  gazed  upon  her  blankly  and  gone 

by: 
But  one  had  watch'd,  and  had  not  held 

his  peace  : 
It  made  the  laughter  of  an  afternoon 
That  Vivien  should  attempt  the  blame- 
less King. 
And  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gain 
Him,  the  most  famous  man  of  all  those 

times. 
Merlin,  who  knew  the  range  of  all  their 

arts, 
Had  built  the   King  his  havens,   ships, 

and  halls, 
Was    also    Bard,    and   knew    the    starry 

heavens; 
The  people  call'd  him  Wizard ;    whom  at 

first 
She  play'd  about  with  slight  and  sprightly 

talk. 
And  vivid   smiles,    and    faintly-venom'd 

points 
Of  slander,  glancing   here  and    grazing 

there; 
And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods,  the 

Seer 
Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance,  and 

play, 
Ev'n  when  they  seem'd  unlovable,   and 

laugh 
As  those    that  watch  a  kitten;   thus  he 

grew 
Tolerant  of  what  he  half  disdain'd,  and 

she. 
Perceiving  that  she  was  but  half  disdain'd, 


376 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver  fits, 
Turn  red  or  pale,  would  often  when  they 

met 
Sigh  fully,  or  all-silent  gaze  upon  him 
With  such  a  fixt    devotion,  that  the  old 

man, 
Tho'    doubtful,   felt  the    flattery,  and  at 

times 
Would  flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  for  love. 
And  half  believe  her  true :  for  thus  at 

times 
He  waver'd;  but  that  other  clung  to  him, 
Fixt  in  her  will,  and  so  the  seasons  went. 

Then  fell  on  Merlin  a  great  melancholy; 
He    walk'd   with   dreams   and  darkness, 

and  he  found 
A  doom  that  ever  poised  itself  to  fall, 
An  ever-moaning  battle  in  the  mist, 
World-war    of   dying   flesh    against    the 

life, 
Death  in  all  life  and  lying  in  all  love. 
The    meanest    having   power    upon   the 

highest, 
And  the    high    purpose  broken  by   the 

worm. 

So  leaving  Arthur's  court  he  gain'd  the 
beach; 
There  found  a  little  boat,  and  stept  into  it ; 
And  Vivien  follow'd,  but  he  mark'd  her 

not. 
She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail;   the 

boat 
Drave   with  a  sudden    wind    across  the 

deeps. 
And   touching    Breton    sands,  they    dis- 
embark'd. 
And  then  she  follow'd  Merlin  all  the  way, 
Ev'n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande. 
For  Merlin  once  had  told  her  of  a  charm. 
The  which  if  any  wrought  on  any  one 
With  woven  paces  and  with  waving  arms, 
The  man  so  wrought  on  ever  seem'd  to  lie 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow  tower. 
From  which  was  no  escape  for  evermore; 
And  none  could  find  that  man  for  ever- 
more. 
Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  wrought 

the  charm 
Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  as  dead 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 
fame. 


And    Vivien    ever    sought    to    work   the 

charm 
Upon  the  great  Enchanter  of  the  Time, 
As  fancying  that  her  glory  would  be  great 
According   to    his   greatness  whom   she 

quench'd. 

There  lay  she  all  her  length  and  kiss'd 

his  feet, 
As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  love. 
A  twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair;   a 

robe 
Of     samite     without    price,    that    more 

exprest 
Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome 

limbs. 
In  colour  like  the  satin-shining  palm 
On  sallows  in  the  windy  gleams  of  March  : 
And     while    she    kiss'd    them,    crying, 

'  Trample  me, 
Dear  feet,  that  I  have  follow'd  thro'  the 

world. 
And   I   will  pay  you  worship;   tread  me 

down 
And  I  will  kiss  you  for  it;'  he  was  mute : 
So    dark  a  forethought  roU'd  about  his 

brain. 
As  on  a  dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 
The  blind  wave  feeling  round   his  long 

sea-hall 
In  silence  :  wherefore,  when  she  lifted  up 
A  face  of  sad  appeal,  and  spake  and  said, 

*  O  Merlin,  do  ye  love  me?  '  and  again, 
*0  Merlin,  do  ye   love   me?'  and  once 

more, 

*  Great  Master,  do  ye  love  me  ? '  he  was 

mute. 
And  lissome  Vivien,  holding  by  his  heel, 
Writhed  toward  him,  slided  up  his  knee 

and  sat. 
Behind  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow  feet 
Together,  curved  an  arm  about  his  neck, 
Clung  like  a  snake;   and  letting  her  left 

hand 
Droop  from  his  mighty  shoulder,  as  a  leaf, 
Made  with  her  right  a  comb  of  pearl  to 

part 
The  lists  of  such  a  beard  as  youth  gone 

out 
Had    left  in  ashes:   then  he  spoke  and 

said, 
Not    looking   at    her,  *  Who  are   wise  in 

love 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


377 


Love    most,  say   least,'  and   Vivien    an- 

swer'd  quick, 
*  I  saw  the  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 
In  Arthur's  arras  hall  at  Camelot : 
But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue  —  O  stupid 

child ! 
Yet  you  are  wise  who  say  it;  let  me  think 
Silence  is  wisdom  :  I  am  silent  then, 
And  ask  no  kiss; '  then  adding  all  at  once, 
'  And   lo,  I  clothe  myself  with  wisdom,' 

drew 
The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his  beard 
Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her  knee. 
And  call'd  herself  a  gilded  summer  fly 
Caught   in    a   great    old    tyrant   spider's 

web, 
"Who   meant  to  eat  her  up  in  that  wild 

wood 
Without  one  word.    So  Vivien  call'd  her- 
self, 
But  rather  seem'd  a  lovely  baleful  star 
Veil'd   in   gray   vapour;     till    he    sadly 

smiled : 
'  To  what  request  for  what  strange  boon,' 

he  said, 
'  Are  these  your  pretty  tricks  and  fooleries, 

0  Vivien,  the  preamble?  yet  my  thanks. 
For  these  have  broken  up  my  melancholy.' 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  saucily, 
'  What,    O   my    Master,   have    ye    found 
your  voice? 

1  bid  the  stranger  welcome.     Thanks  at 

last! 
But  yesterday  you  never  open'd  lip, 
Except  indeed  to  drink  :  no  cup  had  we  : 
In    mine    own    lady  palms   I    cull'd   the 

spring 
That   gather'd  trickling    dropwise    from 

the  cleft, 
And  made  a  pretty  cup  of  both  my  hands 
And  offer'd  you   it  kneeling :   then  you 

drank 
And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave  me   one 

poor  word ; 
O  no   more   thanks  than   might   a  goat 

have  given 
With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than  a 

beard. 
And  when  we  halted  at  that  other  well, 
And  I  was  faint  to  swooning,  and  you  lay 
Foot-gilt   with   all   the    blossom-dust    of 

those 


Deep  meadows  we    had   traversed,    did 

you  know 
That  Vivien  bathed  your  feet  before  her 

own  ? 
And  yet  no  thanks  :  and  all  thro'  this  wild 

wood 
And    all    this    morning  when  I   fondled 

you  : 
Boon,  ay,  there  was   a  boon,  one  not  so 

strange  — 
How  had  I  wrong'd  you?  surely  ye  are 

wise, 
But  such  a  silence  is  more  wise  than  kind.' 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers  and 
said  : 

*  O  did  ye  never  lie  upon  the  shore, 

And  watch  the  curl'd  white  of  the  com- 
ing wave 

Glass'd  in  the  slippery  sand  before  it 
breaks? 

Ev'n  such  a  wave,  but  not  so  pleasurable, 

Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageful 
mood, 

Had  I  for  three  days  seen,  ready  to  fall. 

And  then  I  rose  and  fled  from  Arthur's 
court 

To  break  the  mood.  You  foUow'd  me 
unask'd ; 

And  when  I  look'd,  and  saw  you  follow- 
ing still, 

My  mind  involved  yourself  the  nearest 
thing 

In  that  mind-mist :  for  shall  I  tell  you 
truth? 

You  seem'd  that  wave  about  to  break 
upon  me 

And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the 
world. 

My  use  and  name  and  fame.  Your  par- 
don, child. 

Your  pretty  sports  have  brighten'd  all 
again. 

And  ask  your  boon,  for  boon  I  owe  you 
thrice, 

Once  for  wrong  done  you  by  confusion, 
next 

For  thanks  it  seems  till  now  neglected, 
last 

For  these  your  dainty  gambols :  where- 
fore ask; 

And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not  so 
strange.' 


178 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN 


And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  mourn- 
fully : 
*  O  not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking  it, 
Not  yet  so  strange   as  you  yourself  are 

strange, 
Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood  of 

yours. 
I  ever  fear'd  ye  were  not  wholly  mine; 
And  see,  yourself  have  own'd  ye  did  me 

wrong. 
The  people  call  you  prophet :  let  it  be  : 
But  not  of  those  that  can  expound  them- 
selves. 
Take  Vivien  for  expounder;   she  will  call 
That  three-days-long  presageful  gloom  of 

yours 
No    presage,    but    the    same   mistrustful 

mood 
That  makes  you  seem  less  noble    than 

yourself. 
Whenever  I  have  ask'd  this  very  boon. 
Now  ask'd  again :  for  see  you  not,  dear 

love, 
That  such  a  mood  as  that,  which  lately 

gloom'd 
Your  fancy  when  ye  saw  me  following 

you, 
Must  make  me  fear  still  more  you  are  not 

mine. 
Must  make  me  yearn  still  more  to  prove 

you  mine, 
And  make  me  wish  still  more  to  learn 

this  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands. 
As  proof  of  trust.    O  Merlin,  teach  it  me. 
The  charm  so  taught  will  charm  us  both 

to  rest. 
For,  grant  me  some   slight  power   upon 

your  fate, 
I,  feeling  that  you  felt  me  worthy  trust. 
Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing  you 

mine. 
And  therefore  be  as  great  as  ye  are  named. 
Not  muffled  round  with  selfish  reticence. 
How  hard  you  look  and  how  denyingly  ! 
O,  if  you  think  this  wickedness  in  me. 
That  I  should  prove  it  on  you  unawares. 
That  makes  me  passing  wrathful;    then 

our  bond 
Mad  best  be  loosed  for  ever:   but  tliink 

or  not, 
By  Heaven  that  hears  1  tell  you  the  clean 

truth, 


As  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white  as 
milk  : 

0  Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 

If  these  unwitty  wandering  wits  of  mine, 
Ev'n  in  the  jumbled  rubbish  of  a  dream, 
Have  tript  on  such  conjectural  treachery  — 
May  this  hard  earth  cleave  to  the  Nadir 

hell 
Down,  down,  and  close  again,  and  nip  me 

flat, 
If  I  be  such  a  traitress.     Yield  my  boon, 
Till  which  I  scarce  can  yield  you  all  I  am; 
And  grant  my  re-reiterated  wish, 
The  great  proof  of  your  love  :  because  I 

think, 
However  wise,  ye  hardly  know  me  yet.' 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  from  hers 
and  said, 

*  I  never  was  less  wise,  however  wise, 
Too  curious  Vivien,  tho'  you  talk  of  trust, 
Than  when   I    told   you  first  of  such  a 

charm. 
Yea,  if  ye  talk  of  trust  I  tell  you  this, 
Too  much  I  trusted  when  I  told  you  that, 
And  stirr'd  this  vice  in  you  which  ruin'd 

man 
Thro'  woman  the  first  hour ;  for  howsoe'er 
In  children  a  great  curiousness  be  well. 
Who  have  to  learn  themselves  and  all  the 

world. 
In  you,  that  are  no  child,  for  still  I  find 
Your  face  is  practised  when  I  spell  the 

lines, 

1  call  it,  —  well,  I  will  not  call  it  vice : 
But  since  you  name  yourself  the  summer 

fly. 

I  well  could  wish  a  cobweb  for  the  gnat, 
That  settles,  beaten  back,  and  beaten  back 
Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weariness  : 
But  since  I   will  not   yield  to  give  you 

power 
Upon  my  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame, 
Why  will  ye  never  ask  some  other  boon? 
Yea,  by  God's  rood,  I   trusted  you  too 

much.' 

.Vnd  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest-hearted 
maid 
That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile, 
Made  answer,  either  eyelid  wet  u  ith  tears  : 

•  Nay,  Master,  be  not  w  rathful  with  your 

maid ; 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


379 


Caress  her :  let  her  feel  herself  forgiven 
Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another  boon. 
I  think  ye  hardly  know  the  tender  rhyme 
Of  "  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all." 
I   heard  the   great   Sir  Lancelot  sing  it 

once, 
And  it  shall  answer  for  me.     Listen  to  it. 

'  "  In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be 

ours. 
Faith  and    unfaith   can    ne'er    be   equal 

powers : 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

'  "  It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute. 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

'  "The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit. 
That  rotting  iaward  slowly  moulders  all. 

'  "  It  is  not  worth  the  keeping  :  let  it  go  : 
But  shall  it?  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all." 

O  Master,  do  ye  love  my  tender  rhyme?  ' 

And  Merlin  look'd  and  half  believed 

her  true. 
So  tender  w^as  her  voice,  so  fair  her  face. 
So  sweetly  gleam'd  her  eyes  behind  her 

tears 
Like   sunlight    on    the    plain    behind    a 

shower : 
And  yet  he  answer'd  half  indignantly: 

'  Far  other  was  the  song  that  once  I 

heard 
By  this  huge  oak,  sung  nearly  where  we 

sit: 
For  here  W^e  met,  some  ten  or  twelve  of 

us. 
To    chase    a   creature    that    was   current 

then 
In  these  wild  woods,  the  hart  with  golden 

horns. 
It  was  the  time  when   first  the  question 

rose 
About  the  founding  of  a  Table  Round, 
'I'hat  was  to  be,  for  love  of  God  and  men 
And  noble  deeds,  the  fiower  of  all   the 

world. 


And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds. 
And  while  we  waited,  one,  the  youngest 

of  us, 
We  could  not  keep    him  silent,  out  he 

flash'd. 
And  into  such  a  song,  such  fire  for  fame, 
Such  trumpet-blowings  in  it,  coming  down 
To  such  a  stern  and  iron-clashing  close. 
That  when  he  stopt  we  long'd    to  hurl 

together. 
And  should  have  done  it;   but  the  beau- 
teous beast 
Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our  feet. 
And  like  a  silver  shadow  slipt  away 
Thro'  the  dim  land;    and    all    day  long 

we  rode 
Thro'   the    dim    land    against   a  rushing 

wind. 
That    glorious    roundel    echoing    in    our 

ears. 
And    chased    the    flashes  of   his  golden 

horns 
Until  they  vanish'd  by  the  fairy  well 
That    laughs   at    iron  —  as   our  warriors 

did  — 
Where  children  cast  their  pins  and  nails, 

and  cry, 
"  Laugh,  little  well  I  "  but  touch  it  with 

a  sword, 
It  buzzes  fiercely  round  the  point;   and 

there 
We    lost    him :    such    a  noble  song  w^as 

that. 
But,    Vivien,    when   you    sang   me    that 

sweet  rhyme, 
I  felt  as  tho'  you  knew  this  cursed  charm, 
Were  proving  it  on  me,  and  that  I  lay 
And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name  and 

fame.' 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  mourn- 
fully : 

'  O  mine  have  ebb'd  away  for  evermore. 

And  all  thro'  following  you  to  this  wild 
wood. 

Because  I  saw  you  sad,  to  comfort  you. 

Lo  now,  what  hearts  have  men  I  they 
never  mount 

As  high  as  woman  in  her  selfless  mood. 

And  touching  fame,  howe'er  ye  scorn  my 
song. 

Take  one  verse  mure — the  lady  speaks 
it  — this; 


38o. 


MERLIN  AND   VIVIEN. 


' "  My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is 

closelier  mine, 
For  fame,  could  fame  be  mine,  that  fame 

were  thine,     . 
And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine,  that 

shame  were  mine. 
So  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all." 

'Says  she  not  well?  and  there  is  more 

—  this  rhyme 
Is   like    the    fair   pearl-necklace  of  the 

Queen, 
That  burst  in  dancing,  and    the    pearls 

were  split; 
Some   lost,  some  stolen,  some  as  relics 

kept. 
But  nevermore  the  same  two  sister  pearls 
Ran  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss  each 

other 
On  her  white  neck  —  so  is  it  with   this 

rhyme : 
It  lives  dispersedly  in  many  hands, 
And  every  minstrel  sings  it  differently; 
Yet  is  there  one  true  line,  the  pearl  of 

pearls : 
**  Man   dreams   of  Fame   while   woman 

wakes  to  love." 
Yea !  Love,  tho'  Love  were  of  the  gross- 
est, carves 
A  portion  from  the  solid  present,  eats 
And  uses,  careless  of  the  rest;  but  Fame, 
The  Fame  that  follows  death  is  nothing 

to  us; 
And  what  is  Fame  in  life  but  half-dis- 

fame. 
And  counterchanged  with  darkness?  ye 

yourself 
Know  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil's  son. 
And  since  ye  seem  the  Master  of  all  Art, 
They   fain  would   make  you   iNIaster    of 

all  vice.' 

And  Merlin  lock'd    his  hand  in   hers 

and  said, 
*I  once  was  looking  for  a  magic  weed. 
And  found  a  fair  young  squire  who  sat 

alone. 
Had  carved  himself  a  knightly  shield  of 

wood. 
And  then  was  painting  on  it  fancied  arms. 
Azure,  an  Eagle  rising,  or  the  Sun 
In    dexter    chief;    the    scroll    "  I    follow 

fame." 


And  speaking  not,  but  leaning  over  him, 
I  took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the  bird, 
And  made  a  Gardener  putting  in  a  graff, 
With  this  for  motto,  "  Rather  use  than 

fame." 
You  should    have  seen  him  blush;    but 

afterwards 
He  made  a  stalwart  knight.     O  Vivien, 
For  you,  methinks  you  think    you  love 

me  well; 
For  me,  I  love  you  somewhat ;   rest :  and 

Love 
Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure  in 

himself. 
Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a  boon, 
Too  prurient  for  a  proof  against  the  grain 
Of  him  ye  say  ye  love :  but  Fame  with 

men, 
Being  but  ampler  means  to  serve  man- 
kind. 
Should   have  small   rest  or   pleasure  in 

herself. 
But  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love, 
That  dwarfs  the  petty  love  of  one  to  one. 
Use  gave  me  Fame  at  first,   and    Fame 

again 
Increasing  gave  me  use.     Lo,  there  my 

boon ! 
What  other?  for  men  sought   to   prove 

me  vile, 
Because  I  fain  had  given  them  greater 

wits : 
x\nd  then  did  Envy  call  me  Devil's  son  : 
The    sick  weak    beast   seeking   to    help 

herself 
By  striking   at    her    better,  miss'd,    and 

brought 
Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her 

own  heart. 
Sweet  were   the    days  when    I    was    all 

unknown, 
But  when  my  name  was   lifted   up,  the 

storm 
Brake  on  the  mountain  and  I  cared  not 

for  it. 
Right  well   know  I    that  Fame  is  half- 

disfame. 
Yet   needs  must  work    my  work.     That 

other  fame. 
To  one  at  least,  who  hath  not  children, 

vague. 
The  cackle  of  the  unborn  about  the  grave, 
I  cared  not  for  it :   a  single  misty  star, 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


381 


Which  is  the  second  in  a  line  of  stars 
That  seem  a  sword    beneath    a    belt    of 

three, 
I  never  gazed  upon  it  but  I  dreamt 
Of  some  vast  charm  concluded  in  that 

star 
To  make   fame  nothing.     Wherefore,  if 

I  fear, 
Giving  you   power    upon  me    thro'    this 

charm, 
That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  having 

power, 
However  well  ye  think  ye  love  me  now 
(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupilage 
Have  turn'd  to  tyrants  when  they  came 

to  power), 
I  rather  dread  the  loss  of  use  than  fame; 
If  you  —  and  not  so  much  from  wicked- 
ness, 
As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a  mood 
Of  overstrain'd  affection,  it  may  be, 
To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self, —  or  else 
A  sudden  spurt  of  woman's  jealousy,  — 
Should  try  this  charm  on  whom  ye  say 

ye  love.' 

And   Vivien    answer'd    smiling   as    in 

wrath  : 
'Have  I  not  sworn?     I  am  not  trusted. 

Good  ! 
Well,  hide  it,  hide  it;    I  shall  find  it  out; 
And  being  found  take  heed  of  Vivien. 
A  woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 
Might   feel  some  sudden  turn  of  anger 

born 
Of  your  misfaith;   and  your  fine  epithet 
Is  accurate  too,  for  this  full  love  of  mine 
Without  the  full  heart  back  may  merit  well 
Your  term  of  overstrain'd.     So  used  as  I, 
My  daily  wonder  is,  I  love  at  all. 
And  as  to  woman's  jealousy,  O  why  not? 

0  to  what' end,  except  a  jealous  one, 
And  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  I  love. 
Was  this  fair  charm  invented  by  yourself? 

1  well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 
Ye  cage  a  buxom  captive  here  and  there. 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow  tower 
From  which  is  no  escape  for  evermore.' 

Then  the  great  Master  merrily  answer'd 
her: 
'Full  many  a  love  in  loving  youth  was 
mine; 


I  needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  them 

mine 
But  youth  and  love;   and  that  full  heart 

of  yours 
Whereof  ye  prattle,  may  now  assure  you 

mine; 
So    live    uncharm'd.       For    those    who 

wrought  it  first, 
The  wrist  is  parted  from  the  hand  that 

waved, 
The  feet  unmortised    from    their    ankle- 
bones 
Who    paced  it,  ages  back  :    but  will  ye 

hear 
The  legend  as  in  guerdon  for  your  rhyme? 

'  There  lived  a  king  in  the  most  Eastern 

East, 
Less  old  than  I,  yet  older,  for  my  blood 
Hath  earnest  in  it  of  far  springs  to  be. 
A  tawny  pirate  anchor'd  in  his  port. 
Whose  bark  had  plunder'd  twenty  name- 
less isles; 
And    passing  one,  at  the  high    peep    of 

dawn, 
He  saw  two  cities  in  a  thousand  boats 
All  fighting  for  a  woman  on  the  sea. 
And  pushing  his  black  craft  among  them 

all, 
He  lightly  scatter'd   theirs  and  brought 

her  off, 
W^ith  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow-slain; 
A  maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  wonderful. 
They  said  a  light  came  from  her  when 

she  moved  : 
iVnd  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield  her 

up, 
The  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy; 
Then  made  her  Queen:    but  those  isle- 
nurtured  eyes 
Waged    such    unwilling    tho'    successful 

war 
On  all  the  youth,  they  sicken'd;    councils 

thinn'd, 
And  armies  waned,  for  magnet-like  she 

drew 
The  rustiest  iron  of  old  fighters'  hearts; 
And    beasts   themselves  would  worship; 

camels  knelt 
Unbidden,  and  the  brutes  of  mountain 

back 
That  carry  kings  in  castles,  bow'd  black 

knees 


382 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


Of   homage,  ringing  witli    their    serpent 

hands, 
To  make  her  smile,  her  gulden  ankle-bells. 
What  wonder,  being  jealous,  that  he  sent 
His  horns  of  proclamation  out  thro'  all 
The   hundred    under-kingdoms    that   he 

sway'd 
To  find  a  wizard  who  might    teach  the 

King 
Some  charm,  which  being  wrought  upon 

the  Queen 
Might  keep  her  all  his  own :  to  such  a 

one 
He  promised   more  than  ever  king  has 

given, 
A  league  of  mountain  full  of  golden  mines, 
A  province  with  a  hundred  miles  of  coast, 
A  palace  and  a  princess,  all  for  him : 
But  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fail'd,  the 

King 
Pronounced  a  dismal  sentence,  meaning 

by  it 
To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders  back, 
Or  like  a  king,  not  to  be  trifled  with  — 
Their  heads  should  moulder  on  the  city 

gates. 
And  many  tried  and  fail'd,  because  the 

charm 
Of  nature  in  her  overbore  their  own  : 
And  many  a  wizard  brow  bleach'd  on  the 

walls : 
And  many  weeks  a  troop  of  carrion  crows 
Hung   like  a  cloud   above   the   gateway 

towers.' 

And  Vivien  breaking  in  upon  him,  said  : 
'  I  sit  and  gather  honey;   yet,  methinks. 
Thy  tongue  has  tript  a  little :  ask  thyself. 
The  lady  never  made  timvilling  war 
With  those  fine  eyes :  she  had  her  pleas- 
ure in  it, 
And   made  her  good    man   jealous  with 

good  cause. 
And  lived  there  neither  dame  nor  damsel 

then 
Wroth  at  a  lover's  loss?  were  all  as  tame, 
I  mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was  fair? 
Not  one  to  flirt  a  venom  at  her  eyes, 
Or  pinch  a  murderous  dust  into  her  drink. 
Or  make  her  paler  with  a  poison'd  rose? 
Well,  those  were  not  our  days :   but  did 

they  find 
A  wizard  ?    Tell  mc,  was  he  like  to  thee  ?  ' 


She   ceased,  and  made  her  lithe    arm 

round  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let  her 

eyes 
Speak   for   her,  glowing  on  him,  like  a 

bride's 
On  her  new  lord,  her  own,  the  first  of 

men. 

He  answer'd  laughing,  '  Nay,  not  like 

to  me. 
At    last    they    found  —  his    foragers    for 

charms  — 
A  little  glassy-headed  hairless  man, 
Who  lived  alone  in  a  great  wild  on  grass; 
Read   but    one    book,  and  ever  reading 

grew 
So    grated    down    and    filed   away    with 

thought. 
So  lean  his  eyes  were  monstrous;   while 

the  skin 
Clung  but  to  crate  and  basket,  ribs  and 

spine. 
And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one  sole 

aim. 
Nor  ever  touch'd  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted 

flesh, 
Nor  own'd  a  sensual  wish,  to  him  the  wall 
That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-casting 

men 
Became  a  crystal,  and  he  saw  them  thro'  it, 
And  heard  their  voices  talk  behind  the 

wall. 
And  learnt  their  elemental  secrets,  powers 
And  forces ;  often  o'er  the  sun's  bright  eye 
Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  cloud, 
And  lash'd  it  at  the  base  with  slanting 

storm ; 
Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and  driving  rain. 
When  the  lake  whiten'd  and  the  pine- 
wood  roar'd, 
And  the  cairn'd  mountain  was  a  shadow, 

sunn'd 
The  world  to  peace  again :   here  was  the 

man. 
And  so  by  force  they  dragg'd  him  to  the 

King. 
And  then  he  taught  the  King  to  charm 

the  Queen 
In  such-wise,  that  no  man  could  see  her 

more. 
Nor  saw  she  save  the  King,  who  wrought 

the  charm, 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


583 


Coming  and  going,  and  she  lay  as  dead, 
And  lost  all  use  of  life  :    but  when   the 

King 
iNIade    profl'er    of   the    league  of   golden 

mines, 
The   province  with  a  hundred    miles  of 

coast, 
The    palace   and  the   princess,  that    old 

man 
Went  back  to  his  old  wild,  and  lived  on 

grass, 
And  vanish'd,  and  his  book  came  down 

to  me.' 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  saucily: 
*  Ye  have  the  book  :  the  charm  is  written 

in  it: 
Good  :  take  my  counsel :  let  me  know  it 

at  once : 
For  keep  it  like  a  puzzle  chest  in  chest. 
With   each    chest   lock'd  and  padlock'd 

thirty-fold, 
And  whelm    all    this    beneath  as  vast  a 

mound 
As  after  furious  battle  turfs  the  slain 
On  some  wild  down  above  the  windy  deep, 
I  yet  should  strike  upon  a  sudden  means 
To  dig,  pick,  open,   hnd    and    read   the 

charm : 
Then,  if  I  tried  it,  who  should  blame  me 

then?' 

And  smiling  as  a  master  smiles  at  one 
That  is  not  of  his  school,  nor  any  school 
But  that  where  blind  and  naked  Ignorance 
Delivers  brawling  judgments,  unashamed. 
On  all  things  all  day  long,  he  answer'd 
her : 

'  Thou  read  the  book,  my  pretty  Vivien  ! 
'  O  ay,  it  is  but  twenty  pages  long, 
But  every  page  having  an  ample  marge, 
And  every  marge  enclosing  in  the  midst 
A  square  of  text  that  looks  a  little  blot. 
The   text  no   larger    than    the   limbs  of 

fleas ; 
And  every  square  of  text  an  awful  charm, 
Writ  in  a  language  that  has  long  gone  by. 
So  long,  that  mountains  have  arisen  since 
With  cities  on  their   flanks  —  thou  read 

the  book  ! 
And  every  margin  scribbled,  crost,  and 

cramm'd 


With    comment,    densest    condensation, 

hard 
To  mind  and  eye;    but  the  long  sleepless 

nights 
Of   my   long  life    have  made  it  easy  to 

me. 
And  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even  I ; 
And   none    can  read    the    comment  but 

myself; 
And  in  the  comment  did  I  find  the  charm. 
O,  the  results  are  simple;   a  mere  child 
Might  use  it  to  the  harm  of  any  one, 
And  never  could  undo  it :  ask  no  more : 
For  tho'  you  should  not  prove  it  upon 

me, 
But  keep  that  oath  ye  sware,  ye  might, 

perchance, 
Assay  it  on'some  one  of  the  Table  Round, 
And  all  because  ye  dream  they  babble 

of  you.' 

And  Vivien,  frowning  in  true  anger, 
said : 

'  What  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say  of  me  ? 

They  ride  abroad  redressing  human 
wrongs ! 

They  sit  with  knife  in  meat  and  wine  in 
horn  ! 

They  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity! 

Were  I  not  woman,  I  could  tell  a  tale. 

But  you  are  man,  you  well  can  under- 
stand 

The  shame  that  cannot  be  explain'd  for 
shame. 

Not  one  of  all  the  drove  should  touch 
me  :   swine  !  ' 

Then  answer'd  Merlin  careless  of  her 

words: 
'  You  breathe    but    accusation  vast   and 

vague, 
Spleen-born,  I  think,  and  proofless.     If 

ye  know. 
Set  up  the  charge  ye  know,  to  stand  or 

fall !  ' 

And  Vivien  answer'd  frowning  wrath- 

fully  : 
'  O  ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence,  him 
Whose    kinsman  left  him    watcher    o'er 

his  wife 
And  two  fair  babes,  and  went  to  distant 

lands; 


384 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


Was  one  year  gone,  and  on  returning 
found 

Not  two  but  three?  there  lay  the  reck- 
ling, one 

But  one  hour  old  !  What  said  the  happy 
sire? 

A  seven-months'  babe  had  been  a  truer 
gift. 

Those  twelve  sweet  moons  confused  his 
fatherhood.' 

Then  answer'd  Merlin,  *  Nay,  I  know 

the  tale. 
Sir   Valence    wedded   with   an   outland 

dame : 
Some  cause  had  kept  him  sunder'd  from 

his  wife  : 
One  child  they  had :  it  lived  with  her : 

she  died  : 
His  kinsman  travelling  on  his  own  affair 
Was  charged  by  Valence  to  bring  home 

the  child. 
He  brought,  not  found  it  therefore :  take 

the  truth.' 

'O  ay,'  said  Vivien,  '  overtrue  a  tale. 
What  say  ye  then  to  sweet  SirSagramore, 
That  ardent  man?  "to  pluck  the  flower 

in  season," 
So  says  the  song,  "  I  trow  it  is  no  trea- 
son." 

0  Master,  shall  we  call  him  overquick 
To  crop  his  own  sweet   rose  before  the 

hour?  ' 

And  Merlin  answer'd,  '  Overquick  art 

thou 
To  catch  a  loathly  plume  fall'n  from  the 

wing 
Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose  whole 

prey 
Is  man's  good  name :  he  never  wrong'd 

his  bride. 

1  know   the   tale.      An   angry   gust   of 

wind 
Puffd  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad- 

room'd 
And  many-corridor'd  complexities 
Of  Arthur's  palace :     then    he  found    a 

door. 
And  darkling  felt  the  sculptured  ornament 
That  wreathen  round  it  made  it  seem  his 

own; 


And  wearied  out  made  for  the  couch  and 

slept, 
A  stainless  man  beside  a  stainless  maid; 
And  either  slept,  nor  knew  of  other  there ; 
Till  the  high  dawn  piercing  the  royal  rose 
In  Arthur's  casement  glimmer'd  chastely 

down, 
Blushing  upon  them  blushing,  and  at  once 
He  rose  without  a  word  and  parted  from 

her: 
But  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about  the 

court, 
The  brute  world  howling  forced  them  into 

bonds. 
And  as  it  chanced  they  are  happy,  being 

pure.' 

*  O  ay,'  said  Vivien,  '  that  were  likely 

too. 
What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  Percivale 
And    of    the    horrid    foulness    that    he 

wrought, 
The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb  of 

Christ, 
Or  some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan's  fold. 
What,  in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel-yard, 
Among  the  knightly  brasses  of  the  graves, 
And  by  the  cold  Hie  Jacets  of  the  dead  ! ' 

And  Merlin  answer'd  careless  of  her 
charge, 

'A  sober  man  is  Percivale  and  pure; 

But  once  in  life  was  fluster'd  with  new 
wine, 

Then  paced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel- 
yard; 

Where  one  of  Satan's  shepherdesses 
caught 

And  meant  to  stamp  him  with  her  mas- 
ter's mark; 

And  that  he  sinn'd  is  not  believable; 

For,  look  upon  his  face  !  —  but  if  he 
sinn'd. 

The  sin  that  practice  burns  into  the  blood, 

And  not  the  one  dark  hour  which  brings 
remorse. 

Will  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we  be : 

Or  else  were  he,  the  holy  king,  whose 
hymns 

Are  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse  than 
all. 

But  is  your  spleen  froth'd  out,  or  have  ye 
more  ?  ' 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


385 


And  Vivien  answer'd  frowning  yet  in 

wrath  : 
'  O    ay;   what   say   ye  to    Sir    Lancelot, 

friend? 
Traitor  or  true?  that  commerce  with  the 

Queen, 
I  ask  you,  is  it  clamour'd  by  the  child, 
Or  whisper'd  in  the  corner?  do  ye  know 

it?' 

To  which  he  answer'd  sadly,  '  Yea,  I 

know  it. 
Sir  Lancelot  went  ambassador,  at  first, 
To  fetch  her,  and  she  watch'd  him  from 

her  walls. 
A  rumour  runs,  she  took  him  for  the  King, 
So  fixt  her  fancy  on  him  :   let  them  be. 
But  have  ye  no  one  word  of  loyal  praise 
For  Arthur,  blameless  King  and  stainless 

man?  ' 

She  answer'd  with  a  low  and  chuckling 
laugh: 

*  Man  !  is  he  man  at  all,  who  know's  and 

winks? 

Sees  what  his  fair  bride  is  and  does,  and 
winks? 

By  which  the  good  King  means  to  blind 
himself. 

And  blinds  himself  and  all  the  Table 
Round 

To  all  the  foulness  that  they  work.  My- 
self 

Could  call  him  (were  it  not  for  woman- 
hood) 

The  pretty,  popular  name  such  manhood 
earns, 

Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all 
their  crime; 

Yea,  were  he  not  crown'd  King,  coward, 
and  fool.' 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart,  loath- 
ing, said  : 

*  O   true  and  tender  I     O  my  liege   and 

King  1 
O  selfless  man  and  stainless  gentleman, 
\Yho  wouldst  against  thine  own  eye-wit- 
ness fain 
Have  all  men  true   and  leal,  all   women 

pure; 
How,  in  the  mouths  of  base  interpreters. 
From  over-fineness  not  intelligible 

2C 


To  things  with  every  sense  as   false  and 

foul 
As     the    poach'd    filth    that    floods    the 

middle  street, 
Is    thy   white    blamelessness   accounted 

blame ! ' 

But  Vivien,  deeming  Merlin  overborne 
By  instance,  recommenced,  and  let  her 

tongue 
Rage     like    a    fire    among    the    noblest 

names, 
Polluting,  and  imputing  her  whole  self, 
Defaming  and  defacing,  till  she  left 
Not  even  Lancelot   brave,  nor  Galahad 

clean. 

Her  words  had  issue  other  than  she 

will'd. 
He  dragg'd   his  eyebrow  bushes    down, 

and  made 
A  snowy  penthouse  for  his  hollow  eyes, 
And  mutter'd  in  himself,  'Tell   her  the 

charm  I 
So,  if  she  had  it,  would  she  rail  on  me 
To  snare  the  next,  and  if  she  have  it  not 
So  will  she  rail.     What  did  the  wanton 

say? 
"Not  mount  as  high;  "  we   scarce   can 

sink  as  low : 
For  men  at  most  differ  as  Heaven  and 

earth. 
But  women,  worst  and  best,  as  Heaven 

and  Hell. 
I  know  the  Table  Round,  my  friends  of 

old; 
All  brave,  and  many  generous,  and  some 

chaste. 
She  cloaks  the  scar  of  some  repulse  with 

lies; 
I  well  believe  she  tempted  them  and  fail'd, 
Being  so  bitter  :   for  fine  plots  may  fail, 
Tho'  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  w-ell  as  face 
With  colours  of  the  heart  that  are  not 

theirs. 
I  will  not  let  her  know^ :   nine  tithes  of 

times 
Face-flatterer  and  backbiter  are  the  same. 
And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  impute  a 

crime 
Are  pronest  to  it,  and  impute  themselves, 
Wanting  the  mental  range;   or  low  desire 
Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level  all; 


386 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain  to  the 

plain, 
To  leave  an  equal  baseness;   and  in  this 
Are  harlots  like  the  crowd,  that  if  they 

find 
Some  stain  or  blemish  in  a  name  of  note, 
Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are   so 

small. 
Inflate  themselves  with  some  insane  de- 
light, 
And  judge  all  nature  from  her  feet  of  clay. 
Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  see 
Her  godlike  head  crown'd  with  spiritual 

fire, 
And  touching  other  worlds.     I  am  w-eary 
of  her.' 

He    spoke    in   words    part    heard,    in 

whispers  part, 
Half-sufifocated  in  the  hoary  fell 
And  many-winter'd  fleece  of  throat  and 

chin. 
But  Vivien,   gathering  somewhat   of  his 

mood, 
And  hearing  '  harlot '  mutter'd  twice  or 

thrice. 
Leapt  from  her  session  on  his  lap,  and 

stood 
Stiff  as  a  viper  frozen;  loathsome  sight, 
How  from  the  rosy  lips  of  life  and  lov^e, 
Flash'd    the    bare-grinning    skeleton    of 

death  ! 
White  was  her  cheek;   sharp  breaths  of 

anger  puff'd 
Her    fairy   nostril   out;    her   hand   half- 

clench'd 
Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to  her 

belt, 
And  feeling;    had  she    found   a    dagger 

there 
(For  in  a  wink  the  false  love  turns  to 

hate) 
She  would    have  stabb'd  him;    but  she 

found  it  not : 
His  eye  was  calm,  and  suddenly  she  took 
To  bitter  weeping  like  a  beaten  child, 
A  long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 
Then  her  false  voice  made  way,  broken 

with  sobs : 

'  O  crueller  than  was  ever  told  in  tale. 
Or  sung  in  song  !  O  vainly  lavish'd  love  ! 
( )  cruel,  there  was  nothing  wild  or  strange, 


Or  seeming  shameful  —  for  what  shame 

in  love, 
vSo  love  be  true,  and  not  as  yours  is — - 

nothing 
Poor  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his  trust 
Who  call'd  her  what  he  call'd  her  —  all 

her  crime, 
All  —  all  —  the  wish  to  prove  him  wholly 

hers.' 

She  mused  a  little,  and  then  clapt  her 

hands 
Together  with  a  wailing  shriek,  and  said  : 
'  Stabb'd  through  the  heart's  affections  to 

the  heart ! 
Seethed  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother's 

milk! 
Kill'd  with  a  word  worse  than  a  life  of 

blows  1 
I  thought  that  he  was  gentle,  being  great : 

0  God,  that  I  had  loved  a  smaller  man ! 

1  should   have  found  in  him   a  greater 

heart. 
O,  I,  that  flattering  my  true  passion,  saw 
The  knights,  the  court,  the  King,  dark 

in  your  light, 
Who  loved  to  make  men  darker  than  they 

are, 
Because  of  that  high  pleasure  which  I 

had 
To  seat  you  sole  upon  my  pedestal 
Of  worship  —  I  am  answer'd,  and  hence- 
forth 
The  course  of  life  that  seem'd  so  flowery 

to  me 
With  you  for  guide  and  master,  only  you, 
Becomes    the    sea-cliff   pathway    broken 

short. 
And  ending  in  a  ruin  —  nothing  left. 
But  into  some  low  cave   to    crawl,  and 

there. 
If  the  wolf  spare  me,  weep  my  life  away, 
Kill'd  with  inutterable  unkindliness.' 

She  paused,  she  turn'd  away,  she  hung 

her  head, 
The  snake  of  gold  slid  from  her  hair,  the 

braid 
Slipt  and  uncoil'd  itself,  she  wept  afresh, 
Ami  the  dark  wood  grew  darker  toward 

the  storm 
In  silence,  while  his  anger  slowly  died 
Within  him,  till  he  let  his  wisdom  go 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


387 


For  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed  her 

true  : 
Call'd  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak, 
'  Come  from  the  storm,'  and  having  no 

reply, 
Gazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and  the 

face 
Hand-hidden,    as    for    utmost    grief    or 

shame; 
Then  thrice  essay'd,  by  tenderest-touching 

terms. 
To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace   of  mind,  in 

vain.. 
At  last  she  let  herself  be  conquer'd   by 

him, 
And  as  the  cageling  newly  flown  returns. 
The  seeming-injured  simple-hearted  thing 
Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  settled 

there. 
There  while  she  sat,  half-falling  from  his 

knees, 
Half-nestled  at  his  heart,  and  since  he 

saw 
The  slow  tear  creep  from  her  closed  eye- 
lid yet. 
About  her,  more  in  kindness  than  in  love, 
The  gentle  wizard  cast  a  shielding  arm. 
But  she  dislink'd  herself  at  once  and  rose, 
Her   arms  upon  her  breast  across,  and 

stood, 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman  deeply  wrong'd. 
Upright  and  flush'd  before  him  :  then  she 

said  : 

'  There  must  be  now  no  passages  of  love 

Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  evermore : 

ft.       ' 

Since,  if  I  be  what  I  am  grossly  call  d, 
What  should  be  granted  which  your  own 

gross  heart 
Would  reckon  worth  the  taking?     I  will 

go- 
In    truth,  but    one    thing    now  —  better 

have  died 
Thrice  than  have  ask'd  it  once  —  could 

make  me  stay  — 
That  proof  of  trust  —  so  often  ask'd  in 

vain  I 
How  justly,  after  that  vile  term  of  yours, 
I  find  with  grief  I     I  might  believe  you 

then, 
Who  knows?  once  more.    Lo  I  what  was 

once  to  me 
Mere  matter  of  the  fancy,  now  hath  grown 


The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 
Farewell;   think  gently  of  me,  for  T  fear 
My  fate  or  folly,  passing  gayer  youth 
For  one  so   old,  must   be   to   love   thee 

still. 
But  ere  I  leave  thee  let  me  swear  once 

more 
That  if  I  schemed  against  thy  peace  in 

this, 
May  yon  just  heaven,  that  darkens  o'er 

me,  send 
One  flash,  that,  missing  all  things  else, 

may  make 
My  scheming  brain  a  cinder,  if  I  lie.' 

Scarce  had  she   ceased,  when   out  of 

heaven  a  bolt 
(For   now  the    storm    was    close    above 

them)  struck. 
Furrowing  a  giant  oak,  and  javelining 
With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of  the 

wood 
The  dark  earth   round.     He  raised    his 

eyes  and  sav/ 
The   tree   that   shone  white-listed    thro' 

the  gloom. 
j    But   Vivien,  fearing  heaven    had   heard 
I  her  oath, 

I    And  dazzled  by  the  livid-flickering  fork. 
And     deafen'd    with     the     stammering 

cracks  and  claps 
That  follow'd,  flying  back  and  crying  out, 
'  O  Merlin,  tho'  you  do  not  love  me,  save, 
Yet  save  me  I  '  clung  to  him  and  hugg"(l 

him  close; 
And  call'd    him    dear    protector    in   her 

fright, 
Nor  yet  forgot  her  practice  in  her  fright, 
But  wrought  upon  his  mood  and  hugg'd 

him  close. 
The    pale    blood   of   the   wizard    at    her 

touch 
Took  gayer  colours,  like  an  opal  warm'd. 
She  blamed   herself   for  telling  hearsay 

tales : 
She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  her  fault 

she  wept 
Of  petulancy;    she  call'd  him  lord  and 

liege. 
Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  of  eve. 
Her  God,  her  Merlin,  the  one  passionate 

love 
Of  her  whole  life;    and  ever  overhead 


388 


LANCELOT  AND   ELALNE. 


Bellow'd    the    tempest,    and    the    rotten 

branch 
Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river-rain 
Above   them;    and   in   change    of  glare 

and  gloom 
Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and 

came; 
Till  nov/  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion 

spent, 
Moaning  and  calling  out  of  other  lands, 
Had  left  the  ravaged  woodland  yet  once 

more 
To  peace;    and   what  should  not   have 

been  had  been. 
For  Merlin,  overtalk'd  and  overworn, 
Had  yielded,  told  her  all  the  charm,  and 

slept. 

Then,  in  one  moment,  she  put   forth 
the  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands, 
And  in  the  hollow  oak  he  lay  as  dead, 
x\nd  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 
fame. 

Then  crying  *  I  have  made  his  glory 

mine,' 
And  shrieking  out  *  O  fool !  '  the  harlot 

leapt 
Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket  closed 
Behind  her,  and  the  forest  echo'd  '  fool.' 

LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 

Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 

High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the 

east 
Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot; 
Which  first  she  placed  where  morning's 

earliest  ray 
Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with  the 

gleam; 
Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure  fashion'd  for 

it 
A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon'd  on  the  shield 
In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her  wit, 
A  border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 
And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the  nest. 
Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by  day, 
Leaving  her  household  and  good  father, 

climb'd 


That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barr'd 

her  door, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked 

shield. 
Now  guess'd   a  hidden  meaning  in  his 

arms. 
Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it. 
And  every  scratch    a   lance    had    made 

upon  it, 
Conjecturing  when  and  where :  this  cut 

is  fresh; 
That  ten  years  back;   this  dealt  him  at 

Caerlyle; 
That  at  Caerleon;   this  at  Camelot : 
And  ah  God's  mercy,  what  a  stroke  was 

there ! 
And  here  a  thrust  that  might  have  kill'd, 

but  God 
Broke  the  strong  lance,  and    roU'd    his 

enemy  down. 
And  saved  him :  so  she  lived  in  fantasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good 

shield 
Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n  his 

name  ? 
He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to  tilt 
For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond 

jousts. 
Which  Arthur  had  ordain'd,  and  by  that 

name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was 

the  prize. 

Fgr  Arthur,  long  before  they  crown'd 

him  King, 
Roving    the    trackless    realms    of   Lyo- 

nesse, 
Had    found   a   glen,   gray   boulder   and 

black  tarn. 
A  horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and  clave 
Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain 

side : 
For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had 

met 
And   fought  together;    but  their   names 

were  lost; 
And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a  blow; 
And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen 

aljhorr'd  : 
And  there  they  lay   till   all   their   bones 

were  bleach'd. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


389 


And  lichen'd  into  colour  with  the  crags : 
And  he,  that  once  was  king,  had  on  a 

crown 
Of  diamonds,    one    in    front,    and    four 

aside. 
And  Arthur  came,  and  labouring  up  the 

pass. 
All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 
Had  trodden  that  crown'd  skeleton,  and 

the  skull 
Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the  skull 

the  crown 
RoU'd  into  light,  and  turning  on  its  rims 
Fled    like    a    glittering    rivulet    to    the 

tarn  : 
And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he  plunged, 

and  caught. 
And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 
Heard  murmurs,  '  Lo,  thou  likewise  shalt 

be  King.' 

Thereafter,  when  a  King,  he  had  the 

gems 
Pluck'd    from    the    crown,    and    show'd 

them  to  his  knights, 
Saying,    'These    jewels,    whereupon     I 

chanced 
Divinely,    are    the    kingdom's,    not    the 

King's  — 
For  public  use  :  henceforward  let  there 

be, 
Once  every  year,  a  joust  for  one  of  these  : 
For  so   by  nine   years'   proof  we  needs 

must  learn 
Which  is  our   mightiest,  and   ourselves 

shall  grow 
In   use    of  arms    and    manhood,  till  we 

drive 
The  heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall  rule 

the  land 
Hereafter,  which  God  hinder.'     Thus  he 

spoke : 
And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had 

been,  and  still 
Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the 

year. 
With   purpose   to  present    them    to    the 

Queen, 
When  all  were  won;   but  meaning  all  at 

once 
To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a  boon 
Worth  half  her  realm,  had  never  spoken 

word. 


Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the 

last 
And    largest,  Arthur,   holding    then    his 

court 
Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which 

now 
Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a  joust 
At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew  nigh 
Spake  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to  Guine- 
vere, 
'Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  cannot 

move 
To  these  fair  jousts?'     'Yea,  lord,'  she 

said,  'ye  know  it.' 
'  Then   will  ye  miss,'  he  answer'd,  '  the 

great  deeds 
Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the  lists, 
A  sight  ye   love  to  look  on.'     And  the 

Queen 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  languidly 
On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside  the 

King. 
He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning 

there, 
'  Stay  with  me,  I   am  sick ;    my  love   is 

more 
Than    many  diamonds,'  yielded;    and   a 

heart 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen 
(However    much    he   yearn'd    to    make 

complete 
The  tale  of  diamonds  for   his    destined 

boon) 
Urged  him  to  speak    against  the  truth, 

and  say, 
'  Sir  King,  mine  ancient  w^ound  is  hardly 

whole, 
And  lets  me  from  the  saddle;  '  and  the 

King 
Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and  went 

his  way. 
No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she  began  : 

'To    blame,    my   lord    Sir    Lancelot, 

much  to  blame  ! 
Why  go  ye  not  to  these  fair  jousts?  the 

knights 
Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the 

crowd 
Will  murmur,  "  Lo  the  shameless  ones, 

who  take 
Their  pastime  now  the  trustful   King  is 

2one ! "  ' 


390 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Then    Lancelot  vext   at    having   lied  in 

vain: 
'Are  ye  so  wise?  ye  were  not  once  so 

wise, 
My  Queen,  that  summer,  when  ye  loved 

me  Hrst. 
Then  of  the    crowd   ye    took    no    more 

account 
Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the  mead, 
When  its  own  voice  clings  to  each  blade 

of  grass, 
And    every   voice    is    nothing.      As   to 

knights, 
Them  surely  can  I  silence  with  all  ease. 
But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow'd 
Of  all  men  :  many  a  bard,  without  offence, 
Has  link'd  our  names  together  in  his  lay, 
Lancelot,  the  flower  of  bravery,  Guine- 
vere, 
The  pearl  of  beauty :  and  our  knights  at 

feast 
Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while  the 

King 
Would   listen   smiling.       How   then?    is 

there  more? 
Has   Arthur    spoken   aught?    or   would 

yourself, 
Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir, 
Henceforth    Ije    truer    to    your    faultless 

lord?' 

She  broke  into  a  little  scornful  laugh  : 
'Arthur,  my   lord,  Arthur,  the    faultless 

King, 
That    passionate    perfection,    my    good 

lord  — 
But  who  can  gaze  upon  the  Sun  in  heaven  ? 
He  never  spake  word  of  reproach  to  me. 
He  never  had  a  glimpse  of  mine  untruth, 
He  cares  not  for  me  :   only  here  to-day 
There  gleam'd  a  vague  suspicion  in  his 

eyes : 
Some  meddling  rogue  has  tamper'd  with 

him  —  else 
Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 
And  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible, 
To  make  them  like  himself:   but,  friend, 

to  me 
He  is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at  all : 
For  who  loves  me  must  have  a  touch  of 

earth ; 
The    low  sun    makes  llic  colour:    1  am 

yours, 


Not  Arthur's,  as  ye  know,  save  by  the 

bond. 
And  therefore  hear  my  words :  go  to  the 

jousts  : 
The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break  our 

dream 
When  sweetest;    and  the  vermin  voices 

here 
May  buzz  so  loud  —  we  scorn  them,  but 

they  sting.' 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 

knights : 
'  And   with   what   face,  after  my  pretext 

made, 
Shall  I  appear,  O  Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 
Before    a    King    who    honours   his   own 

word, 
As  if  it  were  his  God's?  ' 

'  Yea,'  said  the  Queen, 
'  A  moral  child  without  the  craft  to  rule. 
Else  had  he  not  lost  me  :  but  listen  to  me. 
If  I  must  find  you  wit :  we  hear  it  said 
That  men  go  down  before  your  spear  at 

a  touch, 
But    knowing   you    are    Lancelot ;    your 

great  name. 
This    conquers:     hide    it    therefore;    go 

unknown  : 
Win  I  by  this  kiss  you  will :  and  our  true 

King 
Will   then    allow    your    pretext,   O   my 

knight. 
As  all  for  glory;   for  to  speak  him  true, 
Ye  know  right  well,  how  meek  soe'er  he 

seem, 
No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 
He    loves   it   in    his  knights  more  than 

himself: 
They  prove   to   him  his  work :   win  and 

return.' 

Then    got    Sir    Lancelot   suddenly    to 

horse, 
Wroth   at    himself.      Not  willing   to   be 

known, 
He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare. 
Chose  the  green  path   that    show'd  the 

rarer  foot, 
-Vnd  there  among  the  solitary  downs, 
I'ull  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way; 
Till  as  he  traced  a  faintly-shadow'd  track, 


LANCELOT  AND   ELALVE. 


391 


That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the 

dales 
Ran  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 
Fired  from  the  west,  far   on  a  hill,  the 

towers. 
Thither  he  made,  and  blew  the  gateway 

horn. 
Then     came     an     old,    dumb,    myriad- 
wrinkled  man, 
Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  disarm'd. 
And  Lancelot  marvell'd  at  the  wordless 

man ; 
And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 
With  two  strong  sons,  Sir  Torre  and  Sir 

Lavaine, 
Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle  court; 
And    close    behind    them  stept    the    lily 

maid 
Elaine,  his  daughter  :  mother  of  the  house 
There  was  not :    some  light  jest  among 

them  rose 
With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great 

knight 
Approach'd    them :     then    the    Lord    of 

Astolat : 
'  Whence  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and  by 

what  name 
Livest  between  the  lips?  for  by  thy  state 
And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief  of 

those. 
After  the  King,  who  eat  in  Arthur's  halls. 
Him  have  I  seen :    the  rest,   his  Table 

Round, 
Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  un- 
known. ' 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 

knights : 
'Known  am  I,  and  of  x\rthur's  hall,  and 

known, 
What  I  by  mere  mischance  have  brought, 

my' shield. 
But  since  I  go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 
At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me  not. 
Hereafter  ye  shall  know  nie  —  and  the 

shield  — 
I  pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you  have. 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not 

mine.' 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  '  Here 
is  Torre's : 
Hurt  in  his  first  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir  Torre. 


And   so,   God   wot,   his  shield    is    blank 

enough. 
His  ye  can  have.'     Then  added  plain  Sir 

Torre, 
'  Yea,  since  I  cannot  use  it,  ve  may  have 

it.' 
Here  laugh 'd  the  father  saying,  '  Fie,  Sir 

Churl, 
Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight? 
Allow  him  1    but    Lavaine,   my    younger 

here, 
He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride. 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an 

hour. 
And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair, 
To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  before.' 

'  Nay,  father,  nay,  good  father,  shame 

me  not 
Before    this    noble    knight,'    said   young 

Lavaine, 
'  For  nothing.     Surely  I  but  play'd   on 

Torre  : 
He  seem'd  so  sullen,  vext  he  could  not  go  : 
A  jest,  no  more  I  for,  knight,  the  maiden 

dreamt 
That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her 

hand. 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held. 
And    slipt    and    fell    into    some  pool   or 

stream. 
The  castle-well,  belike;    and  then  I  said 
That  ifl  went  and  if\  fought  and  won  it 
(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  our- 
selves) 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.     All  was 

jest. 
But,  father,  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will, 
To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble  knight : 
Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win  : 
Young  as  I  am,  yet  would  I  do  my  best.' 

'  So     ye    will    grace     me,'     answer'd 

Lancelot, 
Smiling  a  moment,  '  with  your  fellowship 
O'er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost 

myself, 
Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and 

friend : 
And  you  shall  win  this  tliamond,  — as  I 

hear 
It  is  a  fair  large  diamond,  —  if  ye  may, 
i    And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  ye  will.' 


392 


LANCELOT  AND   ELALNE. 


*A  fair  large  diamond,'  added  plain  Sir 

Torre, 
'  Such  be  for  queens,  and  not  for  simple 

maids.' 
Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the 

ground, 
Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost  about, 
Flush'd  slightly  at  the  slight  disparage- 
ment 
Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  looking 

at  her, 
Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus  return'd  : 
*  If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair, 
And  only  queens  are  to  be  counted  so. 
Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who  deem 

this  maid 
Might  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on  earth, 
Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like.' 

He  spoke  and  ceased :   the  lily  maid 

Elaine, 
Won   by  the    mellow  voice    before    she 

look'd, 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  lineaments. 
The  great  and  guilty  love  he   bare  the 

Queen, 
In  battle  with  the  love. he  bare  his  lord. 
Had  marr'd  his  face,  and  mark'd  it  ere 

his  time. 
Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with  one. 
The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the 

world, 
Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it :  but  in  him 
His   mood  was  often  like  a  fiend,  and 

rose 
And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  solitudes 
For  agony,  who  was  yet  a  living  soul. 
Marr'd  as  he  was,  he  seem'd  the  goodliest 

man 
That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  hall, 
And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes. 
However  marr'd,  of  more  than  twice  her 

years, 
Seam'd  with  an  ancient  swordcut  on  the 

cheek, 
And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up 

her  eyes 
And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was 

her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling  of 
the  court. 
Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude  hall 


Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half 

disdain 
Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  time, 
But  kindly  man  moving  among  his  kind  : 
Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage  of 

their  best 
And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  entertain'd. 
And  much  they  ask'd  of  court  and  Table 

Round, 
And  ever  well  and  readily  answer'd  he : 
But    Lancelot,    when    they   glanced   at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless  man. 
Heard    from    the   Baron  that,  ten   years 

before. 
The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his 

tongue. 
'  He  learnt  and  warn'd  me  of  their  fierce 

design 
i\gainst  my  house,  and  him  they  caught 

and  maim'd; 
But  I,  my  sons,  and  little  daughter  fled 
From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among 

the  woods 
By  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 
Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good  Arthur 

broke 
The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon  hill.' 

'  O  there,  great  lord,  doubtless,'  Lavaine 

said,  rapt 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of 

youth 
Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  'you  have 

fought. 
O  tell  us  —  for  we  live  apart  —  you  know 
Of  Arthur's  glorious  wars.'    And  Lancelot 

spoke 
And  answer'd  him  at  full,  as  having  been 
With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all  day 

long 
Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent 

Glem; 
And  in  the  four  loud  battles  by  the  shore 
Of  Duglas;   that  on  Bassa;   then  the  war 
That   thunder'd   in  and  out  the  gloomy 

skirts 
Of  Celidon  the  forest;    and  again 
By   castle    Gurnion,    where   the  glorious 

King 
Had    on    his   cuirass    worn    our    Lady's 

Head, 
Carv'd  of  one  emerald  centr'd  in  a  sun 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


393 


Of    silver    rays,    that    lighten'd    as    he 

breathed; 
And  at  Caerleon  had  he  help'd  his  lord, 
When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild 

white  Horse 
Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering; 
And  up  in  Agned-Cathregonion  too, 
And  down  the  waste  sand-shores  of  Trath 

Treroit, 
Where  many  a  heathen  fell;  '  and  on  the 

mount 
Of  Badon  I  myself  beheld  the  King 
Charge  at  the  head  of  all  his  Table  Round, 
And  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and  him. 
And  break  them;   and  I  saw  him,  after, 

stand 
High  on  a  heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to 

plume 
Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen  blood, 
And   seeing  me,  with  a  great  voice   he 

cried, 
"  They  are  broken,  they  are  broken !  " 

for  the  King, 
However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor 

cares 
For   triumph    in    our    mimic    wars,    the 

jousts 

For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down,  he 

laughs 
Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men  than 

he  — 
Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 
Fills  him  :  I  never  saw  his  like  :  there  lives 
No  greater  leader.' 

While  he  utter'd  this, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily  maid, 
'  Save   your   great    self,  fair  lord ;  '   and 

when  he  fell 
From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasantry  — 
Being  mirthful  he,  but  in  a  stately  kind  — 
She  still-  took  note  that  when  the  living 

smile 
Died   from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a 

cloud 
Of  melancholy  severe,  from  which  again, 
Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and  fro 
The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him 

cheer. 
There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tenderness 
Of  manners   and    of    nature :     and    she 

thought 
That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for  her. 


And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her 

lived. 
As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face. 
Divinely  thro'  all  hindrance  finds  the  man 
Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his  face. 
The  shape  and  colour  of  a  mind  and  life, 
Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 
And  fullest;   so  the  face  before  her  lived. 
Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence, 

full 
Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her 

sleep. 
Till  rathe  she  rose,  half-cheated  in  the 

thought 
She  needs  must   bid    farewell    to   sweet 

Lavaine. 
First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she  stole 
Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating: 
Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in  the 

court, 
'  This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it? '  and 

Lavaine 
Past  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the 

tower. 
There  to  his  proud  horse  Lancelot  turn'd, 

and  smooth'd 
The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  himself. 
Half-envious  of  the  flattering  hand,  she 

drew 
Nearer  and  stood.    He  look'd,  and  more 

amazed 
Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him,  saw 
The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light. 
He  had  not  dream'd  she  w^s  so  beautiful. 
Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear. 
For  silent,  tho'  he  greeted  her,  she  stood 
Rapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a  God's. 
Suddenly  flash'd  on  her  a  wild  desire. 
That  he  should  wear  her  favour  at  the  tilt. 
She  braved  a  riotous  heart  in  asking  for  it. 
'Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not  — 

noble  it  is, 
I  well  believe,  the  noblest  —  will  you  wear 
My  favour  at  this  tourney?  '     *Nay,'  said 

he, 
'  Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have  worn 
Favour  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 
Such  is  my  wont,  as  those,  who  know  me, 

know.' 
'  Yea,  so,'  she  answer'd ;  '  then  in  wearing 

mine 
Needs  must   be  lesser  likelihood,  noble 

lord, 


394 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


That  those  who  know  should  know  you.' 

And  he  turn'd 
Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his  mind, 
And  found  it  true,  and  answer'd,  'True, 

my  child. 
Well,  I  will  wear  it :  fetch  it  out  to  me  : 
What  is  it?'  and  she  told   him  'A  red 

sleeve 
Broider'd  with  pearls,'  and    brought  it : 

then  he  bound 
Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile 
Saying,  '  I  never  yet  have  done  so  much 
For  any  maiden  living,'  and  the  blood 
Sprang  to  her  face  and    till'd    her  with 

delight; 
But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 
Returning    brought    the    yet-unblazon'd 

shield,' 
His  brother's ;   which  he  gave  to  Lancelot, 
Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair  Elaine : 
'  Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have  my 

shield 
In  keeping  till  I  come.'    '  A  grace  to  me,' 
She  answer'd,  *  twice  to-day.     I  am  your 

squire !  ' 
Whereat   Lavaine    said,  laughing,  '  Lily 

maid. 
For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 
In  earnest,  let  me  bring  your  colour  back ; 
Once,  twice,  and   thrice :    now  get   you 

hence  to  bed  :  ' 
So  kiss'd  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own 

hand, 
And  thus  they  moved  away :  she  stay'd 

a  minute, 
Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate, 

and  there  — 
Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  serious 

face 
Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother's  kiss  — 
Paused    by  the   gateway,   standing    near 

the  shield 
In  silence,  while  she  watch'd  their  arms 

far-off 
Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the  downs. 
Then  to  her  tower  she  climb'd,  and  took 

the  shield, 
There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions  past 
away 
I'"ar  o'er  the  long  barks  of  the*   l)ushl(.ss 
downs. 


To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived 

a  knight 
Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty  years 
A  hermit,  who  had  pray'd,  labour'd  and 

pray'd. 
And  ever  labouring  had  scoop'd  himself 
In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 
On  massive  columns,  like  a  shorecliff  cave. 
And  cells  and  chambers :    all  were   fair 

and  dry; 
The  green  light  from  the  meadows  under- 
neath 
Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky  roofs; 
And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen-trees 
And    poplars    made    a    noise    of  falling 

showers. 
And  thither  wending  there  that  night  they 
bode. 

But  when    the    next    day  broke    from 

underground, 
And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro'  the 

cave, 
They  rose,   heard  mass,  broke  fast,  and 

rode  away  : 
Then  Lancelot  saying,  '  Hear,  but  hold 

my  name 
Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the 

Lake,' 
Abash'd    Lavaine,  whose   instant  rever- 
ence, 
Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their 

own  praise. 
But    left    him    leave    to  stammer,  '  Is   it 

indeed  ? ' 
And  after  muttering  'The  great  Lancelot,' 
At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answer'd, 

'One, 
One  have  I  seen  —  that  other,  our  liege 

lord, 
The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain's  King  of 

kings, 
Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously. 
He  will  be  there  — then  were  I  stricken 

blind 
That  minute,  I  might  say  that  I  had  seen.' 

So    spake    Lavaine,    and    when    they 

reach'd  the  lists 
By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 
Run  thro'  the  peopled  gallery  which  half 

round 
Lay  like  a  rainbow   falTn  upon  the  grass. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


395 


Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King, 
who  sat 

Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be  known, 

Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon 
clung. 

And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed 
in  gold, 

And  from  the  carven-work  behind  him 
crept 

Two  dragons  gilded,  sloping  down  to 
make 

Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest  of 
them 

Thro'  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innu- 
merable 

Fled  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  they 
•    found 

The  new  design  wherein  they  lost  them- 
selves, 

Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the 
work  : 

And,  in  the  costly  canopy  o'er  him  set, 

Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  nameless 
king. 

Then  Lancelot  answer'd  young  Lavaine 

and  said, 
'  Me  you  call  great :  mine  is  the  firmer 

seat, 
The  truer  lance  :  but  there  is  many  a  youth 
Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  I  am 
And  overcome  it;  and  in  me  there  dwells 
No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off  touch 
Of  greatness  to  know  well  I  am  not  great : 
There  is  the  man.'     And  Lavaine  gaped 

upon  him 
As  on  a  thing  miraculous,  and  anon 
The  trumpets  blew;   and  then  did  either 

side, 
They  that  assaird,and  they  that  held  the 

lists. 
Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly 

move, 
Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so  furiously 
Shock,   that   a   man    far-off  might    well 

perceive. 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield, 
The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thunder 

of  arms. 
And  Lancelot  bode  a  little,  till  he  saw 
Which  were  the  weaker;    then  he  hurl'd 

into  it 
Against  the  stronger  :   little  need  to  speak 


Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory  !  King,  duke, 
earl, 

Count,  baron  —  whom  he  smote,  he  over- 
threw. 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot's  kith 

and  kin, 
Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that  held 

the  lists. 
Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a  stranger 

knight 
Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot;   and  one  said  to  the  other, 

*Lo! 
What  is  he?     I  do  not  mean  the  force 

alone  — 
The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man  I 
Is  it  not  Lancelot?  '     '  When  has  Lance- 
lot worn 
Favour  of  any  lady  in  the  lists? 
Not  such  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know  him, 

know.' 
'How  then?    who  then?'  a  fury  seized 

them  all, 
A  fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of  Lancelot,  and  a  glory  one  with  theirs. 
They  couch'd  their  spears  and   prick'd 

their  steeds,  and  thus, 
Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the  wind 

they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wide  North- 
sea, 
Green-glimmering    toward    the    summit, 

bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the 

skies, 
Down  on  a  bark,  and  overbears  the  bark. 
And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a  spear 
Down-glancing  lamed  the  charger,  and  a 

spear 
Prick'd  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and  the 

head 
Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there  snapt, 

and  remain'd. 

Then  Sir  I>avaine  did  well  and  wor- 
ship fully; 

He  bore  a  knight  of  old  repute  to  the 
earth, 

And  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot  where 
he  lav.  , 


396 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony,  got, 
But  thought  to  do  while   he  might  yet 

endure, 
And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 
His  party,  —  tho'  it  seem'd  half-miracle 
To  those  he  fought  with,  —  drave  his  kith 

and  kin. 
And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held  the 

lists. 
Back  to  the  barrier;    then  the  trumpets 

blew 
Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore  the 

sleeve 
Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls;    and  all  the 

knights. 
His  party,  cried,  'Advance  and  take  thy 

prize 
The  diamond ; '  but  he  answer'd, '  Diamond 

me 
No  diamonds  !  for  God's  love,  a  little  air  ! 
Prize  me  no  prizes,  for  my  prize  is  death  I 
Hence  will  I,  and  I  charge  you,  follow 

me  not.' 

He  spoke,  and  vanish'd  suddenly  from 

the  field 
With    young    Lavaine    into    the    poplar 

grove. 
There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid,  and 

sat. 
Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  *  Draw  the  lance- 
head  : ' 
'  Ah  my  sweet  lord    Sir    Lancelot,'  said 

Lavaine, 
*  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  you  will  die.' 
But  he,  '  I  die  already  with  it :   draw  — 
Draw,'  —  and    Lavaine    drew,    and    Sir 

Lancelot  gave 
A  marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly 

groan. 
And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and  down 

he  sank 
P'or  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoon'd 

away. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare  him 

in. 
There  stanch'd  his  wound;   and  there,  in 

daily  doubt 
Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a  week 
Hid  from  the  wide  world's  rumour  by  the 

grove 
Of   poplars   with    their    noise    of   falling 

showers,  , 


And  ever- tremulous  aspen-trees,  he  lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled  the 
lists. 
His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North  and 

West, 
Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  desolate 

isles, 
Came  round  their  great  Pendragon,  saying 

to  him, 
'  Lo,    Sire,    our    knight,   thro'  whom  we 

won  the  day, 
Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left 

his  prize 
Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is  death.' 
'  Heaven   hinder,'  said   the   King,  *  that 

such  an  one, 
So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to-day  — 
He  seem'd  to  me  another  Lancelot  — 
Yea,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lance- 
lot- 
He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.     Where- 
fore, rise, 

0  Gawain,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the 

knight. 
Wounded  and  wearied  needs  must  he  be 
near. 

1  charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to  horse. 
And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes 

not  one  of  you 
Will  deem  this  prize    of  ours  is  rashly 

given  : 
His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.     We  will 

do  him 
No  customary  honour  :    since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the  prize. 
Ourselves  will  send  it   after.     Rise   and 

take 
This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  return. 
And  bring  us  where  he  is,  and  how  he 

fares. 
And  cease  not  from  your  quest  until  ye 

find.' 

So  saying,  from  the  carven  flower  above, 
To  which  it   made   a  restless  heart,  he 

took. 
And  gave,  the  diamond  :  then  from  where 

he  sat 
At  Arthur's  right,  with  smiling  face  arose, 
With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart,  a 

Prince 
\w  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his  May, 


LANCELOT  AND   ELALNE. 


397 


Gawain,  surnamed   The    Courteous,   fair 

and  strong, 
And     after      Lancelot,     Tristram,     and 

Geraint 
And   Gareth,  a  good  knight,  but  there- 
withal 
Sir  Modred's  brother,  and  the  child  of 

Lot, 
Nor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 
Wroth  that  the  King's  command  to  sally 

forth 
In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made  him 

leave 
The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights 

and  kings. 

So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse   and 

went ; 
While  Arthur   to    the   banquet,  dark  in 

mood, 
Past,  thinking,  *  Is  it  Lancelot  who  hath 

come 
Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for 

gain 
Of    glory,    and    hath    added    wound    to 

wound, 
And  ridd'n  away  to  die?'     So  fear'd  the 

King, 
And,    after    two    days'    tarriance    there, 

return'd. 
Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  embra- 
cing ask'd, 
'Love,    are    you   yet    so    sick?'      'Nay, 

lord,'  she  said. 
'And   where   is   Lancelot?'      Then    the 

Queen  amazed, 
'Was  he  not  with  you?  won  he  not  your 

prize? ' 
'  Nay,  but  one  like  him.'    '  Why  that  like 

was  he.' 
And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she 

knew. 
Said,  '  Lord,    no  sooner  had    ye   parted 

from  us, 
Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a  common  talk 
That  men  went  down  before  his  spear  at 

a  touch. 
But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot;   his  great 

name 
Conquer'd;   and  therefore  would  he  hide 

his  name 
From  all  men,  ev'n  the  King,  and  to  this 

end 


Had    made    the    pretext  of  a  hindering 

wound. 
That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all,  and 

learn 
If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught  decay'd; 
And  added,  "  Our  true  Arthur,  when  he 

learns. 
Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 
Of  purer  glory."  ' 

Then  replied  the  King : 
'  Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it  been. 
In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth. 
To  have  trusted  me  as  he  hath  trusted  thee. 
Surely  his  King  and  most  familiar  friend 
Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.     True, 

indeed, 
Albeit  I  know  my  knights  fantastical, 
So  fine  a  fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 
Must   needs   have  moved  my  laughter : 

now  remains 
But  little  cause   fo?   laughter :    his    own 

kin  — 
111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love  him, 

this!  — 
His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set  upon 

him; 
So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from  the 

field: 
Yet  good  news  too  ;  for  goodly  hopes  are 

mine 
That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a  lonely  heart. 
He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  his  helm 
A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broider'd  with  great 

pearls, 
Some  gentle  maiden's  gift.' 

'  Yea,  lord,'  she  said, 
'Thy  hopes  are  mine,'  and  saying  that, 

she  choked. 
And  sharply  turn'd  about  to  hide  her  face. 
Past   to    her   chamber,   and  there    flung 

herself 
Down  on   the  great  King's  couch,  and 

writhed  upon  it. 
And  clench'd  her  fingers  till  they  bit  the 

palm, 
And  shriek'd  out  'Traitor'  to    the    un- 

hearing  wall. 
Then    flash'd    into    wild   tears,  and  ■  rose 

again. 
And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud  and 

pale. 


398 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region 

round 
Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of  the 

quest, 
Touch'd  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar 

grove, 
And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Astolat : 
Whom  glittering  in  enamell'd  arms  the 

maid 
Glanced  at,  and  cried,  '  What  news  from 

Camelot,  lord? 
What  of  the  knight  with  the  red  sleeve?  ' 

'  He  w  on.' 
*  I  knew  it,'  she  said.     '  But  parted  from 

the  jousts 
Hurt  in  the  side,'  whereat  she  caught  her 

breath; 
Thro'  her   own  side  she   felt  the  sharp 

lance  go; 
Thereon  she  smote  her  hand :  wellnigh 

she  swoon'd : 
And,  while  he  gazed*  wonderingly  at  her, 

came 
The  Lord   of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  the 

Prince 
Reported    who    he    was,    and    on    what 

quest 
Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could 

not  find 
The  victor,    but   had   ridd'n  a    random 

round 
To  seek   him,  and  had  wearied    of  the 

search. 
To   whom   the    Lord   of  Astolat,  '  Bide 

with  us. 
And    ride    no    more    at    random,    noble 

Prince ! 
Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left  a 

shield; 
This  will  he  send  or  come  for :   further- 
more 
Our  son  is  with  him;   we  shall  hear  anon, 
Needs  must  we  hear.'     To  this  the  cour- 
teous Prince 
Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy. 
Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it. 
And  stay'd ;    and   cast   his   eyes   on   fair 

Elaine  : 
Where    could    l^e    found    face    daintier? 

then  her  shape 
P'rom  forehead  down  to  ft)ot,  perfect  — 

again 
From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely  turn'd  : 


'  Well  —  if    I   bide,   lo  I   this  wild    flower 

for  me  !  ' 
And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden  yews. 
And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon  her 
With  sallying   wit,  free    flashes    from    a 

height 
Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and  songs. 
Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  elo- 
quence 
And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 
Rebell'd  against  it,  saying  to  him, '  Prince, 
O  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 
Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he  left. 
Whence  you  might  learn  his  name?  Why 

slight  your  King, 
And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on,  and 

prove 
No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday. 
Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  her  at,  and 

went 
To  all  the  winds? '     '  Nay,  by  mine  head,' 

said  he, 
'  I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven, 
O  damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue  eyes; 
But  an  ye  will  it  let  me  see  the  shield.' 
And    when  the  shield  was  brought,  and 

Gawain  saw 
Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crown'd  with 

gold, 
Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh, 

and  mock'd : 
'  Right   was   the   King  !    our  Lancelot ! 

that  true  man  !  ' 
*  And  right  was  I,'  she  ansvver'd  merrily, 

'I, 
Who    dream'd    my   knight   the  greatest 

knight  of  all.' 
'  And  if  /  dream'd,'  said  Gawain,  *  that 

you  love 
This   greatest   knight,  your  pardon  !  lo, 

ye  know  it ! 
Speak  therefore :  shall  I  waste  myself  in 

vain?  ' 
Full  simple  was  her  answer,  *  What  know 

I? 
My  brethren    have  been  all  my   fellow- 
ship; 
And  I,  when  often  they  have  talk'd  of 

love, 
Wish'd  it  had  been  my  mother,  for  they 

talk'd, 
Meseem'd,  of  wliat  they   knew   not ;  so 

mvself  — 


LANCELOT  AND   ELALNE. 


399 


1  know  not  if  I  know  what  true  love  is, 
But  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 
I  know  there  is  none  other  I  can  love.' 
'Yea,  by  God's  death,'  said  he,  'ye  love 

him  well, 
But  would  not,  knew  ye  what  all  others 

know, 
And  whom  he  loves.'     '  So  be  it,'  cried 

Elaine, 
And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved  away  : 
But    he    pursued    her,    calling,    '  Stay    a 

little  ! 
One    golden    minute's    grace !    he    wore 

your  sleeve : 
Would  he  break  faith  with  one  I  may  not 

name? 
Must  our  true  man  change  like  a  leaf  at 

last? 
Nay  —  like   enow :    why  then,  far  be   it 

from  me 
To    cross    our    mighty    Lancelot    in    his 

loves ! 
And,  damsel,  for  I  deem  you  know  full 

well 
Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let 

me  leave 
My  quest  with  you;   the  diamond  also: 

here  I 
For   if  you   love,    it    will    be    sweet    to 

give  it; 
And    if    he    love,    it    will    be    sweet    to 

have  it 
From  your  own  hand;   and  whether  he 

love  or  not, 
A  diamond  is  a  diamond.     Fare  you  well 
A  thousand  times  I  —  a   thousand   times 

farewell ! 
Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love   hold,  we 

two 
May  meet   at   court  hereafter :    there,  I 

think. 
So  ye   will   learn   the   courtesies   of  the 

court. 
We  two  shall  know  each  other.' 

Then  he  gave, 
And  slightly  kiss'd  the  hand  to  which  he 

gave, 
The    diamond,    and   all    wearied   of  the 

quest 
Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he 

went 
A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 


Thence  to  the  court  he  past;  there  told 
the  King 

What  the  King  knew,  '  Sir  Lancelot  is 
the  knight.' 

And  added,  'Sir,  my  liege,  so  much  I 
learnt; 

But  fail'd  to  find  him,  tho'  I  rode  all 
round 

The  region :  but  I  lighted  on  the  maid 

Whose  sleeve  he  wore;  she  loves  him; 
and  to  her. 

Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest  law, 

I  gave  the  diamond :  she  will  render  it ; 

For  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hiding- 
place.' 

The    seldom-frowning   King    frown'd, 

and  replied, 
'  Too    courteous    truly !    ye    shall   go   no 

more 
On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  ye  forget 
Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to  kings.' 

He  spake  and  parted.     Wroth,  but  all 

in  awe. 
For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  without 

a  word, 
Linger'd  that  other,  staring  after  him; 
Then    shook    his    hair,    strode    off,    and 

buzz'd  abroad 
About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her  love. 
All  ears  were  prick'd  at  once,  all  tongues 

were  loosed : 
'  The  maid  of  Astolat   loves  Sir  Lance- 
lot, 
Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Astolat.' 
Some    read   the    King's   face,   some    the 

Queen's,  and  all 
Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be,  but 

most 
Predoom'd   her   as   unworthy.     One   old 

dame 
Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the 

sharp  news. 
She,    that    had    heard    the    noise    of    it 

before. 
But    sorrowing    Lancelot    should    have 

stoop'd  so  low, 
Marr'd  her  friend's  aim  with  pale  tran- 
quillity. 
So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the  court, 
F'ire  in  dry  stubble  a  nine-days'  wonder 

flared  : 


400 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


Till  ev'n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice  or 

thrice 
Forgot   to    drink    to    Lancelot   and   the 

Queen, 
And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily  maid 
Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen, 

who  sat 
With  lips  severely  placid,  felt  the  knot 
Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet 

unseen 
Crush'd  the  wild  passion  out  against  the 

floor 
Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the   meats 

became 
As   wormwood,  and  she   hated  all  who 

pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 
Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever  kept 
The    one-day-seen    Sir    Lancelot  in  her 

heart. 
Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused  alone, 
Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face 

and  said, 
'  Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the  fault 
Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and 

now. 
Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my 

wits?' 
'  Nay,'   said   he,    '  surely.'      '  Wherefore, 

let  me  hence,' 
She   answer'd,  '  and   find    out  our    dear 

Lavaine.' 
'  Ye   will    not   lose   your   wits   for   dear 

Lavaine  : 
Bide,'  answer'd  he  :  '  we  needs  must  hear 

anon 
Of  him,  and  of  that  other.'     *  Ay,'  she 

said, 
'  And  of  that  other,  for  I  needs  must  hence 
And  find  that  other,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  diamond 

to  him. 
Lest  I  be  found  as  faithless  in  the  quest 
As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the  quest 

to  me. 
Sweet  father,  I  behold  him  in  my  dreams 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Death-pale,  for  lack  of  gentle  maiden's 

aid. 
The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the  more 

bound, 
My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 


To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  ye  know 
When  these  have  worn  their  tokens :  let 

me  hence 
I  pray  you.'     Then  her  father  nodding 

said, 
'  Ay,  ay,  the  diamond :  wit  ye  well,  my 

child. 
Right   fain  were  I  to  learn   this  knight 

were  whole. 
Being  our  greatest:   yea,  and  you  must 

give  it  — 
And  sure  I  think  this  fruit  is  hung  too 

high 
For    any    mouth    to    gape    for    save    a 

queen's  — 
Nay,  I  mean  nothing :  so  then,  get  you 

gone, 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go.' 

Lightly,  her  suit  allow'd,  she  slipt  away, 
And  while  she  made  her  ready  for  her 

ride. 
Her  father's  latest  word  humm'd  in  her 

ear, 
'  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go,' 
And   changed  itself  and    echo'd   in  her 

heart, 
'  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die.' 
But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook  it 

off. 
As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes  at  us; 
x\nd  in  her  heart  she  answer'd  it  and  said, 
*  What  matter,  so  I  help  him  back  to  life?' 
Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre  for 

guide 
Rode  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 

downs 
To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 
Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy  face 
Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 
For  pleasure  all  about  a  field  of  flowers : 
Whom   when    she    saw,    '  Lavaine,'    she 

cried,  '  Lavaine, 
How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot?'     He 

amazed, 
'Torre    and     Elaine!     why    here?      Sir 

Lancelot ! 
How  know  ye  my  lord's  name  is  Lance- 
lot?' 
But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  her 

tale. 
Then  turn'd  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in  his 

moods 


LANCELOT  AND   ELALNE. 


401 


Left  them,  and  under  the  strange-statued 

gate, 
Where     Arthur's    wars     were     render'd 

mystically, 
Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his  kin. 
His    own    far    blood,    which    dwelt    at 

Camelot ; 
And  her,  Lavaine  across  the  poplar  grove 
Led  to  the  caves :   there  tirst  she  saw  the 

casque 
Of   Lancelot    on   the    wall ;    her   scarlet 

sleeve, 
Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearls 

away, 
Stream'd  from  it  still;   and  in  her  heart 

she  laugh'd. 
Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his 

helm, 
But  meant  once  more  perchance  to  tour- 
ney in  it. 
And  when  they  gain'd  the  cell  wherein 

he  slept, 
His  battle-writhen  arms  and  mighty  hands 
Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a  dream 
Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made  them 

move. 
Then  she  that  saw  him   lying   unsleek, 

unshorn, 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Utter'd  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 
The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so  still 
Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he  roll'd 

his  eyes 
Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to  him, 

saying, 
'  Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by  the 

King :  ' 
His  eyes  glisten'd  :  she  fancied  '  Is  it  for 

me? ' 
And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  the 

tale 
Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent, 

the  quest 
Assign'd  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she  knelt 
Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed. 
And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open  hand. 
Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the 

child 
That  does  the  task  assign'd,  he  kiss'd  her 

face. 
At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the  floor. 
*  Alas,'  he  said,  '  your  ride  hath  wearied 

you. 

2D 


Rest  must  you  have.'     '  No  rest  for  me,' 

she  said; 
'  Nay,  for  near  you,  fair  lord,  I  am  at  rest.' 
What  might  she  mean  by  that?  his  large 

black  eyes. 
Yet  larger  thro'  his  leanness,  dwelt  upon 

her, 
Till  all  her  heart's  sad  secret  blazed  itself 
In  the  heart's  colours  on  her  simple  face; 
And  Lancelot  look'd  and  was  perplext  in 

mind. 
And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more; 
But  did  not   love  the   colour;   woman's 

love, 
Save  one,  he  not  regarded,  and  so  turn'd 
Sighing,  and  feign'd  a  sleep  until  he  slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro'  the 

fields, 
And  past  beneath  the  weirdly-sculptured 

gates 
Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin; 
There  bode   the    night:  but  woke  with 

dawn,  and  past 
Down  thro'  the  dim  rich  city  to  the  fields, 
Thence  to  the  cave :  so  day  by  day  she 

past 
In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 
Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him. 
And  likewise  many  a  night :  and  Lancelot 
Would,  tho'  he  call'd  his  wound  a  little 

hurt 
Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole,  at 

times 
Brain-feverous   in  his    heat   and    agony, 

seem 
Uncourteous,    even   he :    but   the    meek 

maid 
Sweetly  forbore  him  ever,  being  to  him 
Meeker  than  any  child  to  a  rough  nurse, 
Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick  child, 
And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's  first 

fall. 
Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep  love 
Upbore  her;  till  the  hermit,  skill'd  in  all 
The  simples  and  the  science  of  that  time, 
Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved  his 

life. 
And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple  blush, 
Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet 

Elaine, 
Would  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 
Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  tenderly. 


402 


LANCELOT  AND   ELALVE. 


And  loved  her  with  all  love  except  the 

love 
Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love  their 

best, 
Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the 

death 
In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 
And  peradventure  had  he  seen  her  first 
She  might  have  made  this  and  that  other 

world 
Another  world  for  the  sick  man;  but  now 
The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straiten'd  him, 
His  honour  rooted  in  dishonour  stood. 
And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sick- 
ness made 
Full  many  a  holy  vow  and  pure  resolve. 
These,  as  but  born  of  sickness,  could  not 

live  : 
For  when  the  blood  ran   lustier  in  him 

again. 
Full  often  the  bright  image  of  one  face, 
Making  a  treacherous  quiet  in  his  heart, 
Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 
Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly 

grace 
Beam'd  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he  answer'd 

not. 
Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew  right 

well 
What  the  rough  sickness  meant,  but  what 

this  meant 
She  knew  not,  and  the   sorrow  dimm'd 

her  sight, 
And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the 

fields 
Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 
She  murmur'd,  *  Vain,  in  vain  :   it  cannot 

be. 
He  will  not  love  me:   how  then?  must 

I  die?' 
Then  as  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird. 
That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few 

notes. 
Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 
Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 
Went  half  the  night  repeating,  *  Must  I 

die?' 
And  now  to  right  she  turn'd,  and  now  to 

left. 
And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in  rest; 


And     '  Him     or     death,'     she     mutter'd, 

'  death  or  him,' 
Again  and  like  a  burthen, '  Him  or  death.' 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot's   deadly  hurt 

was  whole. 
To  Astolat  returning  rode  the  three. 
There  morn  by  morn,  arraying  her  sweet 

self 
In  that  wherein  she  deem'd  she  look'd 

her  best. 
She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for   she 

thought 
*  If  I  be  loved,  these  are  my  festal  robes. 
If  not,  the  victim's  flowers  before  he  fall.' 
And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the  maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift  of 

him 
For  her  own  self  or  hers;   *  and  do  not 

shun 
To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your  true 

heart; 
Such  service  have  ye  done  me,  that  I  make 
My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord 

am  I 
In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I  will  I  can.' 
Then  like  a  ghost  she  lifted  up  her  face, 
But  like  a  ghost  without  the  power  to 

speak. 
And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld  her 

wish. 
And  bode  among  them  yet  a  little  space 
Till  he  should  learn  it;   and  one  morn  it 

chanced 
He  found  her  in  among  the  garden  yews, 
And  said,  '  Delay  no  longer,  speak  your 

wish. 
Seeing  I  go  to-day  :  '  then  out  she  brake  : 
'  Going?  and  we  shall  never  see  you  more. 
And  I  must  die  for  want  of  one  bold  word.' 
'  Speak  :  that  I  live  to  hear,'  he  said,  '  is 

yours.' 
Then    suddenly     and    passionately    she 

spoke : 
'  I  have  gone  mad.     1  love  you:   let  me 

die.' 
'  Ah,  sister,'  answer'd  Lancelot,  '  what  is 

this?  ' 
And  innocently  extending  her  white  arms, 
'  Your  love,'  she  said,  '  your  love  —  to  be 

your  wife.' 
And  Lancelot  answer'd,  '  Had  I  chosen 

to  wed, 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


40j 


I  had  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet  Elaine  : 
But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of  mine.' 
'  No,   no,'  she  cried,  '  I   care   not  to  be 

wife. 
But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your  face, 
To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro'  the 

world.' 
And  Lancelot  answer'd, '  Nay,  the  world, 

the  world, 
All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid  heart 
To    interpret   ear   and   eye,  and   such   a 

tongue 
To  blare  its  own  interpretation  —  nay, 
Full  ill  then  should  1  quit  your  brother's 

love. 
And  your  good  father's  kindness.'     And 

ghe  said, 
'Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see   your 

face  — 
Alas   for   me   then,  my   good    days   are 

done.' 
'Nay,    noble   maid,'    he   answer'd,    'ten 

times  nay ! 
This  is  not  love :  but  love's  first  flash  in 

youth, 
Most  common:  yea,  I  know  it  of  mine 

own  self: 
And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your  own 

self 
Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower  of 

life 
To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice  your 

age: 
And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and 

sweet 
Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood. 
More  specially  should  your  good  knight 

be  poor. 
Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  territory 
Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond  the 

seas, 
So  that  would  make  you  happy:  further- 
more, 
Ev'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'   ye   were  my 

blood, 
In  all  your  quarrels  will  I  be  your  knight. 
This    will    I   do,   dear   damsel,   for   your 

sake. 
And  more  than  this  I  cannot.' 

While  he  spoke 
She    neither    blush'd    nor    shook,     but 
deathly-pale 


Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then 

replied : 
'  (Df  all    this   will    I    nothing;  '    and   so 

fell. 
And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to  her 

tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro'  those  black 

walls  of  yew 
Their  talk  had  pierced,  her  father:  'Ay, 

a  flash, 
I   fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom 

dead. 
Too  courteous  are  ye,  fair  Lord  Lancelot. 
I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  passion.' 

Lancelot  said, 
'  That  were   against    me :    what  I  can  I 

will;  ' 
And  there  that  day  remain'd,  and  toward 

even 
Sent  for  his  shield :   full  meekly  rose  the 

maid, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked 

shield; 
Then,  when  she   heard  his  horse   upon 

the  stones. 
Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back,  and 

look'd 
Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  her  sleeve 

had  gone. 
And    Lancelot   knew  the  little  clinking 

sound ; 
And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking 

at  him. 
And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved 

his  hand. 
Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 
This   was   the   one    discourtesy  that  he 

used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden  sat : 
His  very  shield  was  gone;  only  the  case. 
Her  own  poor  work,  her  empty  labour, 

left. 
But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture 

form'd 
And  grew  between  her  and  the  pictured 

wall. 
Then    came    her    father,   saying    in    low 

tones. 


404 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


'  Have     comfort,'    whom     she     greeted 

quietly. 
Then  came  her  brethren  saying,  •  Peace 

to  thee, 
Sweet   sister,'  whom  she  answer'd  with 

all  calm. 
But  when  they  left  her  to  herself  again. 
Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  distant 

field 
Approaching  thro'  the  darkness,  call'd; 

the  owls 
Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she  mixt 
Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted  glooms 
Of  evening,  and  the  moanings  of  the  wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little 

song. 
And  call'd  her  song  '  The  Song  of  Love 

and  Death,' 
And   sang   it:    sweetly  could  she  make 

and  sing. 

*  Sweet  is  true  love  tho'  given  in  vain, 

in  vain; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to 

pain : 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

'Love,   art   thou   sweet?    then   bitter 
death  must  be  : 
Love,  thou  art  bitter;   sweet  is  death  to 
me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 

'Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made  to 
fade  away, 
Sweet    death,    that   seems    to    make    us 
loveless  clay, 

1  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  L 

*  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could 

be; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for 

me; 
Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow !  let  me  die.' 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her  voice, 

and  this. 
All  in  a  fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 
That  shook  her  tower,  the  brothers  heard, 

and  thought 
With  shuddering,  '  Hark  the  Phantom  of 

the  house 


That    ever  shrieks  before  a  death,'  and 

call'd 
The   father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and 

fear 
Ran  to  her,  and  lo  !   the  blood-red  light 

of  dawn 
Flared    on   her  face,   she  shrilling,  *  Let 

me  die ! ' 

And  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we 

know. 
Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so  well 
Becomes  a  wonder,   and   we   know  not 

why. 
So  dwelt    the    father    on   her  face,  and 

thought 
'Is  this   Elaine?'  till  back  the   maiden 

fell. 
Then  gave  a  languid  hand  to  each,  and 

lay, 
Speaking  a  still   good-morrow  with  her 

eyes. 
At  last  she  said,  '  Sweet  brothers,  yester- 
night 
I  seem'd  a  curious  little  maid  again, 
As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the 

woods, 
And  when  ye  used  to  take  me  with  the 

flood 
Up    the   great    river    in    the    boatman's 

boat. 
Only  ye  would  not  pass  beyond  the  cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it :  there  ye  fixt 
Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide. 
And  yet  I  cried  because  ye  would  not 

pass 
Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  King. 
And  yet  ye  would  not;   but  this  night  I 

dream'd 
That  I  w'as  all  alone  upon  the  flood. 
And  then  I  said,  "Now  shall  I  have  my 

will :  " 
And    there    I    woke,  but    still    the  wish 

remain'd. 
So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at  last 
Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood, 
Until  I  find  the  palace  of  the  King. 
There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all. 
And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at 

me; 
But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder  at 

me, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


405 


And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  muse 

at  me; 
Gawain,  who  bade  a  thousand  farewells  to 

me, 
Lancelot,  who  coldly  went,  nor  bade  me 

one : 
And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and 

my  love, 
And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity  me, 
And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome  me, 
And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall  rest ! ' 

'Peace,'  said  her  father,  'O  my  child, 
ye  seem 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours  to 

go 
So  far,  being  sick?  and  wherefore  would 

ye  look 
On  this  proud  fellow  again,  who  scorns 

us  all?' 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave 

and  move. 
And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say, 
'  I  never  loved  him :  an  I  meet  with  him, 
I  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  strike  him 

down, 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  him 

dead. 
For  this   discomfort   he  hath   done    the 

house.' 

To  whom  the  gentle  sister  made  reply, 
*  Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor  be 

wroth. 
Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's  fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to  love 
Him   of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the 

highest.' 

'Highest?'  the  father  answer'd,  echo- 
ing 'highest?' 

(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her) 
'  nay, 

Daughter,  I  know  not  what  you  call  the 
highest; 

But  this  I  know,  for  all  the  people  know 
it, 

He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open 
shame : 

And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame; 

If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low?  ' 


Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat : 
'  Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick  am  I 
For  anger:  these  are  slanders:  never  yet 
Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 
He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a 

foe. 
But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerless,  without  stain :  so   let   me 

pass, 
My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  you. 
Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's  best 
And  greatest,  tho'  my  love  had  no  return  : 
Yet,  seeing  you  desire  your  child  to  live, 
Thanks,  but  you  work  against  your  own 

desire; 
For  if  I  could  l^elieve  the  things  you  say 
I  should  but  die  the  sooner;   wherefore 

cease. 
Sweet  father,  and   bid  call  the  ghostly 

man 
Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean,  and 

die.' 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come  and 

gone, 
She  with  a  face,  bright  as  for  sin  forgiven, 
Besought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she  devised 
A  letter,  word  for  word;    and  when  he 

ask'd 
'  Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear  lord? 
Then  will  I  bear  it  gladly;  '  she  replied, 
'  For  I^ancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all  the 

world, 
But  I  myself  must  bear  it.'  Then  he  wrote 
The  letter  she  devised;   which  being  writ 
And  folded,  '  O  sweet  father,  tender  and 

true, 
Deny  me  not,'  she  said  —  *  ye  never  yet 
Denied  my  fancies — this,  however  strange. 
My  latest :  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A  little  ere  I  die,  and  close  the  hand 
Upon  it;   I  shall  guard  it  even  in  death. 
And  when  the  heat  is  gone  f"rom  out  my 

heart, 
Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I  died 
For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like  the 

Queen's 
For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the  Queen 
In  all  I  have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on  it. 
And  let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot-bier 
To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a  barge 
Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 
I  go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the  Queen. 


4o6 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


There  surely  I  shall  speak  for  mine  own 

self, 
And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me  so 

well. 
And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man  alone 
Go  with  me,  he  can  steer  and  row,  and  he 
Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the  doors.' 

She    ceased:    her    father    promised; 

whereupon 
She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deeni'd 

her  death 
Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the  blood. 
But  ten  slow  mornings  past,  and  on  the 

eleventh 
Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand. 
And  closed  the  hand  upon   it,  and   she 

died. 
So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

But  when  the  next  sun  brake  from  un- 
derground, 
Then,  those  two  brethren  slowly  with  bent 

brows. 
Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 
Past  like  a  shadow  thro'  the  field,  that 

shone 
Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon  the 

barge, 
Pall'd  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite, 

lay. 
There   sat    the   lifelong   creature   of   the 

house. 
Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck, 
Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his  face. 
So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot 

took 
And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  her 

bed. 
Set  in  her  hand  a  lily,  o'er  her  hung 
The  silken  case  with  braided  blazonings. 
And  kiss'd  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying  to 

her 
'  Sister,  farewell  for  ever,'  and  again 
'  Farewell,  sweet  sister,'  parted  all  in  tears. 
Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and  the 

dead, 
Oar'd  by  the    duml),  went   upward  with 

the  flood  — 
In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter  —  all  her  bright  hair  streaming 

down  — 
And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 


Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in 

white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured 

face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead. 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  she  smiled. 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace 

craved 
Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 
The  price  of  half  a  realm,  his  costly  gift. 
Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise  and 

blow. 
With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his 

own, 
The  nine-years-fought-for  diamonds  :  for 

he  saw 
One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the 

Queen 
Bearing   his   wish,   whereto    the   Queen 

agreed 
With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 
She  might  have  seem'd  her  statue,  but 

that  he, 
Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh  kiss'd  her 

feet 
For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong  eye 
The  shadow  of  some  piece   of  pointed 

lace, 
In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the 

walls. 
And  parted,  laughing  in  his  courtly  heart. 

All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side. 
Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's  palace  toward  the 

stream, 
They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling  utter'd, 

'Queen, 
Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I  have  my  joy, 
Take,  what  I  had  not  won  except  for  you, 
These  jewels,  and  make  me  happy,  making 

them 
An  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on  earth. 
Or    necklace    for    a   neck  to  which    the 

.     swan's 
Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet's:   these  are 

words : 
Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I  sin 
In  speaking,  yet  O  grant  my  worship  of  it 
Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.     Such  sin 

in  words 
Perchance,  we  both  tan  pardon  :   but,  my 

Queen, 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


407 


I  hear  of  rumours  flying  thro'  your  court. 
Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and 

wife, 
Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 
To  make  up  that  defect :  let  rumours  be  : 
When  did  not  rumours  fly?  these,  as   I 

trust 
That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  nobleness, 
1  may  not  well  believe  that  you  believe.' 

While  thus  he  spoke,  half-turn'd  away, 
the  Queen 

Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embowering 
vine 

Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  them 
off, 

Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood  was 
green; 

Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold  pas- 
sive hand 

Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the  gems 

There  on  a  table  near  her,  and  replied  : 

'  It  may  be,  I  am  quicker  of  belief 
Than   you  believe  me,  I,ancelot  of  the 

Lake. 
Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and 

wife. 
This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe'er  of  ill, 
It  can  be  broken  easier.     I  for  you 
This  many  a  year  have  done  despite  and 

'        wrong 
To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I   did    acknowledge    nobler.     What   are 

these? 
Diamonds  for  me  !  they  had  been  thrice 

their  worth 
Being  your  gift,  had   you  not  lost  your 

own. 
To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all  gifts 
Must  vary  as  the  giver's.     Not  for  me  I 
For  her  !   for  your  new  fancy.     Only  this 
Grant  me,   I  pray  you :    have  your  joys 

apart. 
I  doubt  not  that  however  changed,  you 

keep 
So  much  of  what  is  graceful :   and  myself 
Would   shun   to   break  those  bounds   of 

courtesy 
In  which  as  Arthur's  Queen  I  move  and 

rule  : 
So  cannot  speak  mv  mind.     An  end  to 

this! 


A  strange  one  I  yet  I  take  it  with  Amen. 
So  pray  you,  add   my  diamonds   to   her 

pearls; 
Deck  her  with  these;   tell  her,  she  shines 

me  down : 
An    armlet    for    an    arm    to    which    the 

Queen's 
Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck 
O  as  much  fairer  —  as  a  faith  once  fair 
Was  richer  than  these  diamonds  —  hers 

not  mine  — 
Xay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  himself. 
Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my 

will  — 
She  shall  not  have  them.' 

Saying  which  she  seized, 
And,  thro'  the  casement  standing  wide 

for  heat, 
Flung  them,  and  down  they  flash'd,  and 

smote  the  stream. 
Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash'd,  as 

it  were, 
Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past 

away. 
Then   while   Sir   Lancelot  leant,  in  half 

disdain 
At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window 

ledge. 
Close    underneath    his    eyes,    and    right 

across 
Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past  the 

barge 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  in  blackest  night. 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not,  burst 

away 
To  weep  and  wail  in  secret;    and  the 

barge, 
On  to  the  palace-doorway  sliding,  paused. 
There   two    stood  arm'd,   and   kept   the 

door;    to  whom, 
All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier, 
Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and  eyes 

that  ask'd 
'  What  is  it? '  but  that  oarsman's  haggard 

face, 
As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that  men 
Shape  to  their  fiancy's  eye  from  broken 

rocks 
On    some    cliff-side,   appall'd   them,  and 

they  said. 


\ 


4o8 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


'He   is  enchanted,  cannot  speak  —  and 

she, 
Look  how  she  sleeps —  the  Fairy  Queen, 

so  fair ! 
Yea,  but  how  pale  1  what  are  they?  flesh 

and  blood? 
Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  Fairyland? 
For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot  die, 
But  that  he  passes  into  Fairyland.' 

While  thus  they  babbled  of  the  King, 

the  King 
Came  girt  with  knights :  then  turn'd  the 

tongueless  man 
From  the  half-face  to  the  full  eye,  and 

rose 
And   pointed    to    the    damsel,   and   the 

doors. 
So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 
And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the  maid; 
And  reverently  they  bore  her  into  hall. 
Then  came  the  fine  Gawain  and  wonder'd 

at  her. 
And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused  at 

her, 
And  last  the  Queen  herself,  and  pitied 

her  : 
But  Arthur  spied  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
Stoopt,  took,   brake   seal,   and   read    it; 

this  was  all : 

'  Most  noble  lord.  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 

Lake, 
I,  sometime  call'd  the  maid  of  Astolat, 
Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  farewell, 
Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of  you. 
I  loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  return. 
And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been  my 

death. 
And  therefore  to  our  Lady  Guinevere, 
And  to  all  other  ladies,  I  make  moan : 
Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 
Pray  for  my  soul  thou  too,  Sir  Lancelot, 
As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless.' 

Thus  he  read; 
And  ever  in  the  reading,  lords  and  dames 
Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who 

read 
To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at  times, 
So  touchM  were  they,  half-thinking  that 

her  lips, 
Who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved  again. 


Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to  them 

all: 
'  My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that 

hear. 
Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maiden's 

death 
Right  heavy  am  I ;   for  good  she  was  and 

•true, 
But  loved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all  love 
In  women,  whomsoever  I  have  known. 
Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love  again ; 
Not   at   my   years,   however   it   hold   in 

youth. 
I  swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that  I 

gave 
No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a  love : 
To  this  I  call  my  friends  in  testimony. 
Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who  him- 
self 
Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt,  and 

use. 
To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 
Against  my  nature :  what  I  could,  I  did. 
I  left  her  and  I  bade  her  no  farewell; 
Tho',  had   I    dreamt   the  damsel    would 

have  died, 
I  might  have  put  my  wits  to  some  rough 

use, 
And  help'd  her  from  herself.' 

Then  said  the  Queen 
(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet   working  after 

storm), 
'  Ye   might  at   least  have    done   her  so 

much  grace. 
Fair  lord,  as  would  have  help'd  her  from 

her  death.' 
He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and 

hers  fell, 
He  adding, 

'  Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save  that  I  wedded  her,  which  could  not 

be. 
Then  might  she  follow  me  thro'  the  world, 

she  ask'd; 
It  could  not  be.     I  told  her  that  her  love 
Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would  darken 

down 
To  rise  hereafter  in  a  stiller  flame 
Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her  —  then 

would   I, 
Mi»re    specially    were    he,    she    wedded, 

pcKjr, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALVE. 


409 


Estate  them  with  large  land  and  territory 
In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow 

seas, 
To  keep  them  in  all  joyance  :  more  than 

this 
I  could  not;   this  she  would  not,  and  she 

died.' 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer'd,  '  O  my 

knight, 
It  will  be  to  thy  worship,  as  my  knight, 
And    mine,    as   head    of  all    our   Table 

Round, 
To  see  that  she  be  buried  worshipfuUy.' 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in 

all  the  realm 
Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly  went 
The   marshall'd    Order   of    their    Table 

Round, 
And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to  see 
The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  unknown. 
Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obsequies, 
And    mass,    and    rolling   music,    like    a 

queen. 
And   when   the   knights   had    laid    her 

comely  head 
Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten  kings. 
Then   Arthur  spake  among    them,  '  Let 

her  tomb 
Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon, 
And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her 

feet 
Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 
And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voyage 
For  all   true  hearts  be  blazon'd  on  her 

tomb 
In  letters  gold  and   azure  I  '  which  was 

wrought 
Thereafter:   but  when  now  the  lords  and 

dames 
And  people,  from  the  high  door  stream- 
ing, brake 
Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the  Queen, 
Who   mark'd    Sir    Lancelot    where    he 

moved  apart. 
Drew  near,  and  sigh'd  in  passing, '  Lance- 
lot, 
Forgive  me;   mine  was  jealousy  in  love.' 
He   answer'd   with    his    eyes    upon    the 

ground, 
'That  is  love's  curse ;   pass  on.  my  Queen, 

forgiven.' 


But  Arthur,  who  beheld  his  cloudy  brows, 
Approach'd  him,  and  with  full  aftection 
said, 

•  Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in  whom 

I  have 
Most  joy  and  most  affiance,  for  I  know 
What  thou   hast   been  in  battle  by  my 

side, 
And  many  a  time  have  watch'd  thee  at 

the  tilt 
Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-practised 

knight, 
And  let  the  younger  and  unskill'd  go  by 
To  win  his  honour  and  to  make  his  name, 
And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a  man 
•  Made  to  be  loved;   but  now  I  would  to 

God, 
Seeing  the  homeless  trouble  in  thine  eyes. 
Thou  couldst    have    loved    this  maiden, 

shaped,  it  seems, 
By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her  face, 
If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the  dead, 
Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair. 
Who  might    have  brought   thee,  now  a 

lonely  man 
Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 
Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and  fame. 
My  knight,  the   great    Sir   Lancelot   of 

the  Lake.' 

Then    answ  er'd    Lancelot.   *  Fair    she 

was,  my  King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights  to  be. 
To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an 

eye. 
To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a 

heart  — 
Vea.  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 
Could  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not 

be  bound.' 

*  Free  love,  so  bound,  were  freest,'  said 

the  King. 
'  Let  love  be  free ;    free  love  is  for  the 

best : 
And,  after  heaven,  on  our    dull  side  of 

death. 
What  should    be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a 

love 
Clothed  in  so  pure  a  loveliness?  yet  thee 
She  fail'd  to  hind,  tho'  being,  as  I  think. 
Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  I  know,' 


4IO 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


And   Lancelot   answer'd   nothing,  but 

he  went, 
And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a  cove,  and  watch'd 
The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up    his 

eyes 
And   saw    the    barge    that    brought    her 

moving  down, 
Far-off,  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and  said 
Low  in  himself,  '  Ah,  simple  heart  and 

sweet. 
Ye  loved  me,  damsel,  surely  with  a  love 
Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's,     Pray  for 

thy  soul? 
Ay,  that  will  I.     Farewell  too  —  now  at 

last  — 
Farewell,  fair  lily.     "Jealousy  in  love?". 
Not  rather  dead  love's  harsh  heir,  jealous 

pride? 
Queen,    if    I    grant   the   jealousy    as    of 

love. 
May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name  and 

fame 
Speak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a  love  that  wanes? 
Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name  to 

me? 
Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a 

reproach, 
Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 
Caught    from    his   mother's    arms  — •  the 

wondrous  one 
Who  passes  thro'  the  vision  of  the  night  — 
She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious  hymns 
Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and 

morn 
She    kiss'd    me  saying,  "Thou  art    fair, 

my  child, 
As  a  king's  son,"  and  often  in  her  arms 
She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky  mere. 
Would  she  had  drown'd  me  in  it,  wher- 
e'er it  be  ! 
For  what    am    I?   what    profits    me    my 

name 
Of   greatest    knight?     I    fought     for    it. 

and  have  it : 
Pleasure    to    have   it,  none;    to    lose   it, 

pain ; 
Now  grown  a  part  of  me:    but  what  use 

in  it? 
To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin 

known  ? 
Or   sin    seem    less,    the    sinner   seeming 

great? 


Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a  man 
Not  after  Arthur's  heart !     I  needs  must 

break 
These    bonds  that  so    defame  me :    not 

without 
She  wills  it:   would    I,  if  she  will'd  it? 

nay, 
Who  knows?    I^ut  if  I  would  not,  then 

may  God, 
I  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  Angel  down 
To  seize  me   by  the  hair  and   bear  me 

far, 
And    fling   me    deep    in    that    forgotten 

mere, 
Among   the   tumbled    fragments  of  the 

hills.' 

So  groan' d  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorseful 
pain. 
Not  knowing  he  should  die  a  holy  man. 

THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 

From  noiseful  arms,  and  acts  of  prowess 

done 
In  tournament  or  tilt,  Sir  Percivale, 
Whom  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  call'd 

The  Pure, 
Had  pass'd  into  the  silent  life  of  prayer, 
Praise,  fast,  and  alms;    and  leaving  for 

the  cowl 
The  helmet  in  an  abbey  far  away 
From  Camelot,  there,  and  not  long  after, 

died. 

And   one,  a    fellow-monk   among  the 

rest, 
Ambrosius,  loved  him  much  beyond  the 

rest. 
And    honour'd    him,    and   wrought    into 

his  heart 
A  way  by  love  that  waken'd  love  within, 
To    answer    that    which    came :    and    as 

they  sat 
Beneath  a  world-old  vew-tree,  darkening 

half 
The  cloisters,  on  a  gustful  April  morn 
That  puff'd   the   swaying    branches   into 

smoke 
Above  them,  ere  the  summer  when   he 

(lied, 
'{"lie    monk   Ambrosius    (juestion'd    Per- 
civale ; 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


411 


'  O  brother,  I  have  seen  this  yew-tree 

smoke, 
Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a  hundred 

years : 
For  never  have  I  known  the  world  with- 
out, 
Nor  ever  stray'd  beyond  the  pale  :    but 

thee, 
When  first  thou  earnest  —  such  a  courtesy 
Spake  thro'  the  limbs  and  in  the  voice  — 

I  knew 
For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur's  hall; 
For  good  ye  are  and  bad,  and  like  to  coins. 
Some  true,  some  light,  but  every  one  of  you 
Stamp'd  with  the  image  of  the  King;  and 

now 
Tell  me,  what  drove  thee  from  the  Table 

Round, 
My  brother  ?  was  it  earthly  passion  crost  ? ' 

•Nay,'  said  the  knight;    'for  no  such 

passion  mine. 
But  the  sweet  vision  of  the  Holy  Grail 
Drove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rivalries, 
And  earthly  heats  that  spring  and  sparkle 

out 
Among  us  in    the  jousts,  while  women 

watch 
Who    wins,  who   falls;     and    waste    the 

spiritual  strength 
Within  us,  better  offer'd  up  to  Heaven.' 

To    whom    the    monk  :     '  The    Holy 

Grail !  —  I  trust 
We  are  green  in  Heaven's  eyes;   but  here 

too  much 
We    moulder  —  as    to   things   without    I 

mean  — 
Yet  one  of  your  own  knights,  a  guest  of 

ours, 
Told  us  of  this  in  our  refectory. 
But  spakei  with  such  a  sadness  and  so  low 
We  heard  not  half  of  what  he  said.    What 

is  it? 
The  phantom  of  a  cup  that  comes  and 

goes? ' 

*  Nay,    monk!     what    phantom?'    an- 
swer'd  Percivale. 
'  The  cup,  the  cup  itself,  from  which  our 

Lord 
Drank  at  the  last  sad  supper  with  his  own. 
This,  from  the  blessed  land  of  Aromat— - 


After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the  dead 
Went  wandering  o'er  Moriah  —  the  good 

saint 
Arimath^ean  Joseph,  journeying  brought 
To  Glastonbury,  where  the  winter  thorn 
Blossoms    at   Christmas,  mindful  of   our 

Lord. 
And  there  awhile  it  bode;   and  if  a  man 
Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  heal'd  at 

once, 
By  faith,  of  all  his  ills.    But  then  the  times 
Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  holy  cup 
Was  caught  away  to  Heaven,  and  disap- 

pear'd.' 

To  whom  the  monk  :    '  From  our  old 

books  I  know 
That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glastonbury, 
And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arviragus, 
Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to 

build ; 
And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from  the 

marsh 
A  little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore, 
For  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours,  but 

seem 
Mute  of  this  miracle,  far  as  I  have  read. 
But  who  first  saw  the  holy  thing  to-day?' 

'A   woman,'    answer'd     Percivale,    'a 

nun, 
And  one  no  further  off  in  blood  from  me 
Than  sister  ;  and  if  ever  holy  maid 
With  knees  of  adoration  wore  the  stone, 
A  holy  maid;   tho'  never  maiden  glow'd. 
But  that  was  in  her  earlier  maidenhood, 
With  such  a  fervent  flame  of  human  love, 
Which  being  rudely  blunted,  glanced  and 

shot 
Only  to  holy  things;    to  prayer  and  praise 
She  gave  herself,  to  fast  and  alms.     And 

yet, 
Nun  as  she  was,  the  scandal  of  the  Court, 
Sin  against  Arthur  and  the  Table  Round, 
And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulterous 

race. 
Across  the  iron  grating  of  her  cell 
Beat,  and  she  pray'd  and  fasted  all  the 

more. 

'  And  he  to  whom  she  tt)ld  her  sins,  or 
what 
Her  ^11  but  utter  whiteness  held  for  sin, 


412 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 


A  man  wellnigh  a  hundred  winters  old, 
Spake  often  with  her  of  the  Holy  Grail, 
A  legend  handed  down  thro'  five  or  six, 
And  each  of  these  a  hundred  winters  old, 
From  our  Lord's  time.     And  when  King 

Arthur  made 
His  Table  Round,  and  all  men's  hearts 

became 
Clean  for  a  season,  surely  he  had  thought 
That   now  the   Holy  Grail  would    come 

again ; 
But  sin  broke   out.     Ah,  Christ,  that   it 

would  come, 
And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  wicked- 
ness ! 
"  O  Father  !  "  ask'd  the  maiden,  "  might 

it  come 
To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting?  "     "  Nay," 

said  he, 
"  I  know  not,  for   thy  heart  is  pure    as 

snow." 
And- so  she  pray'd  and  fasted,  till  the  sun 
Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro'  her,  and 

I  thought 
She  might  have  risen  and  floated  when  I 

saw  her. 

*  For  on  a  day  she  sent  to  speak  with 

me. 
And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold  her 

eyes 
Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beautiful, 
Beyond  all  knowing  of  them,  wonderful, 
Beautiful  in  the  light  of  holiness. 
And  "  O  my  brother  Percivale,"  she  said, 
"  Sweet   brother,  I  have  seen  the  Holy 

Grail : 
For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,  I  heard  a 

sound 
As  of  a  silver  horn  from  o'er  the  hills 
Blown,  and  I  thought,  '  It  is  not  Arthur's 

use 
To  hunt  by  moonlight;  '  and  the  slender 

sound 
As  from  a  distance  beyond  distance  grew 
Coming  upon  me  —  O  never  harp  nor  horn. 
Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or  touch 

with  hand, 
Was  like  that  music  as  it  came ;   and  then 
Stream'd  thro'  my  cell  a  cold  and  silver 

beam, 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy 

Grail, 


Rose-red  with  beatings  in  it,  as  if  alive, 
Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were 

dyed 
With  rosy  colours  leaping  on  the  wall; 
And  then  the  music  faded,  and  the  Grail 
Past,  and  the  beam  decay'd,  and  from  the 

walls 
The  rosy  quiverings  died  into  the  night. 
So  now  the  Holy  Thing  is  here  again 
Among   us,  brother,  fast   thou   too   and 

pray. 
And  tell  thy  brother  knights  to  fast  and 

pray. 
That  so  perchance  the  vision  may  be  seen 
By  thee  and  those,  and  all  the  world  be 

heal'd." 

'Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I  spake 

of  this 
To    all    men;     and   myself    fasted    and 

pray'd 
Always,   and   many   among   us   many   a 

week 
Fasted  and  pray'd  even  to  the  uttermost, 
Expectant  of  the  wonder  that  would  be. 

'  And  one  there  was  among  us,  ever 
moved 

Among  us  in  white  armour,  Galahad. 

"  God  make  thee  good  as  thou  art  beau- 
tiful," 

Said  Arthur,  when  he  dubb'd  him  knight; 
and  none 

In  so  young  youth,  was  ever  made  a 
knight 

Till  Galahad;  and  this  Galahad,  when 
he  heard 

My  sister's  vision,  fill'd  me  with  amaze; 

His  eyes  became  so  like  her  own,  they 
seem'd 

Hers,  and  himself  her  brother  more  than  I. 

'Sister  or  brother  none  had   he;   but 

some 
Call'd  him  a  son  of  Lancelot,  and  some 

said 
Begotten    by    enchantment  —  chatterers 

they, 
Like  birds  of  passage  piping  up  and  down. 
That  gape  for  flies  — we  know  not  whence 

they  come; 
For    when    was    Lancelot    wanderingly 

lewd? 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


413 


'  But  she,  the  wan  sweet  maiden,  shore 

away 
Clean  from  her  forehead  all  that  wealth 

of  hair 
Which  made  a  silken  mat-work  for  her 

feet; 
And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and 

long 
A  strong  sw^ord-belt,  and  wove  with  silver 

thread 
And  crimson  in  the  belt  a  strange  device, 
A  crimson  grail  within  a  silver  beam; 
And    saw   the    bright    boy-knight,    and 

bound  it  on  him, 
Saying,  "  My  knight,  my  love,  my  knight 

of  heaven, 
O  thou,  my  love,  whose  love  is  one  with 

mine, 
I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind  my 

belt. 
Go  forth,  for  thou  shalt  see  what  I  have 

seen, 
And  break  thro'  all,  till  one  will  crown 

thee  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city  :  "  and  as  she 

spake 
She   sent   the   deathless  passion  in   her 

eyes 
Thro'  him,  and  made  him  hers,  and  laid 

her  mind 
On  him,  and  he  believed  in  her  belief. 

'Then   came    a   year    of  miracle:    O 

brother, 
In  our  great  hall   there  stood  a  vacant 

chair, 
Fashion'd  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away. 
And  carven  with  strange  figures;   and  in 

and  out 
The  figures,  like  a  serpent,  ran  a  scroll 
Of  letters   in   a    tongue   no  man    could 

read. 
And  Merlin  call'd  it  "The  Siege  peril- 
ous," 
Perilous  for  good  and  ill;    "for  there," 

he  said, 
"No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose 

himself:  " 
And  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin  sat 
In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost;   but  he, 
Galahad,    when    he    heard    of    Merlin's 

doom, 
Cried,  "  If  I  lose  myself,  I  save  myself!  " 


'  Then  on  a  summer  night  it  came  to 

pass, 
While  the  great  banquet  lay  along  the 

hall. 
That  Galahad  would  sit  down  in  Merlin's 

chair. 

*  And  all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat,  we 

heard 
A  cracking  and  a  riving  of  the  roofs, 
And  rending,  and  a  blast,  and  overhead 
Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a  cry. 
And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the  hall 
A  beam  of  light  seven  times  more  clear 

than  day : 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy 

Grail 
All  over  cover'd  with  a  luminous  cloud, 
And  none  might  see  who  bare  it,  and  it 

past. 
But  every  knight  beheld  his  fellow's  face 
As  in  a  glory,  and  all  the  knights  arose. 
And  staring  each  at  other  like  dumb  men 
Stood,  till  I  found  a  voice  and  sware  a 

vow. 

'  I  sware  a  vow  before  them  all,  that  I, 
Because  I  had  not  seen  the  Grail,  would 

ride 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day  in  quest  of  it, 
Until  I  found  and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 
My  sister  saw  it;   and  Galahad  sware  the 

vow, 
And  good  Sir  Bors,  our  Lancelot's  cousin, 

sware. 
And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among 

the  knights. 
And  Gavvain  sware,  and  louder  than  the 

rest.' 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambrosius,  ask- 
ing him, 
'  What  said  the  King?     Did  Arthur  take 
the  vow?' 

*  Nay,    for    my   lord,'    said    Percivale, 

'  the  King, 
Was  not  in  hall :  for  early  that  same  day, 
Scaped  thro'  a  cavern  from  a  bandit  hold. 
An  outraged  maiden  sprang  into  the  hall 
Crying  on  help :  for  all  her  shining  hair 
Was  smear'd  with  earth,  and  either  milky 


414 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


Red-rent  with  hooks  of  bramble,  and  all 

she  wore 
Torn  as  a  sail  that  leaves  the  rope  is  torn 
In  tempest :   so  the  King  arose  and  went 
To  smoke  the  scandalous  hive  of  those 

wild  bees 
That   made    such    honey   in   his   realm. 

Howbeit 
Some  little  of  this  marvel  he  too  saw, 
Returning  o'er  the  plain  that  then  began 
To  darken  under  Camelot;   whence  the 

King 
Look'd    up,  calling   aloud,  "  Lo,  there ! 

the  roofs 
Of  our  great  hall  are  roU'd  in  thunder- 
smoke  ! 
Pray  Heaven,  they  be  not  smitten  by  the 

bolt." 
For  dear  to  Arthur  was  that  hall  of  ours, 
As  having  there  so  oft  with  all  his  knights 
Feasted,    and    as    the    stateliest    under 

heaven. 

'  O  brother,  had  you  known  our  mighty 

hall, 
Which  Merlin  built  for  Arthur  long  ago  ! 
For  all  the  sacred  mount  of  Camelot, 
And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by  roof, 
Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  spire, 
By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rushing 

brook. 
Climbs  to   the   mighty  hall  that   Merlin 

built. 
And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,   set 

betwixt 
With  many  a  mystic  symbol,  gird  the  hall : 
And  in  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying  men. 
And  in  the  second  men  are  slaying  beasts, 
And  on  the   third   are  warriors,  perfect 

men. 
And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  growing 

wings, 
And  over  all  one  statue  in  the  mould 
Of  Arthur,  made  by  Merlin,  with  a  crown, 
And  peak'd  wings  pointed  to  the  Northern 

Star. 
And  eastward  fronts  the  statue,  and  the 

crown 
And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold, 

and  flame 
At  sunrise  till  the  people  in  far  fields, 
Wasted  so  often  by  the  heathen  hordes, 
liehold  it,  crying,  "  We  have  still  a  King." 


'  And,  brother,  had  you  known  uurhall 

within, 
Broader  and  higher  than  any  in  all  the 

lands ! 
Where    twelve    great    windows    blazon 

Arthur's  wars. 
And  all  the  light  that  falls  upon  the  board 
Streams  thro'  the  twelve  great  battles  of 

our  King. 
Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern  end. 
Wealthy  with  wandering  lines  of  mount 

and  mere. 
Where  Arthur  finds  the  brand  Excalibur. 
And  also  one  to  the  west,  and  counter  to  it, 
And   blank:    and  who    shall    blazon  it? 

when  and  how?  — 
O  there,  perchance,  when  all  our  wars  are 

done. 
The  brand  Excalibur  will  be  cast  away. 

*  So  to  this  hall  full  quickly  rode  the 

King, 
In  horror  lest  the  work  by  Merlin  wrought, 
Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sudden  vanish, 

wrapt 
In  unremorseful  folds  of  rolling  fire. 
And  in  he  rode,  and  up  I  glanced,  and 

saw 
The  golden  dragon  sparkling  over  all : 
And  many  of  those  who  burnt  the  hold, 

their  arms 
Hack'd,  and  their  foreheads  grimed  with 

smoke,  and  sear'd, 
Follow'd,  and  in  among  bright  faces,  ours. 
Full  of  the  vision,  prest :  and  then  the 

King 
Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,  "  Percivale  " 
(Because  the  hall  was  all  in  tumult — • 

some 
Vowing,  and  some  protesting),  "what  is 

this?" 

'  O  brother,  when  I  told  him  what  had 

chanced. 
My  sister's  vision,  and  the  rest,  his  face 
Darken'd,  as  I  have  seen  it  more  than 

once. 
When  some    brave    deed   seem'd  to   be 

done  in  vain, 
Darken;   and  "  Woe  is  me,  my  knights," 

he  cried, 
"  Had  I  been  here,  ye  had  nt)t  sworn  the 

vow." 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


415 


Bold    \\as    mine    answer,   "  Mad    thyself 

been  here, 
My    King,    thou    vvouldst   have   sworn." 

"Yea,  yea,"  said  he, 
"  Art  thou  so  bold  and  hast  not  seen  the 

Grail?" 

'"Nay,    lord,    I    heard    the    sound,    I 
saw  the  light, 
But  since  I  did  not  see  the  Holy  Thing, 
I  sware  a  vow  to  follow  it  till  I  saw." 

'Then  when  he   ask'd   us,   knight   by 

knight,  if  any 
Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  as 

one : 
"  Nay,  lord,  and  therefore  have  we  sworn 

our  VOW'S." 

'"Lo   now,"   said   Arthur,  "have   ye 
seen  a  cloud? 
What  go  ye  into  the  wilderness  to  see?  " 

'Then  Galahad  on  the  sudden,  and  in 
a  voice 
vShrilling  along  the  hall  to  Arthur,  call'd, 
"  But  I,  Sir  Arthur,  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 
I  saw  the  Holy  Grail  and  heard  a  cry  — 
*  O  Galahad,  and  O  Galahad,  follow  me.'  " 

'"Ah,    Galahad,    Galahad,"    said   the 

King,  "  for  such 
As  thou  art  is  the  vision,  not  for  these. 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  seen  a  sign  — 
Holier  is  none,  my  Percivale,  than  she  — 
A  sign  to  maim  this  Order  w-hich  I  made. 
But  ye,  that  follow  but  the  leader's  bell" 
(Brother,  the   King  was   hard  upon  his 

knights), 
"Taliessin  is  our  fullest  throat  of  song. 
And  one  hath  sung  and  all  the  dumb  will 

sing.    ■ 
Lancelot  is  Lancelot,  and  hath  overborne 
Five  knights  at  once,  and  every  younger 

knight, 
Unproven,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 
Till  overborne  by  one,  he  learns  —  and  ye. 
What    are    ye?       Galahads?  —  no,    nor 

Percivales  " 
(For  thus  it  pleased  the  King  to  range 

me  close 
After    Sir    Galahad);     "nay,"    said   he, 

"  but  men 


With    strength    and    will    to    right    the 

wrong'd,  of  pow-er 
To    lav    the    sudden    heads    of  violence 

^flat. 
Knights    that    in    twelve    great    battles 

splash' d  and  dyed 
The    strong   White    Horse    in   his   own 

heathen  blood  — 
But  one  hath  seen,  and  all  the  blind  will 

see. 
Go,  since   your  vows    are  sacred,  being 

made : 
Yet — for  ye  know  the    cries  of  all  my 

realm 
Pass  thro'  this  hall  —  how  often,  O  my 

knights, 
Your  places  being  vacant  at  my  side. 
This  chance  of  noble   deeds  will  come 

and  go 
Unchallenged,  while  ye  follow  wandering 

fires 
Lost  in  the  quagmire  !     Many  of  you,  yea 

most, 
Return  no  more :   ye  think  I  show  my- 
self 
Too  dark  a  prophet :   come  now,  let  us 

meet 
The  morrow  morn  once  more  in  one  full 

field 
Of  gracious  pastime,  that  once  more  the 

King, 
Before  ye  leave  him  for  this  Quest,  may 

count 
The    yet-unbroken   strength   of    all    his 

knights. 
Rejoicing  in  that  Order  which  he  made." 

'  So  when  the    sun   broke    next   from 
under  ground, 
All  the  great  table  of  our  Arthur  closed 
And  clash'd  in  such  a  tournev  and  so 

full. 
So  many  lances  broken  —  never  yet 
Had  Camelot  seen  the  like,  since  Arthur 

came ; 
And  I  myself  and  Galahad,  for  a  strength 
Was  in  us  from  the  vision,  overthrew 
So    many   knights   that   all   the   people 

cried. 
And  almost   burst   the   barriers  in  their 

heat. 
Shouting,  "  Sir   Galahad  and   Sir  Perci- 
vale !  " 


4i6 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


*But   when  the  next   day  brake  from 

under  ground  — 
O  brother,  had  you  known  our  Camelot, 
Built  by  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so  old 
The  King  himself  had  fears  that  it  would 

fall, 
So  strange,  and  rich,  and  dim  ;  for  where 

the  roofs 
Totter'd  toward  each  other  in  the  sky. 
Met    foreheads    all    along  the    street    of 

those 
Who  watch'd  us  pass;    and  lower,  and 

where  the  long 
Rich   galleries,   lady-laden,  weigh'd   the 

necks 
Of  dragons  clinging  to  the  crazy  walls, 
Thicker  than  drops  from  thunder,  showers 

of  flowers 
Fell  as  we  past ;  and  men  and  boys  astride 
On  wyvern,  lion,  dragon,  griffin,  swan, 
At    all   the  corners,  named    us    each  by 

name. 
Calling  "  God  speed !  "  but  in  the  ways 

below 
The  knights  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich 

and  poor 
Wept,  and  the  King  himself  could  hardly 

speak 
For  grief,  and  all  in   middle  street   the 

Queen, 
Who  rode  by  Lancelot,  wail'd  and  shriek'd 

aloud, 
"This  madness  has  come  on  us  for  our 

sins." 
So  to  the  Gate  of  the  three  Queens  we 

came, 
Where  Arthur's  wars  are  render'd  mysti- 
cally, 
And  thence  departed  every  one  his  way. 

'And   I   was    lifted  up  in  heart,   and 

thought 
Of   all   my   late-shown   prowess    in    the 

lists. 
How  my  strong  lance  had  beaten  down 

the  knights, 
So  many  and  famous  names;   and  never 

yet 
Had  heaven  appear'd  so  blue,  nor  earth 

so  green, 
For  all  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  I 

knew 
That  I  should  light  upon  the  Holy  Grail. 


'Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of  our 

King, 
That  most  of  us  would  follow  wandering 

fires. 
Came  like    a   driving   gloom    across  my 

mind. 
Then  every  evil  word  I  had  spoken  once, 
And  every  evil  thought  I  had  thought  of 

old, 
And  every  evil  deed  I  ever  did. 
Awoke  and  cried,  "  This  Quest  is  not  for 

thee." 
And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I  found  myself 
Alone,  and  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns, 
And  I  was  thirsty  even  unto  death ; 
And  I,  too,  cried,  "  This  Quest  is  not  for 

thee." 

'  And  on  I  rode,  and  when  I  thought 

my  thirst 
Would  slay  me,  saw  deep  lawns,  and  then 

a  brook. 
With  one  sharp  rapid,  where  the  crisping 

white 
Play'd  ever  back  upon  the  sloping  wave, 
And  took  both   ear  and  eye;   and   o'er 

the  brook 
Were    apple-trees,   and    apples    by   the 

brook 
Fallen,  and  on  the  lawns.     "  I  will  rest 

here," 
I  said,  "  I  am  not  worthy  of  the  Quest;" 
But  even  while  I  drank  the  brook,  and 

ate 
The   goodly  apples,  all   these  things  at 

once 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 
And   thirsting,  in    a   land  of  sand   and 

thorns. 

'  And  then  behold  a  woman  at  a  door 
Spinning;   and  fair   the    house  whereby 

she  sat, 
And  kind  the  woman's  eyes  and  innocent, 
And  all  her  bearing  gracious;    and  she 

rose 
Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  who 

should  say, 
"  Rest  here ;  "  but  when  I  touch'd  her,  lo  ! 

she,  too, 
Fell    into    dust    and    nothing,    and    the 

house 
Became  no  better  than  a  broken  shed, 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


417 


And  in  it  a  dead  babe;   and  also  this 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

'  And  on  I  rode,  and  greater  was  my 

thirst. 
Then  flash'd  a  yellow  gleam  across  the 

world, 
And  where  it  smote  the  plowshare  in  the 

field, 
The  plowman  left  his  plowing,  and  fell 

down 
Before  it;   w'here  it  glitter'd  on  her  pail, 
The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and  fell 

down 
Before    it,    and    I   knew   not   why,    but 

thought 
•'The  sun  is  rising,"  tho'  the   sun   had 

risen. 
Then   was  I  ware  of  one    that    on   me 

moved 
In  golden  armour  with  a  crown  of  gold 
About  a  casque  all  jewels;   and  his  horse 
In  golden  armour  jewell'd  everywhere  : 
And  on  the  splendour  came,  flashing  me 

blind; 
And  seem'd  to  me  the   Lord  of  all  the 

world. 
Being  so  huge.     But  when  I  thought  he 

meant 
To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo !  he,  too, 
Open'd  his  arms  to  embrace  me  as  he 

came, 
And  up  I  went  and  touch'd  him,  and  he, 

too. 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone 
And   wearying  in  a   land    of  sand    and 

thorns. 

'  And  I  rode  on  and  found  a  mighty 

hill, 
And  on  the  top,  a  city  wall'd  :  the  spires 
Prick'd    with    incredible   pinnacles   into 

heaven. 
And    by  the   gateway   stirr'd    a   crowd; 

and  these 
Cried  to  me  climbing,  "  Welcome,  Perci- 

vale  ! 
Thou  mightiest  and   thou  purest  among 

men !  " 
And  glad  was  I  and  clomb,  but  found  at 

top 
No  man,  nor  any  voice.     And  thence  I 

past 

2E 


Far  thro'  a  ruinous  city,  and  I  saw 
That  man   had   once    dwelt   there;    but 

there  I  found 
Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 
"  Where  is  that  goodly  company,"  said  I, 
"That  so  cried  out  upon  me?  "  and  he 

had 
Scarce   any  voice   to    answer,    and   yet 

gasp'd, 
"  Whence  and  what  art  thou?  "  and  even 

as  he  spoke 
Fell  into  dust,  and  disappear'd,  and  I 
Was  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried  in 

grief, 
"  Lo,  if  I  find  the  Holy  Grail  itself 
And  touch  it,  it  will  crumble  into  dust." 

'  And  thence  I  dropt  into  a  lowly  vale, 
Low  as  the  hill  was  high,  and  where  the 

vale 
Was  lowest,  found  a  chapel,  and  thereby 
A  holy  hermit  in  a  hermitage. 
To  whom  I  told  my  phantoms,   and  he 

said : 

' "  O  son,  thou  hast  not  true  humility, 
The  highest  virtue,  mother  of  them  all; 
For  when  the  Lord  of  all  things  made 

Himself 
Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
'  Take  thou  my  robe,'  she  said,  '  for  all  is 

thine,' 
And  all  her  form  shone  forth  with  sud- 
den light 
So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and  she 
Follow'd  Him  down,  and  like  a  flying  star 
Led  on  the   gray-hair'd  wisdom  of  the 

east; 
But  her  thou  hast  not  known  :   for  what 

is  this 
Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  and  thy 

sins? 
Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  to  save  thyself 
As  Galahad."     When  the  hermit  made 

an  end, 
In  silver  armour  suddenly  Galahad  shone 
Before  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  enter'd,  and  we  knelt  in 

prayer. 
And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burning 

thirst. 
And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I  saw 
The  holy  elements  alone;   but  he, 


4i8 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


"  Saw  ye  no  more?     I,  Galahad,  saw  the 

Grail, 
The     Holy     Grail,    descend    upon    the 

shrine  : 
I  saw  the  fiery  face  as  of  a  child 
That  smote  itself   into   the    bread,    and 

went; 
And  hither  am  I  come;    and  never  yet 
Hath  what  thy  sister  taught  me  first  to  see, 
This  Holy  Thing,  fail'd  from  my  side,  nor 

come 
Cover'd,  but  moving  with  me  night  and 

day, 
Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 
Blood-red,  and  sliding  down  the  blacken'd 

marsh 
Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain 

top 
Blood-red,   and   in   the    sleeping    mere 

below 
Blood-red.     And  in  the  strength  of  this 

I  rode, 
Shattering  all  evil  customs  everywhere. 
And  past  thro'  Pagan  realms,  and  made 

them  mine, 
And    clash'd   with    Pagan   hordes,    and 

bore  them  down, 
And  broke  thro'  all,  and  in  the  strength 

of  this 
Come  victor.     But   my  time  is  hard  at 

hand. 
And  hence  I  go;   and  one  will  crown  me 

king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city;   and  come  thou, 

too. 
For  thou  shalt  see  the  vision  when  I  go." 

*  While  thus  he  spake,  his  eye,  dwell- 

ing on  mine, 
Drew  me,   with   power  upon  me,  till   I 

grew 
One  with  him,  to  believe  as  he  believed. 
Then,  when  the  day  began  to  wane,  we 

went. 

*  There  rose  a  hill  that  none  but  man 

could  climb, 

Scarr'd  with  a  hundred  wintry  water- 
courses — 

Storm  at  the  top,  and  when  we  gain'd  it, 
storm 

Round  us  and  death;  for  every  moment 
glanced 


His  silver  arms  and  gloum'd  :  so  quick 

and  thick 
The  lightnings  here  and  there  to  left  and 

right 
Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about  us, 

dead. 
Yea,    rotten   with   a   hundred    years    of 

death, 
Sprang   into    fire :    and  at  the  base  we 

found 
On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
A  great  black   swamp   and   of  an   evil 

smell, 
Part  black,  part  whiten' d  with  the  bones 

of  men, 
Not  to  be  crost,  save  that  some  ancient 

king 
Had    built    a    way,    where,    link'd    with 

many  a  bridge, 
A  thousand  piers  ran  into  the  great  Sea. 
And  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge  by 

bridge. 
And  every  bridge  as  quickly  as  he  crost 
Sprang   into    fire   and   vanish'd,   tho'    I 

yearn' d 
To  follow;   and  thrice  above  him  all  the 

heavens 
Open'd  and  blazed  with  thunder  such  as 

seem'd 
Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God  :   and 

first 
At  once  I  saw  him  far  on  the  great  Sea, 
In  silver-shining  armour  starry-clear; 
And  o'er  his  head  the  Holy  Vessel  hung 
Clothed  in  white  samite  or   a  luminous 

cloud. 
And  with    exceeding   swiftness   ran   the 

boat, 
If  boat  it  were  —  I  saw  not  whence  it 

came. 
And  when  the  heavens  open'd  and  blazed 

again 
Roaring,  I  saw  him  like  a  silver  star  — 
And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  the  boat 
Become    a    living    creature    clad    with 

wings? 
And  o'er  his  head  the  Holy  Vessel  hung 
Redder  than  any  rose,  a  joy  to  me. 
For  now  I  knew  the  veil  had  been  with- 
drawn. 
Then  in    a    moment   when    they  blazed 

again 
Opening,  I  saw  the  least  of  little  stars 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


419 


Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight  Ijcyond 

the  star 
I  saw  the  spiritual  city  antl  all  her  spires 
And  gateways  in  a  glory  like  one  pearl  — 
No  larger,  tho'  the  goal  of  all  the  saints  — 
Strike  from  the  sea;   and  from  the  star 

there  shot 
A  rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and  there 
Dwelt,  and  I  knew  it  was  the  Holy  Grail, 
Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again  shall 

see. 
Then  fell  the  floods  of  heaven  drowning 

the  deep. 
And  how  my   feet  recrost  the   deathful 

ridge 
No    memory    in   me    lives;    but    that    I 

touch'd 
The  chapel-doors  at  dawn  I  know;   and 

thence 
Taking    my    war-horse    from    the    holy 

man, 
Glad  that    no    phantom  vext    me    more, 

return'd 
To  whence  I  came,  the  gate  of  Arthur's 

wars.' 

*0  brother,'  ask'd  Ambrosius,  —  'for 

in  sooth 
These  ancient  books  — and  they  would 

win  thee  —  teem. 
Only  I  find  not  there  this  IToly  Grail, 
With  miracles  and  marvels  like  to  these. 
Not  all  unlike;   which  oftentime  I  read. 
Who  read  but  on  my  breviary  with  ease, 
Till  my  head  swims;   and  then  go  forth 

and  pass 
Down  to  the   little  thorpe   that   lies  so 

close, 
And  almost  plaster'd  like  a  martin's  nest 
To    these   old   walls  —  and    mingle  with 

our  folk; 
And  knowing  every  honest  face  of  theirs 
As  well  as  ever  shepherd  knew  his  sheep, 
And  every  homely  secret  in  their  hearts, 
Delight  myself  with  gossip  and  old  wives. 
And  ills  and  aches,  and  teethings,  lyings- 

And   mirthful   sayings,    children    of  the 

place, 
That   have    no    meaning   half  a   league 

away : 
Or  lulling  random  squabbles  when  they 

rise. 


Chafferings  and  chatterings  at  the  mar- 
ket-cross, 

Rejoice,  small  man,  in  this  small  world 
of  mine. 

Yea,  even  in  their  hens  and  in  their 
eggs  — 

0  brother,  saving  this  .Sir  Galahad, 
Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  in  your 

quest, 
No  man,  no  woman  ?  * 

Then  Sir  Percivale  : 
'  All  men,  to  one  so  bound  by  such  a  vow, 
And  women  were  as  phantoms.     O  my 

brother, 
Why  wilt  thou  shame  me  to  confess  to 

thee 
How  far  I  falter'd    from  my  quest  and 

vow? 
For  after  I  had  lain  so  many  nights, 
A  bedmate  of  the  snail  and  eft  and  snake. 
In  grass  and  burdock,  I  was  changed  to 

wan 
And    meagre,    and    the   vision   had    not 

come; 
And  then  I  chanced  upon  a  goodly  town 
With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle 

of  it; 
Thither  I  made,  and  there  was  I  disarm'd 
By  maidens  each  as  fair  as  any  flower : 
But  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  behold. 
The  Princess  of  that  castle  was  the  one. 
Brother,  and  that  one  only,  who  had  ever 
Made  my  heart  leap;    for  when  I  moved 

of  old 
A  slender  page  about  her  father's  hall. 
And  she  a  slender  maiden,  all  my  heart 
Went    after    her  with    longing :    yet    we 

twain 
Had  never  kiss'd  a  kiss,  or  vow'd  a  vow. 
And  now  I  came  upon  her  once  again, 
And  one  had  wedded  her,  and  he  was 

dead. 
And  all    his  land  and  wealth   and  state 

were  hers. 
And  while  I  tarried,  every  day  she  set 
A  banquet  richer  than  the  day  before 
By  me;   for  all  her  longing  and  her  will 
Was  toward  me  as  of  old;   till  one  fair 

morn, 

1  walking  to  and  fro  beside  a  stream 
That    flash'd  across  her  orchard   under- 
neath 


420 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


Her  castle-walls,  she  stole  upon  my  walk, 
And  calling  me  the  greatest  of  all  knights, 
Embraced  me,  and  so  kiss'd  me  the  first 

time, 
And  gave  herself  and  all  her  wealth  to 

me. 
Then   I   remember'd    Arthur's   warning 

word. 
That  most  of  us  would  follow  wandering 

fires, 
And  the  Quest  faded  in  my  heart.     Anon, 
The  heads  of  all  her  people  drew  to  me, 
With   supplication   both    of    knees   and 

tongue : 
"  We  have  heard  of  thee  :   thou  art  our 

greatest  knight, 
Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe  : 
Wed  thou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  us. 
And  thou  shalt  be  as  Arthur  in  our  land." 
O   me,  my  brother !     but  one  night  my 

vow 
Burnt  me  within,  so  that  I  rose  and  fled. 
But  wail'd   and  wept,  and    hated   mine 

own  self, 
And  ev'n  the  Holy  Quest,  and  all   but 

her; 
Then  after  I  was  join'd  with  Galahad 
Cared   not    for    her,  nor  anything  upon 

earth.' 

Then  said  the  monk,  *  Poor  men,  when 

yule  is  cold, 
Must  be  content  to  sit  by  little  fires. 
And  this  am  I,  so  that  ye  care  for  me 
Ever  so  little;   yea,  and  blest  be  Heaven 
That    brought   thee    here    to   this   poor 

house  of  ours 
Where  all  the  brethren  are  so  hard,  to 

warm 
My  cold  heart  with  a  friend :   but  O  the 

pity 
To  find  thine  own  first  love  once  more  — 

to  hold. 
Hold  her  a  wealthy  bride  within  thine 

arms. 
Or    all   but   hold,    and    then  —  cast   her 

aside. 
Foregoing  all  her  sweetness,  like  a  weed. 
For  we  that  want  the  warmth  of  double 

life, 
We    that   are    plagued    with    dreams   of 

something  sweet 
Beyond  all  sweetness  in  a  life  so  rich,  — 


Ah,  blessed  Lord,  I  speak   too  earthly- 
wise, 
Seeing  I  never  stray'd  beyond  the  cell. 
But  live  like  an  old  badger  in  his  earth, 
With  earth  about  him  everywhere,  despite 
All  fast  and  penance.     Saw  ye  none  be- 
side, 
None  of  your  knights?  ' 

'  Yea  so,'  said  Percivale  : 
'  One  night  my  pathway  swerving  east, 

I  saw 
The  pelican  on  the  casque  of  our  Sir  Bors 
All  in  the  middle  of  the  rising  moon  : 
And  toward  him  spurr'd,  and  hail'd  him, 

and  he  me. 
And  each  made  joy  of  either;   then  he 

ask'd, 
"Where  is  he?    hast    thou  seen  him  — 

Lancelot?  —  Once," 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,  "  he   dash'd  across 

me  —  mad, 
And  maddening  what  he  rode  :  and  when 

I  cried, 
*  Ridest  thou  then  so  hotly  on  a  quest 
So  holy,'  Lancelot  shouted, '  Stay  me  not ! 
I   have  been  the  sluggard,  and   I   ride 

apace. 
For  now  there  is  a  lion  in  the  way.' 
So  vanish'd." 

•  Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 
Softly,  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lancelot, 
Because    his    former  madness,  once  the 

talk 
And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  return'd; 
For  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin  so  worship 

him 
That  ill  to  him  is  ill  to  them;   to  Bors 
Beyond  the  rest :  he  well  had  been  con- 
tent 
Not   to   have  seen,   so    Lancelot  might 

have  seen. 
The  Holy  Cup  of  healing;  and,  indeed, 
Being  so  clouded  with  his  grief  and  love, 
Small  heart  was  his  after  the  Holy  Quest : 
If  God  would  send  the  vision,  well :  if  not, 
The  Quest  and  he  were  in  the  hands  of 
Heaven. 

'  And  then,  with  small  adventure  met. 
Sir  Bors 
Rode  to  the  lonest  tract  of  all  the  realm, 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


421 


And  found  a  people  there  among  their 

crags, 
Our  race  and  blood,  a  remnant  that  were 

left 
Paynim  amid  their  circles,  and  the  stones 
They  pitch  up  straight  to  heaven :  and 

their  wise  men 
Were    strong   in  that  old   magic  which 

can  trace 
The  wandering  of  the  stars,  and  scofiPd  at 

him 
And  this  high  Quest  as  at  a  simple  thing  : 
Told  him  he  foUow'd  —  almost  Arthur's 

words  — 
A  mocking  fire :  "  What  other  fire  than 

he, 
Whereby  the  blood  beats,  and  the  blossom 

blows, 
And  the  sea  rolls,  and  all  the  w'orld  is 

warm'd?  " 
And  when  his  answer  chafed  them,  the 

rough  crowd, 
Hearing  he  had  a  difference  with  their 

priests, 
Seized  him,  and  bound  and  plunged  him 

into  a  cell 
Of  great  piled  stones;  and  lying  bounden 

there 
In  darkness  thro'  innumerable  hours 
He    heard    the    hollow-ringing   heavens 

sweep 
Over  him  till  by  miracle  —  what  else?  — 
Heavy  as  it  was,  a  great  stone  slipt  and 

fell, 
Such  as  no  wind  could  move :  and  thro' 

the  gap 
Glimmer'd    the     streaming    scud :     then 

came  a  night 
Still  as  the  day  was  loud;   and  thro'  the 

gap 
The  seven  clear  stars  of  Arthur's   Table 

Round  — 
For,  brother,  so  one  night,  because  they 

roll 
Thro'  such  a  round  in  heaven,  we  named 

the  stars, 
Rejoicing  in  ourselves  and  in  our  King  — 
And  these,  like  bright  eyes  of   familiar 

friends, 
In  on  him  shone :  "  And  then  to  me,  to 

me," 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,  "  beyond  all  hopes 

of  mine. 


Who  scarce  had   pray'd  or  ask'd  it    for 

myself — 
Across  the  seven  clear  stars  —  O  grace  to 

me  — 
In  colour  like  the  fingers  of  a  hand 
Before  a  burning  taper,  the  sweet  Grail 
Glided  and  past,  and  close  upon  it  peal'd 
A  sharp  quick  thunder."     Afterwards,  a 

maid. 

Who  kept  our  holy  faith  among  her  kin 

In    secret,  entering,  loosed  and  let  him 

go.' 

fl 

To  whom  the  monk  :  *  And  I  remember 

now 
That  pelican  on  the  casque :   Sir  Bors  it 

was 
Who    spake    so  low    and   sadly    at    our 

board; 
And  mighty  reverent  at  our  grace  was  he : 
A  square-set  man  and  honest;    and  his 

eyes, 
An  out-door  sign  of  all  the  warmth  within, 
Smiled  with  his  lips  —  a  smile  beneath  a 

cloud. 
But  heaven  had  meant  it  for  a  sunny  one  : 
Ay,   ay.  Sir  Bors,  who   else?    But   when 

ye  reach'd 
The  city,  found  ye  all  your  knights  re- 

turn'd, 
Or  was  there  sooth  in  Arthur's  prophecy. 
Tell  me,  and  what  said  each,  and  what 

the  King?' 

Then  answer'd    Percivale  :  '  And  that 

can  I, 
Brother,    and    truly;     since    the    living 

words 
Of  so  great   men  as  Lancelot  and  our 

King 
Pass    not    from    door    to    door    and    out 

again. 
But  sit  within  the  house.     O,  when  we 

reach'd 
The  city,  our   horses  stumbling  as  they 

trode 
On  heaps  of  ruin,  hornless  unicorns, 
Crack'd  basilisks,  and   splinter'd    cocka- 
trices, 
And  shatter'd  talbots,  which  had  left  the 

stones 
Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us  to 

the  hall. 


422 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


'And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  dais- 
throne, 

And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the 
Quest, 

Wasted  and  worn,  and  but  a  tithe  of 
them, 

And  those  that  had  not,  stood  before  the 
King,, 

Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade  me 
hail, 

Saying,  "  A  welfare  in  thine  eye  reproves 

Our  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance  for 
thee 

On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding 
ford. 

So  fierce  a  gale  made  havoc  here  of  late 

Among  the  strange  devices  of  our  kings; 

Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  hall  of 
ours, 

And  from  the  statue  Merlin  moulded  for 
us 

Half-wrench'd  a  golden  wing;  but  now  — 
the  Quest, 

This  vision  —  hast  thou  seen  the  Holy 
Cup, 

That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glaston- 
bury?" 

*  So  when  I  told  him  all  thyself  hast 

heard, 
Ambrosius,  and  my  fresh  but  fixt  resolve 
To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life, 
He    answer'd  not,  but,  sharply  turning, 

ask'd 
Of  Gawain,  ""Gawain,  was  this  Quest  for 

thee?" 

'"Nay,  lord,"  said    Gawain,  "not  for 

such  as  I. 
Therefore   I    communed    with    a   saintly 

man, 
Who  made  me  sure  the  Quest  was  not 

for  me; 
For  I  was  much  awearied  of  the  Quest : 
But  found  a  silk  pavilion  in  a  field. 
And  merry  maidens  in  it;   and  then  this 

gale 
Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  tenting-pin. 
And  blew  my  merry  maidens  all  about 
With    all   discomfort;   yea,  anfl    hut   for 

this, 
My  twelvemonth  and  a  day  were  pleasant 

to  me." 


'He    ceased;     and    Arthur    turn'd    to 

whom  at  first 
He  saw  not,  for    Sir   Bors,  on  entering, 

push'd 
Athwart  the  throng  to  Lancelot,  caught 

his  hand. 
Held  it,  and  there,  half-hidden  by  him, 

stood. 
Until  the  King  espied  him,  saying  to  him, 
"  Hail,  Bors  !   if  ever  loyal  man  and  true 
Could  see  it,  thou  hast  seen  the  Grail;" 

and  Bors, 
"Ask  me  not,  for  I  may  not  speak  of  it: 
I  saw  it;"  and  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 

'  Then    there    remain'd   but  Lancelot, 

for  the  rest 
Spake  but  of  sundry  perils  in  the  storm; 
Perhaps,  like  him  of  Cana  in  Holy  Writ, 
Our  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the  last; 
"  Thou,    too,    my    Lancelot,"    ask'd    the 

King,  "  my  friend, 
Our  mightiest,  hath  this  Quest  avail'd  for 

thee?" 

' "  Our  mightiest !  "  answer'd  Lancelot, 

with  a  groan; 
"  O  King  !  "  —  and  when  he  paused,  me- 

thought  I  spied 
A  dying  fire  of  madness  in  his  eyes  — 
"  O  King,  my  friend,  if  friend  of  thine  I 

be. 
Happier    are    those  that  welter  in  their 

sin. 
Swine  in  the  mud,  that  cannot  see  for 

slime. 
Slime  of  the  ditch  :  but  in  me  lived  a  sin 
So  strange,  of  such  a  kind,  that  all  of  pure. 
Noble,  and  knightly  in  me  twined  and 

clung 
Round  that  one  sin,  until  the  wholesome 

flower 
And    poisonous  grew  together,  each    as 

each. 
Not  to  be  pluck'd  asunder;  and  when  thy 

knights 
vSware,   I   sware  with   them   only   in   the 

hope 
That  could  I  touch  or  see  the  Holy  Grail 
They  might  be  pluck'd  asunder.    Then  I 

spake 
To  one  most  liojy  sainl,  who  wept  ami 

said, 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 


423 


That  save  they  could  be  pluck'd  asunder, 

all 
My  quest  were  but  in  vain;   to  whom  I 

vow'd 
That  I  would  work  according  as  he  will'd. 
And  forth  I  went,  and  while  I  yearn'd 

and  strove 
To  tear  the  twain  asunder  in  my  heart, 
My  madness  came  upon  me  as  of  old, 
And  whipt  me  into  waste  fields  far  away; 
There  was  I  beaten  down  by  little  men, 
Mean  knights,  to  whom  the  moving  of 

my  sword 
And  shadow  of  my  spear  had  been  enow 
To  scare  them  from  me  once;   and  then 

I  came 
All  in  my  folly  to  the  naked  shore, 
Wide    flats,    where    nothing   but   coarse 

grasses  grew; 
But  such  a  blast,  my  King,  began  to  blow. 
So  loud  a  blast  along  the  shore  and  sea, 
Ye  could  not  hear  the  waters  for  the  blast, 
Tho'  heapt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all  the 

sea 
Drove  like  a  cataract,  and  all  the  sand 
Swept    like    a   river,    and    the    clouded 

heavens 
Were  shaken  with   the  motion  and  the 

sound. 
And  blackening  in  the  sea-foam  sway'd  a 

boat, 
Half-swallow'd    in    it,    anchor'd    with    a 

chain; 
And  in  my  madness  to  myself  I  said, 
*  I  will  embark  and  I  will  lose  myself, 
And    in    the    great   sea    wash    away   my 

sin.' 
I  burst  the  chain,  I  sprang  into  the  boat. 
Seven  days  I  drove  along  the  dreary  deep, 
And  with  me  drove  the  moon  and  all  the 

stars; 
And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh 

night 
I  heard  the  shingle  grinding  in  the  surge. 
And  felt  the  boat  shock  earth,  and  look- 
ing up. 
Behold,  the   enchanted    towers    of  Car- 

bonek, 
A  castle  like  a  rock  upon  a  rock. 
With  chasm-like  portals  open  to  the  sea, 
And  steps  that  met  the  breaker  I  there 

was  none 
!Stood  near  it  but  a  lion  on  each  side 


That  kept  the  entrv,  and  the  moon  was 

full. 
Then  from  the  boat  I  leapt,  and  up  the 

stairs. 
There    drew  my  sword.     With    sudden- 
flaring  manes 
Those  two  great  beasts  rose  upright  like 

a  man. 
Each    gript    a    shoulder,    and    I    stood 

between ; 
And,  when  I  would  have  smitten  them, 

heard  a  voice, 
'Doubt  not,  go  forward;    if  thou  doubt, 

the  beasts 
Will    tear   thee   piecemeal.'     Then  with 

violence 
The  sword  was  dash'd  from  out  my  hand, 

and  fell. 
And  up  into  the  sounding  hall  I  past; 
But  nothing  in  the  sounding  hall  I  saw, 
No  bench  nor  table,  painting  on  the  wall 
Or  shield  of  knight;    only  the  rounded 

moon 
Thro'  the  tall  oriel  on  the  rolling  sea. 
But  always  in  the  quiet  house  I  heard. 
Clear  as  a  lark,  high  o'er  me  as  a  lark, 
A   sweet   voice  singing  in    the    topmost 

tower 
To  the  eastward  :  up  I  climb'd  a  thousand 

steps 
With  pain  :   as  in  a  dream  I  seem'd  to 

climb 
For  ever :   at  the  last  I  reach'd  a  door, 
A  light  was  in  the  crannies,  and  I  heard, 
'  Glory  and  joy  and  honour  to  our  Lord 
And  to  the  Holy  Vessel  of  the  Grail.' 
Then  in  my  madness  I  essay'd  the  door; 
It  gave ;   and  thro'  a  stormy  glare,  a  heat 
As  from  a  seventimes-heated  furnace,  I, 
Blasted  and  burnt,  and  blinded  as  I  was. 
With  such  a  fierceness  that    I    swoon'd 

away  — 
O,  yet  methought  I  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 
All  pall'd  in  crimson  samite,  and  around 
Great   angels,   awful    shapes,  and  wings 

and  eyes. 
And  but  for  all  my  madness  and  my  sin, 
And  then  my  swooning,  I   had  sworn  I 

saw 
That  which  I  saw;   but  what  I  saw  was 

veil'd 
And  cover'd;   and  this  <^)uest  was  not  for 

me." 


424 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


*  So  speaking,  and  here  ceasing,  Lance- 
lot left 
The  hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Gawain  —  nay, 
Brother,    I    need   not   tell    thee    foolish 

words,  — 
A  reckless  and  irreverent  knight  was  he, 
Now    bolden'd    by    the    silence    of    his 

King,  — 
Well,  I    will   tell   thee:    "O   King,  my 

liege,"  he  said, 
"  Hath    Gawain    fail'd    in    any  quest    of 

thine? 
When  have  I  stinted  stroke  in  foughten 

field? 
But  as  for  thine,  my  good  friend  Percivale, 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  driven  men 

mad. 
Yea,  made  our  mightiest   madder    than 

our  least. 
But  by  mine  eyes  and   by  mine  ears  I 

swear, 
I  will  be  deafer  than  the  blue-eyed  cat, 
And  thrice  as  blind  as  any  noonday  owl. 
To  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies, 
Henceforward." 

'  "  Deafer,"  said  the  blameless  King, 
"  Gawain,  and  blinder  unto  holy  things 
Hope  not  to  make  thyself  by  idle  vows, 
Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 
But  if  indeed   there    came  a  sign  from 

heaven, 
Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot  and  Percivale, 
For  these  have  seen  according  to  their 

sight. 
For  every  fiery  prophet  in  old  times. 
And  all  the  sacred  madness  of  the  bard, 
When  God  made  music  thro'  them,  could 

but  speak 
His  music  by  the    framework    and   the 

chord; 
And  as  ye  saw  it  ye  have  spoken  truth. 

'"Nay — but    thou    errest,   Lancelot: 

never  yet 
Could  all  of  true  and  noble  in  knight  and 

man 
Twine  round  one  sin,  whatever  it  might 

be. 
With  such  a  closeness,  but  apart  there 

grew. 
Save  that  he  were  the  swine  thou  spakest 

of, 


Some  root  of  knighthood  and  pure  noble- 
ness; 
Whereto  see  thou,  that  it  may  bear  its 

flower. 

'  "  And  spake  I  not    too  truly,  O  my 
knights? 
Was  I  too  dark  a  prophet  when  I  said 
To  those  who  went  upon  the  Holy  Quest, 
That  most  of  them  would  follow  wander- 
ing fires, 
Lost  in  the  quagmire  ?  —  lost  to  me  and 

gone. 
And  left  me  gazing  at  a  barren  board, 
And  a  lean   Order  —  scarce   return'd   a 

tithe  — 
And  out  of  those  to  whom  the  vision  came 
My  greatest  hardly  will  believe  he  saw ; 
Another  hath  beheld  it  afar  off. 
And    leaving    human   wrongs    to    right 

themselves. 
Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 
And  one  hath  had  the  vision  face  to  face, 
And  now  his  chair  desires  him  here  in 

vain. 
However  they  may  crown  him  otherwhere. 

'"And  some  among  you  held,  that  if 

the  King 
Had  seen  the  sight  he  would  have  sworn 

the  vow : 
Not  easily,   seeing  that   the  King  must 

guard 
That  which  he  rules,  and  is  but  as  the  hind 
To  whom  a  space  of  land  is  given  to 

plow. 
Who  may  not  wander  from  the  allotted 

field 
Before  his  work  be  done ;  but,  being  done, 
Let  visions  of  the  night  or  of  the  day 
Come,  as  they  will;    and  many  a  time 

they  come, 
Until  this  earth  he  walks  on  seems  not 

earth, 
This  light  that  strikes  his  eyeball  is  not 

light, 
This  air  that  smites  his  forehead  is  not 

air 
But  vision  —  yea,  his  very  hand  and  foot  — 
In   moments  when    he  feels  he   cannot 

die, 
And    knows   himself  no  vision   to   him- 
self, 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


425 


Nor  the  high  God  a  vision,  nor  that  One 
Who  rose  again :  ye  have  seen  what  ye 
have  seen." 

*  So  spake  the  King :   I  knew  not  all 

he  meant.' 

PELLEAS   AND   ETTARRE. 

King  Arthur  made  new  knights  to  fill 

the  gap 
Left  by  the  Holy  Quest;   and  as  he  sat 
In  hail  at  old  Caerle'on,  the  high  doors 
Were  softly  sunder'd,  and  thro'  these  a 

youth, 
Pelleas,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  fields 
Past,  and  the  sunshine  came  along  with 

him. 

*  Make  me  thy  knight,  because  I  know, 

Sir  King, 
All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I  love.' 
Such  was  his  cry :   for  having  heard  the 

King 
Had  let  proclaim  a  tournament  —  the  prize 
A  golden  circlet  and  a  knightly  sword, 
Full  fain  had  Pelleas  for  his  lady  won 
The  golden  circlet,  for  himself  the  sword  : 
And  there  were  those  who  knew  him  near 

the  King, 
And  promised  for  him  :   and  Arthur  made 

him  knight. 

And  this  new  knight,  Sir  Pelleas  of  the 

isles  — 
But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance, 
And  lord  of  many  a  barren  isle  was  he  — 
Riding  at  noon,  a  day  or  twain  before, 
Across  the  forest  call'd  of  Dean,  to  find 
Caerleon  and  the  King,  had  felt  the  sun 
Beat  like  a  strong  knight  on  his  helm, 

and  reel'd 
Almost   to   falling   from    his  horse;    but 

saw 
Near  him  a  mound  of  even-sloping  side. 
Whereon  a  hundred  stately  beeches  grew. 
And  here  and  there  great  hollies  under 

them; 
But  for  a  mile  all  round  was  open  space, 
And  fern  and  heath :   and  slowly  Pelleas 

drew 
To  that  dim  day,  then  binding  his  good 

horse 


To  a  tree,  cast  himself  down;   and  as  he 

lay 
At  random  looking  over  the  brown  earth 
Thro'  that  green-glooming  twilight  of  the 

grove, 
It  seem'd  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern  without 
Burnt  as  a  living  fire  of  emeralds. 
So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking  at  it. 
Then  o'er  it  crost  the  dimness  of  a  cloud 
Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  of  a  bird 
Flying,  and  then  a  fawn;    and  his  eyes 

closed. 
And  since  he  loved   all  maidens,  but  no 

maid 
In    special,    half-awake     he    whisper'd, 

'Where? 
O  where?     I  love  thee,  tho'  I  know  thee 

not. 
For  fair  thou  art  and  pure  as  Guinevere, 
And  I  will  make  thee  with  my  spear  and 

sword 
As  famous  —  O  my  Queen,  my  Guinevere, 
For    I    will   be    thine   Arthur   when  we 

meet.' 

Suddenly  waken'd  with  a  sound  of  talk 
And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood. 
And  glancing  thro'  the  hoary  boles,  he  saw, 
Strange  as  to  some  old   prophet  might 

have  seem'd 
A  vision  hovering  on  a  sea  of  fire. 
Damsels  in  divers  colours  like  the  cloud 
Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in  that  bright  line  of  bracken 

stood : 
And  all  the  damsels  talk'd  confusedly. 
And  one  was  pointing  this  way,  and  one 

that. 
Because  the  way  was  lost. 

And  Pelleas  rose. 
And  loosed  his  horse,  and  led  him  to  the 

light. 
There  she  that  seem'd  the  chief  among 

them  said, 
*  In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star  ! 
Youth,  we  are  damsels-errant,  and  we  ride, 
Arm'd  as  ye  see,  to  tilt  against  the  knights 
There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our  way  : 
To  right?  to  left?  straight  forward?  back 

again  ? 
Which?  tell  us  quickly.' 


426 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


Pelleas  gazing  thought, 
'  Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful?' 
For  large  her  violet  eyes  look'd,  and  her 

bloom 
A  rosy  dawn  kindled  in  stainless  heavens, 
And  round  her  limbs,  mature  in  woman- 
hood; 
And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small  her 

shape; 
And  but  for  those  large  eyes,  the  haunts 

of  scorn, 
She  might  have  seem'd  a  toy  to  trifle  with, 
And  pass  and  care  no  more.     But  while 

he  gazed 
The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash'd  the  boy. 
As  tho'  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul : 
For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the  good, 
Puts  his  own  baseness  in  him  by  default 
Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 
All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul  to 

hers, 
Believing  her;    and  when  she  spake  to 

him, 
Stammer'd,  and  could  not  make  her  a 

reply. 
For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  he  come, 
Where   saving   his   own   sisters   he   had 

known 
Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles. 
Rough  wives,  that  laugh'd  and  scream'd 

against  the  gulls. 
Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the  sea. 

Then  with  a  slow  smile  turn'd  the  lady 
round 
And   look'd    upon    her  people;    and   as 

when 
A  stone  is  flung  into  some  sleeping  tarn, 
The  circle  widens  till  it  lip  the  marge, 
Spread  the  slow  smile  thro'  all  her  com- 
pany. 
Three    knights   were    thereamong;    and 

they  too  smiled. 
Scorning  him;   for  the  lady  was  Ettarre, 
And  she  was  a  great  lady  in  her  land. 

Again  she  said,   '  O  wild   and  of  the 

woods, 
Knowest   thou   not    the    fashion   of  our 

speech? 
Or  have  the  Heavens  but  given  thee  a  fair 

face, 
Lacking  a  tongue?' 


*0  damsel,'  answer'd  he, 
'  I  woke  from  dreams;   and  coming  out 

of  gloom 
Was  dazzled  by  the   sudden  light,  and 

crave 
Pardon:  but  will  ye  to  Caerleon?     I 
Go  likewise  :  shall  I  lead  you  to  the  King?' 

'Lead  then,'  she  said;   and  thro'  the 

woods  they  went. 
And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in  his 

eyes. 
His  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste  awe, 
His  broken  utterances  and  bashfulness. 
Were   all  a  burthen  to  her,  and  in  her 

heart 
She  mutter'd,  *  I  have  lighted  on  a  fool. 
Raw,  yet  so  stale  ! '     But  since  her  mind 

was  bent 
On  hearing,  after  trumpet  blown,  her  name 
And  title,  '  Queen  of  Beauty,'  in  the  lists 
Cried —  and  beholding  him  so  strong,  she 

thought 
That  peradventure  he  will  fight  for  me. 
And  win  the  circlet :   therefore  flatter'd 

him. 
Being    so    gracious,    that    he   wellnigh 

deem'd 
His  wish  by  hers  was  echo'd;   and  her 

knights 
And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious  to 

him, 
For  she  was  a  great  lady. 

And  when  they  reach'd 
Caerleon,  ere  they  past  to  lodging,  she. 
Taking  his  hand,  '  O  the  strong   hand,' 

she  said, 
'  See !  look  at  mine  !  but  wilt  thou  fight 

for  me. 
And  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas, 
That  I  may  love  thee?' 

Then  his  helpless  heart 
Leapt,  and  he  cried,  '  Ay !  wilt  thou  if  I 

win? ' 
'  Ay,  that  will  I,'  she  answer'd,  and  she 

laugh'd. 
And  straitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung  it 

from  her; 
Then  glanced  askew  at  those  three  knights 

of  hers, 
Till  all  her  ladies  laufjli'd  along  with  her. 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


427 


'  O  happy  world,'  thought  Pelleas, '  all, 

meseems. 
Are  happy;  I  the  happiest  of  them  all.' 
Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in  his 

blood, 
And  green  wood-ways,  and  eyes  among 

the  leaves; 
Then   being   on    the    morrow  knighted, 

sware 
To  love  one  only.    And  as  he  came  away, 
The  men  who  met  him  rounded  on  their 

heels 
And  wonder'd  after  him  because  his  face 
Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a  priest  of 

old 
Against  the  flame  about  a  sacrifice 
Kindled    by  fire  from  heaven:    so  glad 

was  he. 

Then  Arthur  made  vast  banquets,  and 

strange  knights 
From  the  four  winds  came  in  :   and  each 

one  sat, 
Tho'  served  with  choice  from  air,  land, 

stream,  and  sea, 
Oft  in  mid-banquet  measuring  with  his 

eyes 
His  neighbour's  make  and  might :    and 

Pelleas  look'd 
Noble  among  the  noble,  for  he  dream'd 
His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew  himself 
Loved  of  the  King :    and  him  his  new- 
made  knight 
Worshipt,  whose  lightest  whisper  moved 

him  more 
Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the  world. 

Then  blush'd  and  brake  the  morning 

of  the  jousts. 
And  this  was  call'd  '  The  Tournament  of 

Youth : ' 
For    Arthur,    loving   his   young    knight, 

withheld 
His  older  and  his  mightier  from  the  lists, 
That  Pelleas  might  obtain  his  lady's  love. 
According  to  her  promise,  and  remain 
Lord  of  the  tourney.     And  Arthur  had 

the  jousts 
Down  in  the  flat  field  by  the  shore  of  Usk 
Holden  :  the  gilded  parapets  were  crown'd 
With  faces,  and  the  great  tower  fiU'd  with 

eyes 
Up  to  the  summit,  and  the  trumpets  blew. 


There  all  dav  long  Sir  Pelleas  kept  the 

field 
With  honour  :   so  by  that  strong  hand  of 

his 
The    sword    and    golden    circlet    were 

achieved. 

Then  rang  the  shout  his  lady  loved : 

the  heat 
Of  pride  and  glory  fired  her  face;    her 

eye 
Sparkled;  she  caught  the  circlet  from  his 

lance, 
And    there    before    the    people    crown'd 

herself: 
So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious  to 

him. 

Then   at  Caerleon  for   a   space  —  her 

look 
Bright    for  all    others,    cloudier    on    her 

knight  — 
Linger'd    Ettarre :    and    seeing    Pelleas 

droop, 
Said   Guinevere,    '  We   marvel    at    thee 

much, 

0  damsel,  wearing  this  unsunny  face 

To  him  who  won  thee  glory  I '  and  she 

said, 
'  Had  ye  not  held  your  Lancelot  in  your 

bower. 
My  Queen,  he  had  not  won.'     W^hereat 

the  Queen, 
As  one  whose  foot  is  bitten  by  an  ant. 
Glanced  down  upon  her,  turn'd  and  went 

her  way. 

But  after,  when  her  damsels,  and  her- 
self. 

And  those  three  knights  all  set  their 
faces  home. 

Sir  Pelleas  follow'd.  She  that  saw  him 
cried, 

'Damsels  —  and  yet  I  should  be  shamed 
to  say  it  — 

1  cannot  bide  Sir  Baby.     Keep  him  back 
Among   yourselves.     Would  rather  that 

we  had 
Some  rough  old  knight  who    knew  the 

worldly  way. 
Albeit  grizzlier  than  a  bear,  to  ride 
And   jest  with  :    take  him  to  you,  keep 

him  off. 


428 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


And   pamper   him  with  papmeat,  if  ye 

will, 
Old  milky  fables  of  the  wolf  and  sheep, 
Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell  their 

boys. 
Nay,  should   ye  try   him  with  a  merry 

one 
To  find  his  mettle,  good:  and  if  he  fly 

us, 
Small  matter  !  let  him.'   This  her  damsels 

heard, 
And  mindful  of  her  small  and  cruel  hand, 
They,  closing  round  him  thro'  the  journey 

home. 
Acted   her   best,    and  always   from    her 

side 
Restrain'd  him  with  all  manner  of  device. 
So  that  he  could  not    come    to    speech 

with  her. 
And  when  she  gain'd  her  castle,  upsprang 

the  bridge, 
Down  rang  the  grate  of  iron  thro'  the 

groove, 
And  he  was  left  alone  in  open  field. 

'These  be  the  ways  of  ladies,'  Pelleas 

thought, 
*To  those  who  love  them,  trials  of  our 

faith. 
Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  uttermost. 
For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  I.' 
So  made  his  moan;  and,  darkness  falling, 

sought 
A  priory  not  far  off,  there   lodged,  but 

rose 
With  morning  every  day,  and,  moist  or 

dry, 
Full-arm'd  upon  his  charger  all  day  long 
Sat  by  the  walls,  and  no  one  open'd  to 

him. 

And  this  persistence  turn'd  her  scorn 

to  wrath. 
Then    calling    her    three    knights,    she 

charged  them,  '  Out ! 
And  drive  him  from  the  walls.'    And  out 

they  came. 
But    Pelleas    overthrew    them    as    they 

dash'd 
Against   him    one    by    one;     and    these 

return'd, 
But  still  he  kept  his  watch  beneath  the 

wall. 


Thereon    her  wrath    became   a   hate; 

and  once, 
A  week   beyond,  while  walking  on  the 

walls 
With    her    three    knights,    she    pointed 

downward,  '  Look, 
He    haunts    me  —  I    cannot   breathe  — 

besieges  me; 
Down !    strike    him !    put   my  hate    into 

your  strokes. 
And    drive    him    from   my   walls,'     And 

down  they  went, 
And  Pelleas  overthrew  them  one  by  one; 
And    from    the   tower   above  him   cried 

Ettarre, 
'  Bind  him,  and  bring  him  in.' 

He  heard  her  voice; 

Then  let  the  strong  hand,  which  had 
overthrown 

Her  minion-knights,  by  those  he  over- 
threw 

Be  bounden  straight,  and  so  they 
brought  him  in. 

Then  when  he  came  before  Ettarre, 

the  sight 
Of  her  rich  beauty  made   him   at   one 

glance 
More  bondsman  in  his  heart  than  in  his 

bonds. 
Yet  with  good  cheer  he  spake,  '  Behold 

me,  Lady, 
A  prisoner,  and  the  vassal  of  thy  will; 
And   if    thou   keep   me   in   the    donjon 

here, 
Content  am  I  so  that  I  see  thy  face 
But  once  a  day :    for  I  have  sworn  my 

vows, 
And  thou  hast  given  thy  promise,  and  I 

know 
That  all  these  pains  are  trials  of  my  faith, 
And  that  thyself,  when  thou   hast  seen 

me  strain'd 
And  sifted  to  the  utmost,  wilt  at  length 
Yield  me  thy  love  and  know  me  for  thy 

knight.' 

Then  she  began  to  rail  so  bitterly, 
With  all  her   damsels,  he  was   stricken 

mute; 
But  when  she  mock'd  his  vows  and  the 

great  King, 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


429 


Lighted    on    words :    *  For  pity  of  thine 

own  self, 
Peace,  Lady,  peace  :  is  he  not  thine  and 

mine  ?  ' 
*  Thou  fool,'  she  said,  '  I  never  heard  his 

voice 
But  long'd  to  brealc  away.     Unbind  him 

now, 
And  thrust  him  out  of  doors;  for  save  he 

be 
Fool   to    the    midmost    marrow    of    his 

bones, 
He  will  return    no    more.'     And    those, 

her  three. 
Laugh' d  and  unbound,   and  thrust  him 

from  the  gate. 

And  after  this,  a  week  beyond,  again 
She    call'd    them,    saying,     'There    he 

watches  yet, 
There   like    a    dog   before    his   master's 

door ! 
Kick'd,  he  returns :  do  ye  not  hate  him, 

ye? 
\  e  know  yourselves :    how  can  ye  bide 

at  peace. 
Affronted  with  his  fulsome  innocence? 
Are  ye  but  creatures  of  the  board  and 

bed. 
No  men  to  strike?     Fall  on  him  all  at 

once. 
And  if  ye  slay  him  I  reck  not :   if  ye  fail. 
Give   ye    the    slave    mine    order    to    be 

bound, 
Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  him  in  : 
It  may  be  ye  shall  slay  him  in  his  bonds.' 

She    spake;     and     at    her   Mill    they 

couch'd  their  spears, 
Three  against  one :  and  Gawain  passing 

by, 
Bound"  upon  solitary  adventure,  saw 
Low  down  beneath  the  shadow  of  those 

towers 
A  villainy,  three  to   one  :   and  thro'  his 

heart 
The  fire  of  honour  and  all  noble  deeds 
Flash'd,  and  he  call'd,  '  I  strike  upon  thy 

side  — 
The  caitiffs  ! '     '  Xay,'  said  Pelleas,  '  but 

forbear; 
He  needs  no  aid  who    doth    his   lady's 

will.' 


So    Gawain,    looking    at    the    villainy 
done, 
Forbore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 
Trembled  and  quiver'd,  as  the  dog,  with- 
held 
A  moment  from  the  vermin  that  he  sees 
Before  him,  shivers,  ere  he  springs  and 
kills. 

And  Pelleas    overthrew  them,  one  to 

three; 
And    they    rose     up,    and    bound,    and 

brought  him  in. 
Then    first    her   anger,    leaving    Pelleas, 

burn'd 
Full  on  her  knights  in  many  an  evil  name, 
Of  craven,   weakling,  and  thrice-beaten 

hound  : 
'Yet,  take  him,  ye  that  scarce  are  fit  to 

touch. 
Far  less  to  bind,   your  victor,  and  thrust 

him  out. 
And  let  who  will   release   him  from  his 

bonds. 
And   if    he    comes    again '  —  there    she 

brake  short; 
And  Pelleas  answer'd,  '  Lady,  for  indeed 
I  loved  you  and  I  deem'd  you  beautiful, 
I  cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty  marr'd 
Thro'  evil  spite :  and  if  ye  love  me  not, 
I  cannot  bear  to  dream  you  so  forsworn : 
I  had  liefer  ye  were  worthy  of  my  love. 
Than  to  be   loved  again  of  you  —  fare- 
well ; 
And  tho'  ye  kill  my  hope,  not  yet  my 

love. 
Vex  not  yourself:  ye    will    not  see   me 

more.' 

While  thus  he  spake,  she  gazed  upon 

the  man 
Of  princely  bearing,  tho'  in  bonds,  and 

thought, 
'  Why  have  I  push'd  him  from  me?  this 

man  loves. 
If  love   there  be :  vet  him  I  loved   not. 

Why? 
I  deem'd  him  fool?  yea,  so?    or  that  in 

him 
A  something  —  was  it  nobler  than  my- 
self ?— 
Seem'd  my  reproach?     He  is  not  of  my 

kind. 


430 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


He  could  not  love  me,  did  he  know  me 

well. 
Nay,   let  him  go  —  and   quickly.'     And 

her  knights 
Laugh'd  not,  but  thrust  him  bounden  out 

of  door. 

Forth  sprang  Gawain,  and  loosed  him 

from  his  bonds, 
And    flung   them   o'er    the    walls;     and 

afterward. 
Shaking  his  hands,  as  from  a  lazar's  rag, 
'  Faith   of  my  body,'  he  said,  *  and   art 

thou  not  — 
Yea  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Arthur 

made 
Knight  of  his  Table;    yea  and  he  that 

won 
The    circlet?    wherefore    hast    thou    so 

defamed 
Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  all  the  rest, 
As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their 

will?' 

And  Pelleas  answer'd,  '  O,  their  wills 

are  hers 
For  whom  I  won  the  circlet;   and  mine, 

hers, 
Thus  to  be  bounden,  so  to  see  her  face, 
Marr'd  tho'  it  be  with  spite  and  mockery 

now, 
Other   than  when  I   found   her   in   the 

woods; 
And  tho'  she  hath  me  bounden  but  in 

spite. 
And  all  to  flout  me,  when  they  bring  me  in. 
Let  me  be  bounden,  I  shall  see  her  face; 
Else  must  I  die  thro'  mine  unhappiness.' 

And  Gawain  answer'd  kindly  tho'  in 

scorn, 
'  Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  she  will. 
And  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will : 
But  an  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 
These   fighting   hands  of   mine  —  Christ 

kill  me  then 
But   I    will   slice    him    handless   by   the 

wrist, 
And  let  my  lady  sear  the  stump  for  him. 
Howl  as  he  may.     But  hold  me  for  your 

friend  : 
Come,  ye  know  nothing:   here  I  pledge 

my  troth, 


Yea,  by  the  honour  of  the  Table  Round, 
I  will  be  leal  to  thee  and  work  thy  work. 
And  tame  thy  jailing  princess  to  thine 

hand. 
Lend  me  thine  horse   and  arms,  and  I 

will  say 
That  I  have  slain  thee.     She  will  let  me 

in 
To  hear  the  manner  of  thy  fight  and  fall ; 
Then,  when  I  come  within  her  counsels, 

then 
From  prime  to  vespers  will  I  chant  thy 

praise 
As  prowest  knight  and  truest  lover,  more 
Than  any  have  sung  thee  living,  till  she 

long 
To  have  thee  back  in  lusty  life  again, 
Not  to  be  bound,  save  by  white   bonds 

and  warm, 
Dearer  than  freedom.     Wherefore  now 

thy  horse 
And  armour  :  let  me  go  :   be  comforted  : 
Give  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy, 

and  hope 
The   third    night  hence  will  bring  thee 

news  of  gold.' 

Then  Pelleas  lent  his  horse  and  all  his 

arms. 
Saving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize,  and 

took 
Gawain's,  and  said,  '  Betray  me  not,  but 

help  — 
Art  thou  not  he  whom  men  call  light-of- 

love  ? ' 

'  Ay,'  said  Gawain,  *  for  women  be  so 
light.' 
Then  bounded  forward  to  the  castle  walls, 
And  raised  a  bugle  hanging  from  his  neck, 
And  winded  it,  and  that  so  musically 
That  all  the    old  echoes   hidden  in  the 

wall 
Rang  out  like  hollow  woods  at  hunting- 
tide. 

Up  ran  a  score  of  damsels  to  the  tower; 
'  Avaunt,'  they  cried, '  our  lady  loves  thee 

not.' 
But  Gawain  lifting  up  his  vi/A)r  said, 
'  Gawain  am  I,  Gawain  of  Arthur's  court. 
And  I  have  slain  this  Pelleas  whom  ye 

hate: 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


431 


Behold    his   horse    and    armour.      Open 

gates, 
And  I  will  make  you  merry.' 

And  down  they  ran, 
Her  damsels,  crying  to  their  lady,  '  Lo  ! 
Pelleas  is  dead  —  he  told  us  —  he  that  hath 
His  horse  and  armour  :  will  ye  let  him  in? 
He  slew  him !     Gawain,  Gawain  of  the 

court, 
Sir  Gawain  —  there  he  waits  below  the 

wall. 
Blowing  his  bugle  as  who  should  say  him 

nay.' 

And  so,  leave  given,  straight  on  thro' 

open  door 
Rode  Gawain,  whom  she  greeted  courte- 
ously. 
'Dead,  is  it  so?'  she  ask'd.     'Ay,  ay,' 

said  he, 
*  And  oft  in  dying  cried  upon  your  name,' 
'  Pity    on    him,'    she    answer'd,  '  a  good 

knight, 
But  never  let  me  bide  one  hour  at  peace.' 
'  Ay,'  thought  Gawain,  '  and  you  be  fair 

enow : 
But  I  to  your  dead  man  have  given  my 

troth, 
That  whom  ye  loathe,  him  will  I  make 

you  love.' 

So  those  three  days,  aimless  about  the 

land, 
Lost  in  a  doubt,  Pelleas  wandering 
Waited,  until  the  third  night  brought  a 

moon 
With  promise  of  large  light  on  woods  and 

ways. 

Hot  was  the  night  and  silent;   but  a 

sound 
Of  Gawain  ever  coming,  and  this  lay  — 
Which  Pelleas  had  heard  sung  before  the 

Queen, 
And  seen  her  sadden  listening  —  vext  his 

heart, 
And  marr'd  his  rest  — '  K  worm  within 

the  rose.' 

'  A  rose,  but  one,  none  other  rose  had  I, 
A  rose,  one  rose,  and  this  was  wondrous 
fair, 


One  rose  a  rose  that  gladden'd  earth  and 

sky, 
One    rose,  my  rose,   that   sweeten'd   all 

mine  air  — 
I  cared  not  for  the    thorns;   the    thorns 

were  there. 

'  One  rose,  a  rose  to  gather  by  and  by, 
One  rose,  a  rose  to  gather  and  to  wear, 
No  rose  but  one  —  what  other  rose  had  I  ? 
One  rose,  my  rose;   a  rose  that  will  not 

die,  — 
He  dies  who  loves  it,  —  if  the  worm  be 

there.' 

This  tender  rhyme,  and  evermore  the 

doubt, 
'  Why   lingers    Gawain  with    his   golden 

news?  ' 
So  shook  him  that  he  could  not  rest,  but 

rode 
P>e  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  bound  his 

horse 
Hard  by  the  gates.    Wide  open  were  the 

gates, 
And  no  watch  kept;   and  in  thro'  these 

he  past. 
And  heard  but  his    own   steps,  and   his 

own  heart 
Beating,  for  nothing  moved  but  his  own 

self. 
And  his  own  shadow.    Then  he  crost  the 

court, 
And  spied  not  any  light  in  hall  or  bower. 
But  saw  the  postern  portal  also  wide 
Yawning;   and  up  a  slope  of  garden,  all 
Of  roses  white  and  red,  and  brambles  mixt 
And    overgrowing    them,   went   on,   and 

found, 
Here  too,  all  hush'd  belov/  the  mellow 

moon. 
Save  that  one  rivulet  from  a  tiny  cave 
Came  lightening  downward,  and  so  spilt 

itself 
Among  the  roses,  and  was  lost  again. 

Then  was  he  ware  of  three  pavilions 

rear'd 
Above  the  bushes,  gilden-peakt :   in  one. 
Red    after    revel,    droned    her    lurdane 

knights 
Slumbering,  and  their  three  squires  across 

their  feet : 


432 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


In  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  lip 
Froz'n  by  sweet  sleep,  four  of  her  damsels 

lay: 
And  in  the  third,  the  circlet  of  the  jousts 
Bound  on  her   brow,  were  Gawain  and 

Ettarre. 

Back,  as  a  hand  that  pushes  thro'  the 

leaf 
To   find  a  nest   and   feels  a  snake,  he 

drew : 
Back,  as  a  coward  slinks  from  what  he 

fears 
To  cope  with,  or  a  traitor  proven  or  hound 
Beaten,  did  Pelleas  in  an  utter  shame 
Creep  with  his  shadow  thro'    the    court 

again, 
Fingering  at  his  sword-handle   until   he 

stood 
There  on  the  castle-bridge  once  more,  and 

thought, 
'1  will  go  back,  and  slay  them  where  they 

lie.' 

And  so  went  back,  and  seeing  them  yet 

in  sleep 
Said,  '  Ye,  that   so    dishallow  the    holy 

sleep, 
Your  sleep  is  death,'  and  drew  the  sword, 

and  thought, 
*  What !  slay  a  sleeping  knight?  the  King 

hath  bound 
And    sworn    me    to    this   brotherhood;  ' 

again, 
'Alas   that  ever  a  knight  should  be  so 

false.' 
Then  turn'd,  and  so  return'd,  and  groan- 
ing laid 
The    naked   sword  athwart  their    naked 

throats 
There  left  it,  and  them  sleeping;  and  she 

lay. 
The    circlet   of  the   tourney   round  her 

brows. 
And  the  sword  of  the  tourney  across  her 

throat. 

And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting  on 

his  horse 
Stared  at  her   towers    that,   larger    than 

themselves 
In  their  own  darkness,  throng'd  into  the 

moon. 


Then  crush'd  the  saddle  with  his  thighs, 

and  clench'd 
His  hands,  and  madden'd  with  himself 

and  moan'd : 

'Would  they  have  risen  against  me  in 

their  blood 
At  the  last  day?     I  might  have  answer'd 

them 
Even    before    high    God.     O   towers   so 

strong, 
Huge,  solid,  would  that  even  while  I  gaze 
The  crack  of  earthquake  shivering  to  your 

base 
Split  you,  and  Hell  burst  up  your  harlot 

roofs 
Bellowing,   and    charr'd   you   thro'    and 

thro'  within, 
Black  as  the  harlot's  heart  —  hollow  as  a 

skull ! 
Let  the  fierce  east  scream  thro'  your  eye- 
let-holes, 
And  whirl  the  dust  of  harlots  round  and 

round 
In  dung  and  nettles  !  hiss,  snake  —  I  saw 

him  there  — 
Let  the  fox  bark,  let  the  wolf  yell.     Who 

yells 
Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night,  but 

I  — 
I,  the  poor  Pelleas  whom  she  call'd  her 

fool? 
Fool,  beast  —  he,  she,  or  I  ?  myself  most 

fool; 
Beast  too,  as  lacking  human  wit  —  dis- 
graced, 
Dishonour'd  all  for  trial  of  true  love  — 
Love?  — we  be  all  alike:  only  the  King 
Hath  made  us  fools  and  liars.     O  noble 

vows ! 

0  great  and    sane    and    simple   race   of 

brutes 
That  own  no  lust  because  they  have  no 

law  ! 
For  why  should  I  have  loved  her  to  my 

shame? 

1  loathe  her,  as  I  loved  her  to  my  shame. 
I  never  loved  her,  I  but  lusted  for  her  — 
Away  —  ' 

He  dash'd  the  rowel  into  his  horse, 
And  bounded    forth   and  vanish'd    thro' 
the  ni"ht. 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


433 


Then  she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch  on 

her  throat, 
Awaking    knew   the    sword,    and    turn'd 

herself 
To  Gawain  :   '  Liar,  for  thou  hast  not  slain 
This  Pelleas  !  here  he  stood,  and  might 

have  slain 
Me  and  thyself.'     And  he  that  tells  the 

tale 
Says  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  turn'd 
To   Pelleas,  as  the  one  true    knight    on 

earth, 
And  only  lover;   and  thro'  her  love  her 

hfe 
Wasted  and  pined,  desiring  him  in  vain. 

But  he  by  wild  and  way,  for  half  the 

night, 
And  over  hard  and  soft,  striking  the  sod 
From  out  the  soft,  the  spark  from  off  the 

hard. 
Rode  till  the  star  above  the  wakening  sun, 
Beside  that  tower  where    Percivale  was 

covvl'd, 
Glanced  from  the  rosy  forehead  of  the 

dawn. 
For  so  the  words  were    flash'd  into  his 

heart 
He  knew  not  whence  or  wherefore  :  '  O 

sweet  star, 
Pure  on  the  virgin  forehead  of  the  dawn  ! ' 
And  there  he  would  have  wept,  but  felt 

his  eyes 
Harder  and  drier  than  a  fountain  bed 
In  summer  :   thither  came  the  village  girls 
And  linger'd  talking,  and  they  come  no 

more 
Till  the  sweet  heavens  have  fiU'd  it  from 

the  heights 
Again  with  living  waters  in  the  change 
Of  seasons:    hard  his  eyes;    harder  his 

heart 
Seem'd;    but  so  weary  were    his   limbs, 

that  he, 
Gasping,  '  Of  Arthur's  hall  am  I,  but  here. 
Here  let  me  rest  and  die,'  cast  himself 

down, 
And  gulfd  his  griefs  in  inmost  sleep;   so 

lay. 
Till  shaken  by  a  dream,  that  Gawain  fired 
The  hall  of  Merlin,  and  the  morning  star 
Reel'd  in  the  smoke,  brake  into  flame, 

and  fell. 

2F 


He  woke,  and  being  ware  of  some  one 
nigh, 

Sent  hands  upon  him,  as  to  tear  him, 
crying, 

'  False  !  and  I  held  thee  pure  as  Guine- 
vere.' 

But  Percivale  stood  near  him  and 
replied, 

'  Am  I  but  false  as  Guinevere  is  pure? 

Or  art  thou  mazed  with  dreams?  or  being 
one 

Of  our  free-spoken  Table  hast  not  heard 

That  Lancelot'  —  there  he  check'd  him- 
self and  paused. 

Then  fared  it  with  Sir  Pelleas  as  with 

one 
Who  gets  a  wound  in  battle,  and  the  sword 
That  made  it  plunges   thro'  the  wound 

again. 
And  pricks  it  deeper  :  and  he  shrank  and 

wail'd, 
'Is  the  Queen  false?'  and  Percivale  was 

mute. 
'  Have  any  of  our  Round  Table  held  their 

vows  ? ' 
And  Percivale  made  answer  not  a  word. 
'  Is  the  King  true?'     'The  King!'  said 

Percivale. 
'  Why  then  let  men  couple  at  once  with 

wolves. 
What!  art  thou  mad?' 

But  Pelleas,  leaping  up. 
Ran  thro'  the  doors  and  vaulted  on  his 

horse 
And  fled  :  small  pity  upon  his  horse  had 

he. 
Or  on  himself,  or  any,  and  when  he  met 
A  cripple,  one  that  held  a  hand  for  alms  — 
Hunch'd  as  he  was,  and  like  an  old  dwarf- 
elm 
That  turns  its  back  on  the  salt  blast,  the 

boy 
Paused  not,  but  overrode  him,  shouting, 

'  False, 
And  false  with  Gawain  ! '  and  so  left  him 

bruised 
And  batter'd,  and  fled  on,  and  hill  and 

wood 
Went  ever  streaming  by  him  till  the  gloom, 
That  follows  on  the  turning  of  the  world, 


434 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


Darken'd  the  common  path  :  he  twitch'd 

the  reins, 
And  made  his  beast  that  better  knew  it, 

swerve 
Now  off  it  and  now  on;   but  when  he  saw 
High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Merlin 

built, 
Blackening  against  the  dead-green  stripes 

of  even, 
'  Black  nest  of  rats,'  he  groan'd, '  ye  build 

too  high.' 

Not  long  thereafter  from  the  city  gates 
Issued  Sir  Lancelot  riding  airily, 
Warm  with  a  gracious  parting  from  the 

Queen, 
Peace  at  his  heart,  and  gazing  at  a  star 
And  marvelling  what  it  was :    on  whom 

the  boy. 
Across  the  silent  seeded  meadow-grass 
Borne,    clash'd :     and    Lancelot,   saying, 

'  What  name  hast  thou 
That  ridest  here  so  blindly  and  so  hard?' 
*No    name,    no    name,'   he    shouted,   'a 

scourge  am  I 
To  lash  the  treasons  of  the  Table  Round.' 
'  Yea,  but   thy  name  ?  '     *  I    have    many 

names,'  he  cried : 
'  I  am  wrath  and  shame  and  hate  and  evil 

fame. 
And   like   a  poisonous  wind    I    pass  to 

blast 
And  blaze  the  crime  of  Lancelot  and  the 

Queen.' 

*  First   over   me,'   said    Lancelot,    *  shalt 

thou  pass.' 

*  Fight  therefore,'  yell'd  the  youth,  and 

either  knight 
Drew  back  a  space,  and  when  they  closed, 

at  once 
The  weary  steed  of  Pelleas  floundering 

flung 
His  rider,  who  call'd  out  from  the  dark 

field, 

*  Thou  art  false  as  Hell :  slay  me  :   I  have 

no  sword.' 
Then  Lancelot,  'Yea,  between  thy  lips  — 

and  sharp; 
But  here  will  I  disedge  it  by  thy  death.' 

*  Slay  then,'  he  shriek'd, '  my  will  is  to  be 

slain,' 
And    Lancelot,  with  his  heel    upon  the 
fall'n. 


Rolling  his  eyes,  a  moment  stood,  then 

spake : 
'  Rise,  weakling;   I  am  Lancelot;  say  thy 

say.' 

And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  warhorse 

back 
To    Camelot,    and    Sir    Pelleas    in   brief 

while 
Caught  his  unbroken  limbs  from  the  dark 

field. 
And  follow'd    to   the   city.     It    chanced 

that  both 
Brake  into  hall  together,  worn  and  pale. 
There  with  her  knights  and  dames  was 

Guinevere. 
Full  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lancelot 
So  soon  return'd,  and  then  on  Pelleas, 

him 
Who  had  not  greeted  her,  but  cast  him- 
self 
Down  on  a  bench,  hard-breathing.    'Have 

ye  fought?  ' 
She  ask'd  of  Lancelot.     '  Ay,  my  Queen,' 

he  said. 
'  And  hast  thou  overthrown  him?  '     '  Ay, 

my  Queen.' 
Then  she,  turning  to  Pelleas,  '  O  young 

knight. 
Hath  the  great  heart  of  knighthood  in 

thee  fail'd 
So  far  thou  canst  not  bide,  unfrowardly, 
A  fall  from  him  ? '   Then,  for  he  answer'd 

not, 
'Or  hast  thou  other  griefs?     If  I,  the 

Queen, 
May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and  let 

me  know.' 
But  Pelleas  lifted  up  an  eye  so  fierce 
She  quail'd;   and  he,  hissing,  '  I  have  no 

sword,' 
Sprang   from   the    door    into    the    dark. 

The  Queen 
Look'd  hard  upon  her  lover,  he  on  her; 
And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day  to 

be: 
And  all  talk  died,  as  in  a  grove  all  song 
Beneath    the    shadow    of  some   bird    of 

prey; 
Then    a    long   silence    came    upon    the 

hall, 
And  Modred  thought,  'The  time  is  hard 

at  hand.' 


THE   LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


435 


THE   LAST  TOURNAMENT. 

Dagonet,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in  his 

mood 
Had  made  mock-knight  of  Arthur's  Table 

Round, 
At   Camelot,   high   above   the  yellowing 

woods, 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before   the 

hall. 
And  toward  him  from  the  hall,  with  harp 

in  hand, 
And  from  the  crown  thereof  a  carcanet 
Of  ruby  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  prize 
Of  Tristram  in  the  jousts  of  yesterday. 
Came  Tristram,  saying,  '  Why  skip  ye  so. 

Sir  Fool?  ' 

For  Arthur  and  Sir  Lancelot  riding  once 
Far  down  beneath  a  winding  wall  of  rock 
Heard   a   child  wail.     A  stump  of  oak 

half-dead. 
From  roots  like  some  black  coil  of  carven 

snakes, 
Clutch'd  at  the  crag,,  and  started  thro' 

mid  air 
Bearing  an  eagle's  nest :  and  thro'  the 

tree 
Rush'd  ever  a  rainy  wind,  and  thro'  the 

wind 
Pierced  ever  a  child's  cry :   and  crag  and 

tree 
Scaling,  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  perilous 

nest, 
This   ruby  necklace    thrice    around    her 

neck. 
And  all  unscarr'd    from   beak  or  talon, 

brought 
A  maiden  babe;    which  Arthur   pitying 

took. 
Then  gave  it  to  his  Queen  to  rear :  the 

Qtieen 
But  coldly  acquiescing,  in  her  white  arms 
Received,  and  after  loved  it  tenderly, 
And  named  it  Nestling;   so  forgot  herself 
A  moment,  and  her  cares;  till  that  young 

hfe 
Being  smitten  in  mid  heaven  with  mortal 

cold 
Past  from  her;   and  in  time  the  carcanet 
Vext  her  with  plaintive  memories  of  the 

child : 
So  she,  delivering  it  to  Arthur,  said, 


'Take  thou  the  jewels  of  this  dead  inno- 
cence. 

And  make  them,  an  thou  wilt,  a  tourney- 
prize.' 

To  whom  the  King,  '  Peace  to  thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead    nestling,    and    this    honour    after 

death, 
Following  thy  will !  but,  O  my  Queen, 

I  muse 
Why  ye  not  wear  on  arm,  or  neck,  or 

zone 
Those  diamonds  that  I  rescued  from  the 

tarn, 
And  Lancelot  won,  methought,  for  thee 

to  wear.' 

'  Would  rather  you  had  let  them  fall,' 

she  cried, 
'  Plunge  and   be  lost  —  ill-fated  as  they 

were, 
A  bitterness  to  me  !  —  ye  look  amazed. 
Not  knowing  they  were  lost  as  soon  as 

given  — 
Slid  from  my  hands,  when  I  was  leaning 

out 
Above  the  river  —  that  unhappy  child 
Past  in  her  barge :  but  rosier  luck  will  go 
With  these  rich  jewels,  seeing  that  they 

came 
Not    from    the    skeleton    of   a    brother- 
slayer, 
But  the  sweet  body  of  a  maiden  babe. 
Perchance  —  who    knows  ?  —  the   purest 

of  thy  knights 
May   win    them    for    the    purest    of   my 

maids.' 

She   ended,   and    the    cry  of  a    great 

jousts 
With    trumpet-blowings   ran    on   all  the 

ways 
From  Camelot  in  among  the  faded  fields 
To  furthest  towers;   and  everywhere  the 

knights 
Arm'd  for  a  day  of  glory  before  the  King. 

But   on  the  hither  side   of  that  loud 
morn 
Into  the  hall  stagger'd,  his  visage  ribb'd 
From  ear  to  ear  with  dogwhip- weals,  his 
nose 


436 


THE  LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


Bridge-broken,    one    eye    out,    and    one 

hand  off. 
And  one  with  shatter'd  fingers  dangling 

lame, 
A  churl,  to  whom  indignantly  the  King, 

'  My  churl,  for  whom  Christ  died,  what 

evil  beast 
Hath  drawn  his  claws  athwart  thy  face? 

or  fiend? 
Man  was  it  who  marr'd  heaven's  image 

in  thee  thus?  ' 

Then,  sputtering   thro'   the    hedge  of 

splinter'd  teeth, 
Yet   strangers  to  the   tongue,  and  with 

blunt  stump 
Pitch-blacken'd  sawing  the  air,  said  the 

maim'd  churl, 

'  He  took  them  and  he  drave  them  to 

his  tower  — 
Some    ho'ld    he    was   a   table-knight    of 

thine  — 
A  hundred  goodly  ones — the  Red  Knight, 

he  — 
Lord,  I  was  tending  swine,  and  the  Red 

Knight 
Brake  in  upon  me  and  drave  them  to  his 

tower; 
And  when  I  call'd  upon  thy  name  as  one 
That  doest  right  by  gentle  and  by  churl, 
Maim'd  me  and  maul'd,  and  would  out- 
right have  slain. 
Save  that  he  sware   me  to  a  message, 

saying, 
*'Tell  thou  the  King  and   all  his  liars, 

that  I 
Have  founded  my  Round  Table  in  the 

North, 
And  whatsoever   his   own  knights  have 

sworn 
My  knights  have   sworn  the  counter  to 

it  —  and  say 
My  tower  is  full  of  harlots,  like  his  court. 
But  mine  are  worthier,  seeing  they  profess 
To  be  none  other  than  themselves  —  and 

say 
My  knights  are   all   adulterers    like    his 

own, 
But  mine  are  truer,  seeing  they  profess 
To  be  none  other;   and  say  his  hour  is 

come, 


The  heathen  are  upon  him,  his  long  lance 
Broken,  and  his  Excalibur  a  straw." ' 

Then  Arthur  turn'd  to  Kay  the  senes- 
chal, 

'  Take  thou  my  churl,  and  tend  him 
curiously 

Like  a  king's  heir,  till  all  his  hurts  be 
whole. 

The  heathen  —  but  that  ever-climbing 
wave, 

Hurl'd  back  again  so  often  in  empty  foam. 

Hath  lain  for  years  at  rest  —  and  rene- 
gades. 

Thieves,  bandits,  leavings  of  confusion, 
whom 

The  wholesome  realm  is  purged  of  other- 
where, 

Friends,  thro'  your  manhood  and  your 
fealty,  —  now 

Make  their  last  head  like  Satan  in  the 
North. 

My  younger  knights,  new-made,  in  whom 
your  flower 

Waits  to  be  solid  fruit  of  golden  deeds, 

Move  with  me  toward  their  quelling, 
which  achieved. 

The  loneliest  ways  are  safe  from  shore  to 
shore. 

But  thou.  Sir  Lancelot,  sitting  in  my  place 

Enchair'd  to-morrow,  arbitrate  the  field; 

For  wherefore  shouldst  thou  care  to 
mingle  with  it. 

Only  to  yield  my  Queen  her  own  again? 

Speak,  Lancelot,  thou  art  silent :  is  it 
well?' 

Thereto  Sir  Lancelot  answer'd,  '  It  is 
well : 
Yet  better  if  the  King  abide,  and  leave 
The  leading  of  his  younger  knights  to  me. 
Else,  for  the  King  has  will'd  it,  it  is  well.' 

Then  Arthur  rose  and  Lancelot  follow'd 

him. 
And  while  they  stood  without  the  doors, 

the  King 
Turn'd  to  him  saying,  *  Is  it  then  so  well? 
Or  mine  the  blame  that  oft  I  seem  as  he 
Of  whom  was  written,  "  A  sound  is  in  his 

ears"? 
The   foot   that  loiters,  bidden  go,  —  the 

glance 


THE   LAST    TOURNAMENT 


437 


That  only  seems  half-loyal  to  command,  — 
A  manner   somewhat   fall'n  from  rever- 
ence— 
Or  have   I   dream'd  the   bearing  of  our 

knights 
Tells  of  a  manhood  ever  less  and  lower? 
Or  whence  the  fear  lest  this  my  realm, 

uprear'd, 
By  noble  deeds  at  one  with  noble  vows. 
From  flat  confusion  and  brute  violences. 
Reel   back   into   the   beast,  and   be   no 
more? ' 

He  spoke,  and  taking  all  his  younger 

knights, 
Down  the   slope   city  rode,  and  sharply 

turn'd 
North  by  the  gate.     In  her  high  bower 

the  Queen, 
Working  a  tapestry,  lifted  up  her  head, 
Watch'd  her    lord    pass,  and   knew  not 

that  she  sigh'd. 
Then  ran  across  her  memory  the  strange 

rhyme 
Of  bygone    Merlin,  '  Where   is  he   who 

knows? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 

he  goes.' 

But  when  the  morning  of  a  tourna- 
ment. 
By  these  in  earnest  those  in  mockery  call'd 
The  Tournament  of  the  Dead  Innocence, 
Brake  with  a  wet  wind  blowing,  Lancelot, 
Round  whose  sick  head  all   night,  like 

birds  of  prey. 
The   words    of  Arthur    flying    shriek'd, 

arose. 
And  down  a  streetway  hung  with  folds  of 

pure 
White  samite,  and  by  fountains  running 

wine, 
Where  children  sat  in  white  with  cups  of 

gold, 
Moved  to  the  lists,  and  there,  with  slow 

sad  steps 
Ascending,    fiU'd     his     double-dragon'd 

chair. 

He   glanced  and  saw  the  stately  gal- 
leries, 
Dame,    damsel,    each    thro'    worship    of 
their  Queen 


White-robed  in  honour  of  the  stainless 

child, 
And  some  with    scatter'd  jewels,  like  a 

bank 
Of  maiden  snow  mingled  with  sparks  of 

fire. 
He  look'd  but  once,  and  vail'd  his  eyes 

again. 

The  sudden  trumpet  sounded  as  in  a 

dream 
To  ears  but  half-awaked,  then  one  low 

roll 
Of    x\utumn    thunder,    and    the    jousts 

began : 
And  ever  the  wind  blew,  and  yellowing 

leaf 
And  gloom  and  gleam,  and  shower  and 

shorn  plume 
Went  down  it.     Sighing  weariedly,  as  one 
Who  sits  and  gazes  on  a  faded  fire, 
When  all   the  goodlier  guests    are   past 

away, 
Sat  their  great  umpire,  looking  o'er  the 

lists. 
He  saw  the  laws  that  ruled  the  tourna- 
ment 
Broken,  but  spake  not;   once,  a  knight 

cast  down 
Before  his  throne  of  arbitration  cursed 
The    dead    babe   and  the  follies   of  the 

King; 
And  once  the  laces  of  a  helmet  crack'd. 
And  show'd   him,  like   a  vermin   in   its 

hole, 
Modred,  a  narrow  face  :  anon  he  heard 
The  voice  that  billow'd  round  the  barriers 

roar 
An    ocean-sounding    welcome     to     one 

knight, 
But  newly-enter'd,  taller  than  the  rest, 
And  armour'd  all  in  forest  green,  whereon 
There  tript  a  hundred  tiny  silver  deer, 
And'  wearing  but  a  holly-spray  for  crest, 
With  ever-scattering  berries,  and  on  shield 
A  spear,  a  harp,  a  bugle  —  Tristram  —  late 
From  overseas  in  Brittany  return'd. 
And   marriage  with    a   princess  of  that 

realm, 
Isolt   the   White  —  Sir   Tristram    of  the 

Woods  — 
Whom  Lancelot  knew,  had  held  some- 
time with  pain 


438 


THE   LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


His  own  against  him,  and  now  yearn'd 

to  shake 
The   burthen  ofif  his   heart    in    one   full 

shock 
With  Tristram  ev'n  to  death  :  his  strong 

hands  gript 
And  dinted  the  gilt  dragons  right  and  left, 
Until  he  groan' d  for  wrath  —  so  many  of 

those, 
That   ware   their   ladies'  colours  on  the 

casque, 
Drew  from   before   Sir   Tristram  to  the 

bounds, 
And   there    with    gibes    and    flickering 

mockeries 
Stood,  while  he  mutter'd, '  Craven  crests  ! 

O  shame  ! 
What  faith  have  these  in  whom  they  sware 

to  love? 
The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no  more.' 

So  Tristram  won,  and  Lancelot  gave, 

the  gems, 
Not  speaking  other  word  than  '  Hast  thou 

won  ? 
Art  thou  the  purest,  brother?     See,  the 

hand 
Wherewith  thou  takest  this,  is  red  ! '  to 

whom 
Tristram,    half    plagued    by    Lancelot's 

languorous  mood, 
Made   answer,  'Ay,  but  vi^herefore    toss 

me  this 
Like   a   dry  bone    cast  to  some  hungry 

hound  ? 
Let  be  thy  fair  Queen's  fantasy.    Strength 

of  heart 
And  might  of  limb,  but  mainly  use  and 

skill, 
Are  winners  in  this  pastime  of  our  King. 
My  hand  —  belike  the  lance  hath  dript 

upon  it  — 
No  blood  of  mine,  I  trow;   but  O  chief 

knight, 
Right  arm  of  Arthur  in  the  battlefield, 
Great  brother,  thou  nor  I  have  made  the 

world ; 
Be  happy  in  thy  fair  Queen  as  I  in  mine.' 

And  Tristram  round  the  gallery  made 
his  horse 
Caracole;  then  bow'd  his  h<Mnage,  bluntly 
saying, 


*  Fair  damsels,  each  to  him  who  worships 

each 
Sole  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  love,  behold 
This  day  my  Queen  of  Beauty  is  not  here.' 
And    most    of   these    were    mute,    some 

anger'd,  one 
Murmuring,  '  All  courtesy  is  dead,'  and 

one, 
'  The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no  more.' 

Then  fell  thick  rain,  plume  droopt  and 
mantle  clung. 

And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan  day 

Went  glooming  down  in  wet  and  weari- 
ness : 

But  under  her  black  brows  a  swarthy  one 

Laugh'd  shrilly,  crying,  '  Praise  the  pa- 
tient saints. 

Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath 
past, 

Tho'  somewhat  draggled  at  the  skirt.  So 
be  it. 

The  snowdrop  only,  flowering  thro'  the 
year, 

Would  make  the  veorld  as  blank  as  Win- 
ter-tide. 

Come  —  let  us  gladden  their  sad  eyes, 
our  Queen's 

And  Lancelot's,  at  this  night's  solemnity 

With  all  the  kindlier  colours  of  the  field.' 

So  dame  and  damsel  glitter'd  at  the 

feast 
Variously  gay  :   for  he  that  tells  the  tale 
Liken'd  them,  saying,  as  when  an  hour 

of  cold 
Falls  on    the    mountain   in    midsummer 

snows. 
And  all  the  purple  slopes  of  mountain 

flowers 
Pass  under  white,  till  the  warm  hour  re- 
turns 
With  veer  of  wind,  and  all  are  flowers 

again; 
.So  dame  and  damsel  cast  the  simple  white. 
And  glowing  in  all  colours,  the  live  grass, 
Rose-campion,  bluebell,  kingcup,  poppy, 

glanced 
About  the  revels,  and  with  mirth  so  loud 
Beyond    all    use,   that,   half-amazed,  the 

Queen, 
And  wroth  at  Tristram  and   the  lawless 

jousts. 


THE  LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


439 


Brake  up  their  sports,  then  slowly  to  her 

bower 
Parted,  and  in  her  bosom  pain  was  lord. 

And    little    Dagonet    on    the    mor'-ow 

morn, 
High  over  all  the  yellowing  Autumn-tide, 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf   before  the 

hall. 
Then  Tristram  saying,  '  Why  skip  ve  so, 

Sir  Fool?' 
Wheel'd  round  on  either  heel,  Dagonet 

replied, 
'Belike  for  lack  of  wiser  company; 
Or  being  fool,  and  seeing  too  much  wit 
Makes  the  world  rotten,  why  belike  I  skip 
To  know  myself  the  wisest  knight  of  all.' 

*  Ay,  fool,'  said  Tristram,  '  but  'tis  eating 

dry 
To  dance  without  a  catch,  a  roundelay 
To  dance  to.'     Then  he  twangled  on  his 

harp, 
And  while  he   twangled    little    Dagonet 

stood 
Quiet  as  any  water-sodden  log 
Stay'd   in    the    wandering    warble    of    a 

brook ; 
But   when  the    twangling    ended,    skipt 

again ; 
And  being  ask'd,  '  Why  skipt  ve  not.  Sir 

Fool?' 
Made  answer,  '  I  had  liefer  twenty  years 
Skip  to  the  broken  music  of  my  brains 
Than  any  broken  music  thou  canst  make.' 
Then  Tristram,  waiting   for  the  quip  to 

come, 
'  Good  now,  what  music  have  I  broken, 

fool?' 
And  little  Dagonet,  skipping, '  Arthur,  the 

King's; 
For    when    thou    playest    that    air    with 

Queen  Isolt, 
Thou  makest  broken  music  with  thy  bride, 
Her    daintier    namesake    down   in  Brit- 
tany — 
And  so  thou  breakest  Arthur's  music  too.' 

*  Save  for  that  broken  music  in  thy  brains. 
Sir  Fool,'  said  Tristram,  '  I  would  break 

thy  head. 
Fool,  I  came  late,  the  heathen  wars  were 

o'er, 
The  life  had  flown,  we  sware  but  by  the 

shell  — 


I  am  but  a  fool  to  reason  with  a  fool  — 
Come,  thou  art  crabb'd   and  sour:  but 

lean  me  down. 
Sir  Dagonet,  one  of  thy  long  ass's  ears. 
And  harken  if  my  music  be  not  true. 

*  "  Free  love  —  free  field  —  we  love  but 

while  we  may : 
The  woods  are  hush'd,  their  music  is  no 

more : 
The  leaf  is  dead, the  yearning  past  away: 
New  leaf,  new  life  —  the  days  of  frost  are 

o'er: 
New  life,  new  love,  to  suit  the  newer  day  : 
New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went 

before  : 
Free  love  — free  field  —  we  love  but  while 

we  may." 

*  Ye  might  have  moved  slow-measure 

to  my  tune. 
Not  stood  stockstill.     I  made  it  in  the 

woods. 
And  heard  it  ring  as  true  as  tested  gold.' 

But  Dagonet  with  one  foot  poised  in 
his  hand, 
'Friend,  did  ye  mark  that  fountain  yester- 
day 
Made  to  run  wine?  —  but  this  had  run 

itself 
All  out  like  a  long  Ufe  to  a  sour  end  — 
And  them  that  round  it  sat  with  golden 

cups 
To  hand  the  wine  to  whomsoever  came  — 
The  twelve  small  damosels  white  as  In- 
nocence, 
In  honour  of  poor  Innocence  the  babe. 
Who  left  the  gems  which  Innocence  the 

Queen 
Lent  to  the  King,  and  Innocence  the  King 
Gave  for  a  prize  —  and  one  of  those  white 

slips 
Handed  her  cup  and  piped,  the  pretty  one, 
"  Drink,  drink,  Sir  Fool,"  and  thereupon 

I  drank, 
Spat  —  pish  —  the    cup   was    gold,    the 
draught  was  mud.' 

And  Tristram,  '  Was  it  muddier  than 
thy  gibes? 
Is    all    the    laughter    gone    dead    out  of 
thee? — 


440 


THE  LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


Not  marking  how  the  knighthood  mock 

thee,  fool  — 
"  Fear  God  :  honour  the  King  —  his  one 

true  knight  — 
Sole  follower  of  the  vows  "  —  for  here  be 

they 
Who  knew  thee  swine  enow  before  I  came, 
Smuttier  than  blasted  grain :    but  when 

the  King 
Had  made  thee  fool,  thy  vanity  so  shot  up 
It  frighted   all    free    fool   from  out    thy 

heart; 
Which  left  thee  less  than  fool,  and  less 

than  swine, 
A  naked  aught  —  yet  swine  I  hold  thee 

still. 
For  I  have  flung  thee  pearls  and  find  thee 

swine.' 

And  little  Dagonet  mincing  with  his 

feet, 
'  Knight,  an  ye  fling  those  rubies  round 

my  neck 
In  lieu  of  hers,  I'll  hold  thou  hast  some 

touch 
Of  music,  since  I  care  not  for  thy  pearls. 
Swine?     I  have  wallow'd,  I  have  wash'd 

—  the  world 
Is  flesh  and  shadow  —  I  have  had  my  day. 
The  dirty  nurse.  Experience,  in  her  kind 
Hath  foul'd  me  —  an  I  wallow'd  then  I 

wash'd  — 
I  have  had  my  day  and  my  philosophies  — 
And  thank  the  Lord  I  am  King  Arthur's 

fool. 
Swine,  say  ye?  swine,  goats,  asses,  rams 

and  geese 
Troop'd  round  a  Paynim   harper  once, 

who  thrumm'd 
On  such  a  wire  as  musically  as  thou 
Some  such  fine  song  —  but  never  a  king's 

fool.' 

And  Tristram,  'Then  were  swdne,  goats, 
asses,  geese 
The  wiser  fools,  seeing  thy  Paynim  bard 
Had  such  a  mastery  of  his  mystery 
That  he  could  harp  his  wife  up  out  of  hell.' 

Then  Dagonet,  turning  on  the  ball  of 
his  foot, 
'And  whither  harp'st  thou  thine?  down  ! 
and  thyself 


Down  !  and  two  more  :   a  helpful  harper 

thou. 
That  harpest  downward  !   Dost  thou  know 

the  star 
We  call  the  harp  of  Arthur  up  in  heaven?' 

And  Tristram,  '  Ay,  Sir  Fool,  for  when 

our  King 
Was   victor   wellnigh    day    by    day,    the 

knights. 
Glorying  in  each  new  glory,  set  his  name 
High  on  all  hills,   and    in   the   signs  of 

heaven.' 

And  Dagonet  answer'd,  'Ay,  and  when 

the  land  . 
Was  freed,  and  the  Queen  false,  ye  set 

yourself 
To   babble  about  him,  all  to  show  your 

wit  — 
And  whether  he  were  King  by  courtesy, 
Or  King  by  right  —  and  so  went  harping 

down 
The  black  king's  highway,  got  so  far,  and 

grew 
So  witty   that   ye  play'd  at  ducks    and 

drakes 
With  Arthur's  vows  on  the  great  lake  of 

tire. 
Tuwhoo !    do  ye  see  it?  do  ye  see  the 

star?' 

'Nay,    fool,'    said    Tristram,    'not    in 

open  day.' 
And  Dagonet,  '  Nay,  nor  will :  I   see   it 

and  hear. 
It  makes  a  silent  music  up  in  heaven, 
And  I,  and  Arthur  and  the  angels  hear. 
And  then  we  skip.'     '  Lo,  fool,'  he  said, 

*  ye  talk 
Fool's  treason  :  is  the  King  thy  brother 

fool?' 
Then  little  Dagonet  clapt  his  hands  and 

shrill'd, 
'  Ay,   ay,   my   brother  fool,   the    king  of 

fools ! 
Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can  make 
P'igs  out   of  thistles,  silk   from   bristles, 

milk 
From  burning  spurge,  honey  from  hornet- 
combs. 
And   men   from   beasts  —  Long  live   the 

kin"  of  fools  ! ' 


THE  LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


441 


And  down  the  city  Dagonet  danced 

away; 
But  thro'  the  slowly-mellowing  avenues 
And  solitary  passes  of  the  wood 
Rode  Tristram  toward  Lyonesse  and  the 

west. 
Before  him  fled  the  face  of  Queen  Isolt 
With  ruby-circled  neck,  but  evermore 
Past,  as  a  rustle  or  twitter  in  the  wood 
Made  dull  his  inner,  keen  his  outer  eye 
For  all  that  walk'd,  or  crept,  or  perch'd, 

or  flew. 
Anon   the    face,   as,  when  a  gust   hath 

blown, 
Unruffling  waters  re-collect  the  shape 
Of  one  that  in  them  sees  himself,  return'd ; 
But  at  the  slot  or  fewmets  of  a  deer. 
Or  ev'n  a  fall'n  feather,  vanish'd  again. 

So  on  for  all  that  day  from  lawn  to  lawn 
Thro'  many  a  league-long  bower  he  rode. 

At  length 
A  lodge  of  intertwisted  beechen-boughs 
Furze-cramm'd,  and    bracken-rooft,    the 

which  himself 
Built  for  a  summer  day  with  Queen  Isolt 
Against  a  shower,  dark    in   the  golden 

grove 
Appearing,  sent  his  fancy  back  to  where 
She  lived  a  moon  in  that  low  lodge  with 

him : 
Till  Mark  her  lord  had  past,  the  Cornish 

King, 
With  six  or  seven,  when   Tristram  was 

away, 
And  snatch'd  her  thence;   yet  dreading 

worse  than  shame 
Her   warrior   Tristram,   spake   not    any 

word, 
But  bode  his  hour,  devising  wretchedness. 

And  now  that  desert  lodge  to  Tristram 

lookt 
So  sweet,  that  halting,  in  he  past,  and 

sank 
Down  on  a  drift  of  foliage  random-blown ; 
But  could  not  rest   for  musing   how  to 

smoothe 
And  sleek  his  marriage  over  to  the  Queen. 
Perchance  in  lone  Tintagil  far  from  all 
The  tonguesters  of  the  court  she  had  not 

heard. 
But  then  what  folly  had  sent  him  overseas 


After  she  left  him  lonely  here?  a  name? 
Was  it  the  name  of  one  in  Urittany, 
Isolt,  the  daughter  of  the  King?     '  Isolt 
Of  the  white  hands  '  they  call'd  her :   the 

sweet  name 
Allured  him  first,  and  then  the  maid  her- 
self. 
Who  served  him  well  with  those  white 

hands  of  hers. 
And  loved  him  well,  until  himself  had 

thought 
He  loved  her  also,  wedded  easily, 
But  left  her  all  as  easily,  and  return'd. 
The  black-blue  Irish  hair  and  Irish  eyes 
Had    drawn  him  home  —  what  marvel? 

then  he  laid 
His   brows   upon   the    drifted   leaf  and 
dream'd. 

He  seem'd  to  pace  the  strand  of  Brit- 
tany 
Between  Isolt  of  Britain  and  his  bride. 
And  show'd  them  both  the  ruby-chain, 

and  both 
Began  to  struggle  for  it,  till  his  Queen 
Graspt  it  so  hard,  that  all  her  hand  was 

red. 
Then  cried  the  Breton,  *  Look,  her  hand 

is  red  ! 
These  be  no  rubies,  this  is  frozen  blood. 
And  melts  within  her  hand —  her  hand  is 

hot 
W^ith  ill  desires,  but  this  I  gave  thee,  look, 
Is  all  as  cool  and  white  as  any  flower.' 
Follow'd  a  rush  of  eagle's  wings,  and  then 
A  whimpering  of  the  spirit  of  the  child, 
Because  the  twain  had  spoil'd  her  car- 
canet. 

He  dream'd;   but  Arthur  with  a  hun- 
dred spears 
Rode  far,  till  o'er  the  illimitable  reed. 
And  many  a  glancing  plash  and  sallowy 

isle. 
The  wide-wing'd  sunset  of  the  misty  marsh 
Glared  on  a  huge  machicolated  tower 
That  stood  with    open   doors,  whereout 

was  roU'd 
A  roar  of  riot,  as  from  men  secure 
Amid  their  marshes,  ruffians  at  their  ease 
Among  their  harlot-brides,  an  evil  song. 
'  Lo  there,'  said  one  of  Arthur's  youth, 
for  there. 


442 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


High   on  a  grim   dead   tree   before   the 

tower, 
A  goodly  brother  of  the  Table  Round 
Swung  by  the  neck :   and  on  the  boughs 

a  shield 
Showing  a  shower  of  blood  in  a  field  noir, 
And   therebeside    a   horn,  inflamed    the 

knights 
At  that  dishonour  done  the  gilded  spur, 
Till  each  would  clash  the  shield,  and  blow 

the  horn. 
But  Arthur  waved  them  back.    Alone  he 

rode. 
Then  at  the  dry  harsh  roar  of  the  great 

horn, 
That  sent  the  face  of  all  the  marsh  aloft 
An  ever  upward-rushing  storm  and  cloud 
Of  shriek  and  plume,  the  Red   Knight 

heard,  and  all, 
Even  to  tipmost  lance  and  topmost  helm, 
In  blood-red  armour  sallying,  howl'd  to 

the  King, 

*The  teeth  of  Hell  flay  bare  and  gnash 

thee  flat !  — 
Lo !    art  thou  not    that    eunuch-hearted 

King 
Who  fain  had  dipt  free  manhood  from 

the  world  — 
The    woman-worshipper?      Yea,    God's 

curse,  and  1 1 
Slain  was  the  brother  of  my  paramour 
By  a  knight  of  thine,  and  I  that  heard 

her  whine 
And  snivel,  being  eunuch-hearted  too, 
Sware  by  the  scorpion-worm  that  twists 

in  hell. 
And  stings  itself  to  everlasting  death, 
To  hang  whatever  knight  of  thine  I  fought 
And  tumbled.     Art  thou  King?  —  Look 

to  thy  life  ! ' 

He  ended:  Arthur  knew  the  voice;  the 

face 
Wellnigh    was   helmet-hidden,   and    the 

name 
Went  wandering  somewhere  darkling  in 

his  mind. 
And  Arthur  deign'd  not  use  of  word  or 

sword. 
But  let  the  drunkard,  as  he  stretch'd  from 

horse 
To  strike  him,  overbalancing  his  bulk, 


Down  from  the  causeway  heavily  to  the 

swamp 
Fall,  as  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching 

wave. 
Heard  in   dead   night  along  that  table- 
shore. 
Drops   flat,   and   after   the   great  waters 

break 
Whitening   for  half  a  league,   and  thin 

themselves, 
F'ar  over  sands  marbled  with  moon  and 

cloud. 
From  less  and  less  to  nothing;   thus  he 

fell 
Head-heavy;     then    the    knights,    who 

watch'd  him,  roar'd 
And  shouted  and  leapt  down  upon  the 

fall'n; 
There  trampled  out  his  face  from  being 

known, 
And  sank  his  head  in  mire,  and  slimed 

themselves: 
Nor  heard  the  King  for  their  own  cries, 

but  sprang 
Thro'  open  doors,  and  swording  right  and 

left 
Men,    women,    on    their    sodden    faces, 

hurl'd 
The  tables  over  and  the  wines,  and  slew 
Till  all  the  rafters  rang  with  woman-yells. 
And    all    the    pavement    stream'd    with 

massacre : 
Then,  echoing  yell  with  yell,  they  fired 

the  tower. 
Which  half  that  Autumn  night,  like  the 

live  North, 
Red-pulsing  up  thro'  Alioth  and  Alcor, 
Made  all  above  it,  and  a  hundred  meres 
About  it,  as  the  water  Moab  saw 
Come  round  by  the  East,  and  out  beyond 

them  flush'd 
The   long  low   dune,   and   lazy-plunging 

sea. 

So  all  the  ways  were  safe  from  shore 
to  shore. 
But    in    the    heart    of  Arthur   pain   was 
lord. 

Then,  out  of  Tristram  waking,  the  red 
dream 
I'led  with   a  sliout,  and  that  low  lodge 
return'd. 


THE  LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


443 


Mid-forest,    and    the    wind    among    the 

boughs. 
He  whistled   his  good  warhorse   left   to 

graze 
Among  the  forest  greens,  vaulted  upon 

him. 
And  rode  beneath  an  ever-showering  leaf, 
Till   one    lone   woman,  weeping   near    a 

cross, 
Stay'd  him.     'Why  weep  ye?'     'Lord,' 

she  said,  '  my  man 
Hath  left  me  or  is  dead;  '  whereon  he 

thought  — 
'What,  if  she  hate   me  now?     I  would 

not  this. 
W^hat,  if  she  love  me  still?     I  would  not 

that. 
I  know  not  what  I  would  '  —  but  said  to 

her, 
'  Yet  weep   not  thou,  lest,  if  thy  mate 

return. 
He  find  thy  favour  changed  and  love  thee 

not'  — 
Then   pressing   day  by  day   thro'    Lyo- 

nesse 
Last  in  a  rocky  hollow,  belling,  heard 
The  hounds  of  Mark,  and  felt  the  goodly 

hounds 
Yelp  at  his  heart,  but  turning,  past  and 

gain'd 
Tintagil,  half  in  sea,  and  high  on  land, 
A  crown  of  towers. 

Down  in  a  casement  sat, 
A  low  sea-sunset  glorying  round  her  hair 
And    glossy-throated    grace,    Isolt    the 

Queen. 
And  when  she  heard  the  feet  of  Tristram 

grind 
The  spiring  stone  that  scaled  about  her 

tower, 
Flush'd,  started,  met  him  at  the  doors, 

and  there 
Belted  his  body  with  her  white  embrace. 
Crying   aloud,   'Not   Mark  —  not  Mark, 

my  soul  I 
The  footstep  flutter'd  me  at  first :  not  he  : 
Catlike   thro'   his  own    castle   steals  my 

Mark, 
But   warrior-wise  thou  stridest  thro'  his 

halls 
Who  hates  thee,  as  1  him  —  ev'n  to  the 

death. 


My  soul,  I  felt  my  hatred  for  my  Mark 
Quicken  within  me,  and  knew  that  thou 

wert  nigh.' 
To  whom   Sir  Tristram   smiling,   '  I   am 

here. 
Let  be  thy  Mark,  seeing  he  is  not  thine.' 

And  drawing  somewhat  backward  she 

replied, 
'  Can  he  be  wrong'd  who  is  not  ev'n  his 

own. 
But  save  for  dread  of  thee  had  beaten 

me, 
Scratch'd,    bitten,    blinded,   marr'd    me 

somehow  —  Mark  ? 
What  rights  are  his  that  dare  not  strike 

for  them? 
Not  lift  a  hand  —  not,  tho'  he  found  me 

thus ! 
But  harken  I  have  ye  met  him?  hence  he 

went 
To-day  for  three  days'  hunting — as  he 

said  — 
And  so  returns  belike  within  an  hour. 
Mark's    way,    my   soul !  —  but    eat    not 

thou  with  Mark, 
Because  he  hates  thee  even  more   than 

fears; 
Nor  drink  :  and  when  thou  passest  any 

wood 
Close  vizor,  lest  an  arrow  from  the  bush 
Should  leave  me  all  alone  with  Mark  and 

hell. 
Mv  God,  the   measure   of  my  hate   for 

Mark 
Is  as  the  measure  of  my  love  for  thee.' 

So,  pluck'd  one  way  by  hate  and  one 

by  love, 
Drain'd  of  her  force,  again  she  sat,  and 

spake 
To    Tristram,    as    he   knelt    before   her, 

saying, 
'  O  hunter,  and  O  blower  of  the  horn, 
Harper,  and  thou  hast  been  a  rover  too, 
For,  ere  I  mated  with  my  shambling  king, 
Ye  twain  had  fallen  out  about  the  bride 
Of  one  —  his   name  is  out   of  me  —  the 

prize, 
If  prize  she  were  ■ —  (what  marvel —  she 

could  see)  — 
Thine,  friend;   and  ever  since  my  craven 

seeks 


444 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


To  wreck  thee  villainously:   but,  O  Sir 

Knight, 
What  dame  or  damsel  have  ye  kneel'd  to 

last?' 

And    Tristram,   *  Last    to   my   Queen 

Paramount, 
Here  now  to  my  Queen  Paramount  of 

love 
And  loveliness  —  ay,  lovelier  than  when 

first 
Her   light  feet  fell  on  our   rough    Lyo- 

nesse, 
Sailing  from  Ireland.' 

Softly  laugh'd  Isolt; 

*  Flatter  me  not,  for  hath  not  our  great 

Queen 
My  dole  of  beauty  trebled? '  and  he  said, 

*  Her   beauty   is  her   beauty,  and   thine 

thine, 
And  thine  is  more  to  me  —  soft,  gracious, 

kind  — 
Save  when  thy  Mark  is  kindled  on  thy 

lips 
Most  gracious;   but  she,  haughty,  ev'n  to 

him, 
Lancelot ;   for  I  have  seen  him  wan  enow 
To  make    one   doubt  if  ever  the   great 

Queen 
Have  yielded  him  her  love.' 

To  whom  Isolt, 

*  Ah  then,  false  hunter  and  false  harper, 

thou 
"Who  brakest  thro'    the    scruple    of   my 

bond, 
Calling  me  thy  white   hind,  and  saying 

to  me 
That  Guinevere  had  sinn'd  against  the 

highest. 
And  I  —  misyoked  with  such  a  want  of 

man  — 
That  I  could  hardly  sin  against  the  lowest.' 

He   answer'd,  *  O   my  soul,  be    com- 
forted ! 
If  this  be  sweet,  to  sin  in  leading-strings, 
If  here  be  comfort,  and  if  ours  be  sin, 
Crown'd  warrant  had  we  for  the  crown- 
ing sin 
That  made  us  happy :  but  how  ye  greet 
me  —  fear 


And  fault  and  doubt  —  no  word  of  that 

fond  tale  — 
Thy    deep    heart-yearnings,    thy    sweet 

memories 
Of  Tristram  in  that  year  he  was  away.' 

And,  saddening  on  the  sudden,  spake 
Isolt, 

*  I  had  forgotten  all  in  my  strong  joy 

To  see  thee  —  yearnings?  —  ay  !  for,  hour 
by  hour. 

Here  in  the  never-ended  afternoon, 

O  sweeter  than  all  memories  of  thee, 

Deeper  than  any  yearnings  after  thee 

Seem'd  those  far-rolling,  westward- 
smiling  seas, 

Watch'd  from  this  tower.  Isolt  of  Britain 
dash'd 

Before  Isolt  of  Brittany  on  the  strand, 

Would  that  have  chill'd  her  bride-kiss? 
Wedded  her? 

Fought  in  her  father's  battles?  wounded 
there? 

The  King  was  all  fulfill'd  with  grateful- 
ness. 

And  she,  my  namesake  of  the  hands,  that 
heal'd 

Thy  hurt  and  heart  with  unguent  and 
caress  — 

Well  —  can  I  wish  her  any  huger  wrong 

Than  having  known  thee?  her  too  hast 
thou  left 

To  pine  and  waste  in  those  sweet 
memories. 

O  were  I  not  my  Mark's,  by  whom  all 
men 

Are  noble,  I  should  hate  thee  more  than 
love.' 

And  Tristram,  fondling  her  light  hands, 
replied, 

*  Grace,    Queen,    for    being   loved :    she 

loved  me  well. 
Did  I   love   her?    the  name   at   least  I 

loved. 
Isolt?  —  I  fought  his  battles,  for  Isolt ! 
The  night  was  dark;    the  true  star  set. 

Isolt ! 

The  name  was  ruler  of  the  dark Isolt  ? 

Care  not  for  her !  patient,  and  prayerful, 

meek, 
Pale-blooded,  she  will   yield  herself  to 

God.' 


THE  LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


445 


And    Isolt   answer'd,   *  Vea,   and  why 

not  I? 
Mine  is  the  larger  need,  who  am  not  meek, 
Pale-blooded,    prayerful.       Let    me    tell 

thee  now. 
Here  one  black,  mute  midsummer  night 

I  sat, 
Lonely,  but  musing  on  thee,  wondering 

where, 
Murmuring  a  light  song  I  had  heard  thee 

sing, 
And  once  or  twice  I  spake  thy  name  aloud. 
Then  flash'd  a  levin-brand;   and  near  me 

stood, 
In   fuming   sulphur   blue    and   green,   a 

fiend  — 
Mark's  way  to  steal  behind  one  in  the 

dark  — 
For  there  was  Mark  :  "  He  has  wedded 

her,"  he  said. 
Not  said,  but  hiss'd  it :  then  this  crown 

of  towers 
So  shook  to  such  a  roar  of  all  the  sky. 
That  here  in  utter  dark  I  swoon'd  away, 
And  woke  again  in  utter  dark,  and  cried, 
"I  will  flee  hence  and  give  myself  to 

God"  — 
And  thou  wert  lying  in  thy  new  leman's 

arms.' 

Then  Tristram,  ever  dallying  with  her 

hand, 
*  May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when  old 

and  gray. 
And  past  desire  ! '  a  saying  that  anger'd 

her. 
* "  May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 

thou  art  old. 
And   sweet  no  more  to  me  I  "     I  need 

Him  now. 
For  when  had  Lancelot  utter'd  aught  so 

gross 
Ev'n  to  the  swineherd's  malkin  in  the 

mast? 
The  greater  man,  the  greater  courtesy. 
Far   other   was   the    Tristram,   Arthur's 

knight  I 
But  thou,   thro'   ever  harrying  thy  wild 

beasts  — 
Save   that  to  touch  a  harp,  tilt  with   a 

lance 
Becomes  thee  well  —  art  grown  wild  beast 

thyself. 


How  darest  thou,  if  lover,  push  me 
even 

In  fancy  from  thy  side,  and  set  me  far 

In  the  gray  distance,  half  a  life  away, 

Her  to  be  loved  no  more?  Unsay  it, 
unsvvear ! 

Flatter  me  rather,  seeing  me  so  weak, 

Broken  with  Mark  and  hate  and  solitude. 

Thy  marriage  and  mine  own,  that  I 
should  suck 

Lies  like  sweet  wines:  lie  to  me:  I  be- 
lieve. 

Will  ye  not  lie?  not  swear,  as  there  ye 
kneel. 

And  solemnly  as  when  ye  sware  to  him, 

The  man  of  men,  our  King — My  God, 
•    the  power 

Was  once  in  vows  when  men  believed  the 
King  I 

They  lied  not  then,  who  sware,  and  thro' 
their  vows 

The  King  prevailing  made  his  realm  :  — 
I  say, 

Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  love  me  ev'n  when 
old, 

Gray-hair'd,  and  past  desire,  and  in  de- 
spair.' 

Then  Tristram,  pacing  moodily  up  and 
down, 

'  Vows  !  did  you  keep  the  vow  you  made 
to  Mark 

More  than  I  mine?  Lied,  say  ye?  Nay, 
but  learnt. 

The  vow  that  binds  too  strictly  snaps 
itself — 

My  knighthood  taught  me  this  —  ay,  being 
snapt  — 

We  run  more  counter  to  the  soul  thereof 

Than  had  we  never  sworn.  I  swear  no 
more. 

I  swore  to  the  great  King,  and  am  for- 
sworn. 

For  once  —  ev'n  to  the  height  —  I 
honour'd  him. 

"Man,  is  he  man  at  all?"  methought, 
when  first 

I  rode  from  our  rough  Lyonesse,  and 
beheld 

That  victor  of  the  Pagan  throned  in  hall  — 

His  hair,  a  sun  that  ray'd  from  off  a  brow 

Like  hillsnow  high  in  heaven,  the  steel- 
blue  eyes, 


446 


THE  LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


The  golden  beard  that   clothed  his  lips 

with  light  — 
Moreover,  that  weird  legend  of  his  birth, 
With  Merlin's  mystic  babble  about  his  end 
Amazed  me;   then  his  foot  was  on  a  stool 
Shaped  as  a  dragon;   he  seem'd  to  me  no 

man, 
But  Michael  trampling  Satan ;   so  I  sware, 
Being  amazed:   but  this  went  by  —  The 

vows  I 
O   ay  —  the  wholesome  madness   of  an 

hour  — 
They  served  their    use,   their   time;    for 

every  knight 
Believed  himself  a  greater  than  himself. 
And  every  follower  eyed  him  as  a  God; 
Till  he,  being  lifted  up  beyond  himself, 
Did  mightier  deeds  than  elsewise  he  had 

done, 
And  so  the  realm  was  made  ;  but  then 

their  vows  — 
First    mainly  thro'    that  sullying  of  our 

Queen  — 
Began  to    gall    the    knighthood,  asking 

whence 
Had  Arthur  right  to  bind  them  to  himself? 
Dropt    down    from    heaven?   wash'd  up 

from  out  the  deep? 
They  fail'd  to  trace  him  thro'  the  flesh 

and  blood 
Of  our  old  kings  :  whence  then  ?  a  doubt- 
ful lord 
To  bind  them  by  inviolable  vows. 
Which  flesh  and  blood  perforce  would 

violate : 
For   feel    this   arm    of  mine  —  the    tide 

within 
Red  with  free  chase  and  heather-scented 

air, 
Pulsing  full  man;   can  Arthur  make  me 

pure 
As  any  maiden  child  ?  lock  up  my  tongue 
From  uttering  freely  what  I  freely  hear? 
Bind    me    to    one?      The    wide    world 

laughs  at  it. 
And  worldling  of  the  world  am   I,  and 

know 
The  ptarmigan  that  whitens  ere  his  hour 
Woos  his  own  end;   we  are  not  angels 

here 
Nor  shall  be  :  vows  —  I  am  woodman  of 

the  woods, 
And  hear  the  garnet-headed  yaffingale 


Mock  them:  my  soul,  we  love  but  while 

we  may; 
And  therefore  is  my  love  so  large  for  thee. 
Seeing  it  is  not  bounded  save  by  love.' 

Here  ending,  he  moved  toward  her, 
and  she  said, 
'  Good  :    an  I   turn'd  away  my  love  for 

thee 
To  some  one  thrice  as  courteous  as  thy- 
self— 
For  courtesy  wins  woman  all  as  well 
As  valour  may,  but  he  that  closes  both 
Is  perfect,  he  is  Lancelot  —  taller  indeed. 
Rosier    and  comelier,  thou  —  but  say   I 

loved 
This  knightliest  of  all  knights,  and  cast 

thee  back 
Thine    own   small   saw,  "  We  love  but 

while  we  may," 
Well  then,  what  answer?' 

He  that  while  she  spake, 
Mindful  of  what  he  brought  to  adorn  her 

with. 
The  jewels,    had  let   one   finger   lightly 

touch 
The   warm   white  apple   of  her   throat, 

replied, 
'  Press  this  a  little  closer,  sweet,  until  — 
Come,  I  am  hunger'd  and  half-anger'd  — 

meat, 
Wine,  wine  —  and  I  will  love  thee  to  the 

death. 
And  out  beyond  into  the  dream  to  come.' 

So  then,  when   both  were  brought  to 

full  accord, 
She  rose,  and  set  before  him  all  he  will'd; 
And  after  these  had  comforted  the  blood 
With  meats  and  wines,  and  satiated  their 

hearts  — 
Now  talking  of  their  woodland  paradise. 
The  deer,  the  dews,  the  fern,  the  founts, 

the  lawns; 
Now  mocking  at  the  much  ungainliness, 
And  craven  shifts,  and  long  crane  legs  of 

Mark  — 
Then  Tristram  laughing  caught  the  harp, 

and  sang: 

'  Ay,  ay,  O  ay  —  the  winds  that  bend 
the  lirier ! 


GUINEVERE. 


447 


A  star  in  heaven,  a  star  within  the  mere  I 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay  —  a  star  was  my  desire, 
And    one  was  far   apart,    and    one    was 

near : 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay  —  the  winds  that  bow  the 

grass ! 
And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was  fire, 
And   one    will   ever  shine   and  one  will 

pass. 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay  —  the  winds  that  move  the 

mere.' 

Then  in  the  light's  last  glimmer  Tris- 
tram show'd 

And  swung  the  ruby  carcanet.  She 
cried, 

'The  collar  of  some  Order,  which  our 
King 

Hath  newly  founded,  all  for  thee,  my 
soul. 

For  thee,  to  yield  thee  grace  beyond  thy 
peers.' 

'  Not  so,  my  Queen,'  he  said,  '  but  the 
red  fruit 

Grown  on  a  magic  oak-tree  in  mid- 
heaven, 

And  won  by  Tristram  as  a  tourney-prize, 

And  hither  brought  by  Tristram  for  his 
last 

Love-offering  and  peace-offering  unto 
thee.' 

He  spoke,  he    turn'd,    then,    flinging 

round  her  neck, 
Claspt  it,  and  cried  '  Thine  Order,  O  my 

Queen  I ' 
But,  while  he  bow'd  to  kiss  the  jewell'd 

throat, 
Out  of  the    dark,  just  as    the    lips   had 

touch'd, 
Behind  him  rose  a  shadow  and  a  shriek — 
'  Mark's  way,'  said  Mark,  and  clove  him 

thro'  the  brain. 

That  night    came    Arthur    home,  and 

while  he  climb'd, 
All   in    a  death-dumb    autumn-dripping 

gloom, 
The  stairway  to  the  hall,  and  look'd  and 

saw 
The  great  Queen's  bower  was    dark,  — 

about  his  feet 


A  voice  clung  sobbing  till  he  question'd  it, 
'What  art  thou?'  and   the  voice  about 

his  feet 
Sent  up  an  answer,  sobbing,  '  I   am   thy 

fool, 
And  I  shall  never  make  thee  smile  again.' 

GUINEVERE. 

Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the   court, 

and  sat 
There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping,    none    with    her   save    a  little 

maid, 
A  novice  :   one  low  light  betwixt  them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd   by   the    creeping    mist,    for   all 

abroad, 
Beneath  a  moon  unseen  albeit  at  full, 
The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  the 

face, 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land 

was  still. 

For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause  of 
flight 

Sir  Modred;   he  that  like  a  subtle  beast 

Tay  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
throne. 

Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a  chance  :  for 
this 

He  chill'd  the  popular  praises  of  the 
King 

With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparage- 
ment; 

And  tamper'd  with  the  Lords  of  the 
White  Horse, 

Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengistleft;  and 
sought 

To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Round 

Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 

Serving  his  traitorous  end;  and  all  his 
aims 

Were  sharpen'd  by  strong  hate  for  Lance- 
lot. 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  when 

all  the  court, 
Green-suited,     but    with     plumes     that 

mock'd  the  may. 
Had    been,    their    wont,    a-maying    and 

return'd, 
That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear  and  eye, 


448 


GUINEVERE. 


Climb'd  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden- 
wall 
To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might, 
And  saw  the  Queen  who  sat  betwixt  her 

best 
Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The   wiliest    and  the    worst;   and    more 

than  this 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing  by 
Spied   where    he    couch'd,   and   as   the 

gardener's  hand 
Picks  from  the  colewort  a  green  cater- 
pillar, 
So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flowering 

grove 
Of  grasses  Lancelot  pluck'd  him  by  the 

heel, 
And  cast  him  as  a  worm  upon  the  way; 
But   when    he    knew    the    Prince   tho' 

marr'd  with  dust, 
He,  reverencing  king's  blood  in  a  bad 

man. 
Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and  these 
Full  knightly  without  scorn;  for  in  those 

days 
No  knight  of  Arthur's  noblest  dealt  in 

scorn; 
But,  if  a  man  were  halt   or  hunch'd,  in 

him 
By   those   whom   God   had    made    fuU- 

limb'd  and  tall. 
Scorn  was  allow'd  as  part  of  his  defect. 
And  he  was  answer'd  softly  by  the  King 
And  all  his  Table.     So  Sir  Lancelot  holp 
To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice  or 

thrice 
Full  sharply  smote  his  knees,  and  smiled, 

and  went : 
But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart, 
As  the   sharp   wind  that  ruffles  all  day 

long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the   Queen,  at    first  she 

laugh'd 
Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred's  dusty  fall, 
Then  shudder'd,  as  the  village  wife  who 

cries 
*  I   shudder,   some  one  steps  across  my 

grave;' 


Then  laugh'd  again,  but  faintlier,  for  in- 
deed 
She  half-foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle  beast, 
Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found,  and 

hers 
Would  be  for  evermore  a  name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front  in 

hall. 
Or  elsewhere,  Modred's  narrow  foxy  face. 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent 

eye: 
Henceforward  too,  the  Powers  that  tend 

the  soul. 
To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot 

die. 
And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and  plague  her.     Many  a  time  for 

hours, 
Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the  King, 
In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came  and 

went 
Before  her,  or  a  vague  spiritual  fear  — 
Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creaking 

doors, 
Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a  haunted  house, 
That  keeps  the  rust  of  murder  on  the 

walls  — 
Held   her  awake :    or  if  she  slept,  she 

dream'd 
An  awful  dream;   for  then  she  seem'd  to 

stand 
On  some  vast  plain  before  a  setting  sun, 
And  from  the  sun  there  swiftly  made  at  her 
A  ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow  flew 
Before   it,   till  it    touch'd   her,  and   she 

turn'd  — 
W^hen  lo  !  her  own,  that  broadening  from 

her  feet, 
And  blackening,  swallow'd  all  the  land, 

and  in  it 
Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a  cry  she  woke. 
And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but  grew; 
Till  ev'n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless 

King, 
And  trustful  courtesies  of  household  life. 
Became   her  bane;    and  at  the  last  she 

said, 
*  O  Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine  own 

land. 
For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again. 
And  if  we  meet  again,  some  evil  chance 
Will  make  the  smouldering  scandal  break 

and  blaze 


GUINEVERE. 


449 


Before  the  people,  and  our  lord  the  King.' 
And    Lancelot    ever    promised,    but   re- 

main'd. 
And  still  they  met  and  met.     Again  she 

said, 
*0  Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee 

hence.' 
And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  a  night 
(When  the  good    King   should  not  be 

there)  to  meet 
And  part  for  ever.    Vivien,  lurking,  heard. 
She  told  Sir  Modred.     Passion-pale  they 

met 
And  greeted.     Hands  in  hands,  and  eye 

to  eye. 
Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they  sat 
Stammering   and   staring.     It  was  their 

last  hour, 
A  madness  of  farewells.     And   Modred 

brought 
His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the  tower 
For  testimony;  and  crying  with  full  voice 

*  Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at  last,' 

aroused 
Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lionlike 
Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl'd  him  headlong, 

and  he  fell 
Stunn'd,  and  his  creatures  took  and  bare 

him  off, 
And  all  was  still :  then  she,  *  The  end  is 

come, 
And  I  am  shamed  for  ever;'  and  he  said, 

*  Mine  be  the  shame;   mine  was  the  sin  : 

but  rise. 
And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas : 
There  will  I  hide  thee,  till  my  life  shall  end, 
There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against  the 

world.' 
She  answer'd,  *  Lancelot,  wilt  thou  hold 

me  so? 
Nay,  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our  fare- 
wells. 
Would  God  that  thou  couldst  hide  me 

from  myself! 
Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I  was  wife,  and  thou 
Unwedded :  yet  rise  now,  and  let  us  fly. 
For  I  will  draw  me  into  sanctuary. 
And  bide  my  doom,'     So  Lancelot  got 

her  horse, 
Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his  own. 
And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way. 
There   kiss'd,  and  parted  weeping :    for 

he  past, 

2G 


Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen, 
Back  to  his  land  ;   but  she  to  Almesbury 
Fled  all  night  long  Ijy  glimmering  waste 

and  weald. 
And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  and 

weald 
Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard 

them  moan : 
And  in  herself  she  moan'd,  'Too  late,  too 

late ! ' 
Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the 

morn, 
A  blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying  high, 
Croak'd,  and  she   thought,  '  He  spies  a 

field  of  death; 
For  now  the  Heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea, 
Lured  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of  the 

court. 
Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the  land.' 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury  she 

spake 
There    to    the    nuns,   and    said,    '  Mine 

enemies 
Pursue  me,  but,  O  peaceful  Sisterhood, 
Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  nor  ask 
Her  name  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  her 

time 
To  tell  you : '  and  her  beauty,  grace  and 

power, 
Wrought  as  a  charm   upon   them,  and 

they  spared 
To  ask  it. 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 
For  many  a  week,  unknown,  among  the 

nuns; 
Nor  with  them  mix'd,  nor  told  her  name, 

nor  sought. 
Wrapt   in   her   grief,   for   housel  or   for 

shrift. 
But  communed  only  with  the  little  maid, 
Who  pleased  her  with  a  babbling  heed- 
lessness 
Which  often  lured  her  from  herself;   but 

now. 
This  night,  a  rumour  wildly  blown  about 
Came,  that  Sir  IVlodred  had  usurp'd  the 

realm. 
And  leagued  him  with  the  heathen,  while 

the  King 
W^as  waging  war  on  Lancelot :  then  she 

thought, 


450 


GUINEVERE. 


'  With  what  a  hale  the  people  and  the 

King 
Must  hate  me,'  and  bow'd   down  upon 

her  hands 
Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who  brook'd 
No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering,  '  Late  !  so 

late! 
What  hour,  I  wonder,  now?'  and  when 

she  drew 
No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 
An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her,  '  Late, 

so  late  ! ' 
Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen  look'd 

up,  and  said, 
'  O  maiden,  if  indeed  ye  list  to  sing, 
Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may 

weep,' 
Whereat    full    willingly    sang    the    little 

maid. 

*  Late,   late,   so    late !    and    dark    the 

night  and  chill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late  !  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

'  No   light   had  we :    for   that  we    do 

repent; 
And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  Avill 

relent. 
Too  late,  too  late  I  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

*  No  light :  so  late  !  and  dark  and  chill 

the  night  I 
O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light  I 
Too  late,  too  late  :  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

'  Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is 
so  sweet? 
O  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 
No,  no,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now.' 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  passion- 
ately. 
Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remembering 
Her  thought  when  first  she  came,  wept 

the  sad  Queen. 
Then  said  the  little  novice  prattling  to 
her, 

'  O   pray   you,    noble   lady,    weep   no 
more; 
But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one  so 
small, 


Who    knowing    nothing    knows    but    to 

obey. 
And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  given  — 
Comfort  your  sorrows;    for  they  do  not 

flow 
From   evil   done;     right    sure    am    I    of 

that. 
Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  stateli- 

ness. 
But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord  the 

King's, 
And  weighing  find  them  less;  for  gone  is 

he 
To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lancelot 

there. 
Round  that  strong  castle  where  he  holds 

the  Queen; 
And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  charge  of 

all, 
The  traitor  —  Ah  sweet  lady,  the  King's 

grief 
For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queen,  and 

realm, 
Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any  of 

ours. 
For  me,  I  thank  the  saints,  I  am  not 

great. 
For  if  there  ever  come  a  grief  to  me 
I  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done. 
None  knows  it,  and  my  tears  have  brought 

me  good  : 
But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 
As  great  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet  this 

grief 
Is  added  to  the  griefs  the   great   must 

bear, 
That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 
Silence,    they    cannot    weep    behind    a 

cloud  : 
As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 
About  the  good  King  and   his  wicked 

Queen, 
And  were  I  such   a   King  with   such   a 

Queen, 
Well  might  I  wish   to  veil   her  wicked- 
ness. 
But  were  I  such  a  King,  it  could  not  be.' 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutter'd  the 

Queen, 
'  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  innocent 

talk?' 
But  openly  she  answer'd,  '  Must  not  I, 


GUINEVERE. 


45' 


If  this  false   traitor   have   displaced   his 

lord, 
Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all  the 

realm? ' 

'  Yea,'    said    the    maid,    '  this    is    all 

woman's  grief, 
That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 
Hath  wrought    confusion    in    the   Table 

Round 
Which  good  King  Arthur  founded,  years 

ago. 
With  signs   and  miracles  and  wonders, 

there • 
At  Camelot,  ere  the  coming  of  the  Queen.' 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  herself 

again, 
'  W^ill  the  child  kill  me  with  her  foolish 

prate? ' 
But  openly  she  spake  and  said  to  her, 
'  O  little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery  walls, 
What   canst   thou    know  of   Kings    and 

Tables  Round, 
Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the 

signs 
And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery?  ' 

To  whom  the  little  novice  garrulously, 
*  Yea,  but  I  know :  the  land  was  full  of 

signs 
And   wonders   ere   the    coming    of    the 

Queen. 
So  said  my  father,  and  himself  was  knight 
Of  the  great  Table  —  at  the  founding  of  it ; 
And  rode  thereto  from  Lyonesse,  and  he 

said 
That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  maybe  twain 
After  the  sunset,  down  the  coast,  he  heard 
Strange  music,  and  he  paused,  and  turn- 
ing—  there, 
All  down  the  lonely  coast  of  Lyonesse, 
Each  with  a  beacon-star  upon  his  head, 
And  with  a  wild  sea-light  about  his  feet. 
He  saw  them  —  headland  after  headland 

flame 
Far  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west : 
And  in  the  light  the  white   mermaiden 

swam. 
And    strong  man-breasted    things  stood 

from  the  sea. 
And  sent  a  deep  sea-voice  thro'  all  the 

land, 


To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and 

cleft 
Made   answer,   sounding   like    a    distant 

horn. 
So  said   my  father  —  yea,   and    further- 
more, 
Next  morning,  while  he  passed  the  dim- 
lit  woods. 
Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with  joy 
Come  dashing   down  on  a  tall  wayside 

flower. 
That  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  thistle 

shakes 
When  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for  the 

seed  : 
And  still  at  evenings  on  before  his  horse 
The   flickering  fairy-circle   wheel'd    and 

broke 
Flying,  and  link'd  again,  and  wheel'd  and 

broke 
Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 
And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camelot, 
A  wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hand 
Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  the 

hall; 
And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a  feast 
As  never  man   had  dream'd ;    for  every 

knight 
Had  whatsoever  meat  he  long'd  for  served 
By  hands  unseen;  and  even  as  he  said 
Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated  things 
Shoulder'd  the  spigot,  straddling  on  the 

butts 
While  the  wine  ran :  so  glad  were  spirits 

and  men 
Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful  Queen.' 

Then  spake  the  Queen  and  somewhat 

bitterly, 
'Were  they  so  glad?  ill  prophets  were 

they  all. 
Spirits  and  men :    could  none    of  them 

foresee. 
Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 
And  wonders,  what  has  fall'n  upon  the 

realm  ?  ' 

To  whom  the  novice  garrulously  again, 
'Yea,  one,  a  bard;    of  whom  my  father 

said. 
Full  many  a  noble  war-song  had  he  sung, 
Ev'n    in    the    presence    of   an    enemy's 

fleet. 


452 


GUINEVERE. 


Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  coming 

wave ; 
And  many  a  mystic  lay  of  life  and  death 
Had   chanted  on   the  smoky  mountain- 
tops, 
When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of  the 

hills 
With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  back  like 

flame : 
So  said  my  father  —  and  that  night  the 

bard 
Sang   Arthur's  glorious  wars,  and   sang 

the  King 
As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail'd 

at  those 
Who  call'd  him  the  false  son  of  Gorlois : 
For  there  was  no  man  knew  from  whence 

he  came; 
But  after  tempest,  when  the  long  wave 

broke 
All  down  the  thundering  shores  of  Bude 

and  Bos, 
There  came  a  day  as  still  as  heaven,  and 

then 
They  found  a  naked  child  upon  the  sands 
Of  dark  Tintagil  by  the  Cornish  sea; 
And  that  was  Arthur;   and  they  foster'd 

him 
Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  King: 
And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mystery 
From  all  men,  like  his  birth;   and  could 

he  find 
A  woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 
As   he  was   in   his   manhood,  then,  he 

sang, 
The  twain  together  well  might   change 

the  world. 
But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 
He  falter'd,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the 

harp, 
And  pale  he  turn'd,  and  reel'd,  and  would 

have  fall'n, 
But  that  they  stay'd  him  up;   nor  would 

he  tell 
His  vision;   but  what  doubt  that  he  fore- 
saw 
This   evil   work   of    Lancelot    and    the 

Queen?' 

Then  thought  the  Queen,   '  Lo !    they 
have  set  her  on. 
Our    simple-seeming    Abbess     and    her 
nuns, 


To  play  upon  me,'  and  bow'd  her  head 

nor  spake. 
Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with  clasp'd 

hands. 
Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garrulously. 
Said    the   good    nuns  would    check   her 

gadding  tongue 
Full  often,  *  and,  sweet  lady,  if  I  seem 
To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me. 
Unmannerly,  with  prattling  and  the  tales 
Which  my  good  father  told   me,  check 

me  too 
Nor  let  me  shame  my  father's  memory, 

one 
Of  noblest  manners,  tho'  himself  would 

say 
Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest;    and  he 

died, 
Kill'd  in  a  tilt,  come  next,  five  summers 

back, 
And  left  me;   but  of  others  who  remain. 
And  of  the  two  first-famed  for  courtesy  — 
And  pray  you  check  me  if  I  ask  amiss  — 
But  pray  you,  which  had  noblest,  while 

you  moved 
Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lord  the 

King?' 

Then  the  pale  Queen  look'd  up  and 

answer'd  her, 
'  Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a  noble  knight. 
Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  the  same 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  the  King 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore  his   own  advantage,  and  these 

two 
Were  the  most  nobly-manner'd  men  of 

all; 
For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind.' 

'  Yea,'  said  the  maid,  *  be  manners  such 
fair  fruit? 
Then  Lancelot's  needs  must  be  a  thou- 
sand-fold 
Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumour  runs, 
The  most  disloyal  friend  in  all  the  world.' 

To  which  a  mournful  answer  made  the 
Queen : 
'  O  closed  about  by  narrowing  nunnery- 
walls, 


GUINEVERE. 


45: 


What  knowest  thou  of  the  world,  and  all 
its  lights 

And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all  the 
woe? 

If  ever  Lancelot,  that  most  noble  knight, 

Were  for  one  hour  less  noble  than  him- 
self, 

Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom  of 
fire, 

And  weep  for  her  who  drew  him  to  his 
doom.' 

*  Yea,'  said  the  little  novice, '  I  pray  for 

both ; 
But  I  should  all  as  soon  believe  that  his, 
Sir   Lancelot's,    were    as    noble   as   the 

King's, 
As    I    could    think,   sweet    lady,    yours 

would  be 
Such   as  they  are,  were   you  the    sinful 

Queen.' 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler,  hurt 
Whom    she   w^ould   soothe,  and    harm'd 

where  she  would  heal; 
For  here  a  sudden  flush  of  wrathful  heat 
Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen,  who 

cried, 
*  Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden  more 
For  ever  !  thou  their  tool,  set  on  to  plague 
And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  petty  spy 
And  traitress.'     When  that  storm  of  anger 

brake 
From  Guinevere,  aghast  the  maiden  rose. 
White  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before  the 

Queen 
As  tremulously  as  foam  upon  the  beach 
Stands  in  a  wind,  ready  to  break  and  fly, 
And  when  the  Queen  had  added  '  Get 

thee  hence,' 
Fled  frighted.     Then  that  other  left  alone 
Sigh'd,  and  began  to  gather  heart  again, 
Saying  in  herself,    'The  simple,  fearful 

child 
Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearful 

guilt, 
Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  I  repent. 
For   what    is    true    repentance    but    in 

thought  — 
Not  ev'n  in  inmost  thought  to  think  again 
The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant 

to  us : 


And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him  more, 
To  see  him  more.' 

And  ev'n  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the  mind 
Went   slipping    back    upon    the  golden 

days 
In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Lance- 
lot came. 
Reputed  the  best   knight    and  goodliest 

man, 
Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  ahead 
Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they. 
Rapt  in  sweet  talk  or  lively,  all  on  love 
And  sport  and  tilts  and  pleasure,  (for  the 

time 
Was  maytime,  and   as   yet   no    sin  was 

dream'd,) 
Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  paradise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem'd  the  heavens  upbreaking  thro' 

the  earth, 
And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 
The  silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthur  raised 
For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  couriers  gone  before;   and  on  again, 
Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they 

saw 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship, 
That   crown'd  the  state  pavilion   of  the 

King, 
Blaze  by  the  rushing  brook  or  silent  well. 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in  such 

a  trance, 
And  moving  thro'  the  past  unconsciously, 
Came  to  that  point  where  first  she  saw 

the  King 
Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd  to 

find 
Herjourney  done,  glanced  at  him,  thought 

him  cold, 
High,  self-contain'd,  and  passionless,  not 

like  him, 
'Not    like    my    Lancelot' — while    she 

brooded  thus 
And    grew   half-guilty   in   her   thoughts 

again. 
There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the  doors. 
A  murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nunnery 

ran, 


454 


GUINEVERE. 


Then   on   a   sudden  a  cry,  *  The  King.' 

She  sat 
Stiff-stricken,  listening;   but  when  armed 

feet 
Thro'  the   long   gallery  from    the   outer 

doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from   off   her  seat 

she  fell, 
And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against  the 

floor: 
There   with    her    milkwhite    arms    and 

shadowy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  from  the 

King : 
And  in  the  darkness   heard  his   armed 

feet 
Pause  by  her;   then  came  silence,  then  a 

voice, 
Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a  Ghost's 
Denouncing  judgment,  but  tho'  changed, 

the  King's : 

'  Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child  of 

one 
I    honour'd,    happy,    dead    before    thy 

shame? 
Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of  thee. 
The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword  and 

tire, 
Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws, 
The  craft    of  kindred   and  the    Godless 

hosts 
Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern 

Sea; 
Whom  I,  while  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my  right 

arm. 
The  mightiest  of  my  knights,  abode  with 

me, 
Have    everywhere   about    this   land    of 

Christ 
In    twelve    great    battles    ruining    over- 
thrown. 
And  knowest  thou  now  from  whence  I 

come  —  from  him. 
From  waging  bitter  war  with  him :  and 

he. 
That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse 

way. 
Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him  left, 
He  spared  to  lift  his  hanrl  against  the  King 
Who    made   him   knight  :    but    many    a 

knight  was  slain; 
And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and  kin 


Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own  land. 
And   many   more  when    Modred   raised 

revolt. 
Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty,  clave 
To  Modred,  and  a  remnant  stays  with  me. 
And  of  this  remnant  will  I  leave  a  part. 
True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom  I 

live. 
To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming  on, 
Lest  but  a  hair  of  this  low  head  be  harm'd. 
Fear  not :  thou  shalt  be  guarded  till  my 

death. 
Howbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
Have  err'd  not,  that  I  march  to  meet  my 

doom. 
Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet  to 

me. 
That  I  the  King  should  greatly  care  to 

live; 
For  thou  hast  spoilt  the  purpose  of  my  life. 
Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while  I 

show, 
Ev'n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thou  hast 

sinn'd. 
For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and  their  law 
Relax'd  its  hold  upon  us,  and  the  ways 
Were  fiU'd  with  rapine,  here  and  there  a 

deed 
Of    prowess   done    redress'd   a   random 

wrong. 
But  I  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who  drew 
The  Knighthood-errant  of  this  realm  and 

all 
The   realms    together    under   me,   their 

Head, 
In  that  fair  Order  of  my  Table  Round, 
A  glorious  company,  the  flower  of  men, 
To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty  world, 
And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 
I  made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine  and 

swear 
To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience  as 

their  King, 
To  break  the    heathen  and   uphold  the 

Christ, 
To  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs, 
To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to  it. 
To  honour  his  own  word  as  if  his  God's, 
"I'o  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 
To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her, 
And  worship  her  by  years  of  noble  deeds, 
Until  they  won  her;   for  indeed  I  knew 


GUINEVERE. 


455 


Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a  maid, 
Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 
But   teach    high    thought,    and    amiable 

words 
And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame, 
And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a 

man. 
And  all  this  throve  before  I  wedded  thee. 
Believing,  "  lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to  feel 
My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my  joy." 
Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  Lance- 
lot; 
Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and  Isolt; 
Then  others,  following  these  my  mightiest 

knights. 
And   drawing   foul   ensample   from   fair 

names, 
Sinn'd  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 
Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  obtain, 
And  all  thro'  thee  !  so  that  this  life  of  mine 
I  guard  as  God's   high  gift  from  scathe 

and  wrong, 
Not  greatly  care  to  lose;  but  rather  think 
How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he  live, 
To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely  hall. 
And    miss   the   wonted   number   of   my 

knights, 
And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble  deeds 
As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 
For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left,  could 

speak 
Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance  at 

thee? 
And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of  Usk 
Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room 

to  room. 
And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with  thee 
In    hanging   robe    or  vacant    ornament, 
Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair. 
For  think  not,  tho'  thou  wouldst  not  love 

thy  lord, 
Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for  thee. 
I  am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 
Yet   must  I  leave    thee,  woman,  to  thy 

shame. 
I  hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public  foes 
Who  either  for  his  own  or  children's  sake, 
To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets  the 

wife 
Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule  the 

house  : 
For  being  thro'  his  cowardice  allow'd 


Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for  pure. 
She  like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to  men, 
Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the 

crowd, 
Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes,  and 

saps 
The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the 

pulse 
With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the 

young. 
Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he  that 

reigns ! 
Better  the  King's  vi^aste  hearth  and  aching 

heart 
Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of  light. 
The    mockery   of  my  people,  and  their 

bane.' 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept 

an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet. 
Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 
Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  warhorse 

neigh'd 
As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake  again : 

*  Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge  thy 

crimes, 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden  head. 
My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my  feet. 
The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts  on 

that  fierce  law. 
The    doom  of  treason  and  the    flaming 

death 
(When  first  I  learnt  thee  hidden  here),  is 

past. 
The  pang  —  which  while  I  weigh'd  thy 

heart  with  one 
Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in  thee, 
Made  my  tears  burn  —  is  also  past  —  in 

part. 
And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd  and  I, 
Lo  !  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives  :  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the 

rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved? 
O  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to  play 
Not  knowing  !    O  imperial-moulded  form. 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore, 
Until  it  came  a  kingdom's   curse  with 

thee  — 


456 


GUINEVERE. 


I  cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not  mine, 
But  Lancelot's  :  nay,  they  never  were  the 

King's. 
I  cannot  take  thy  hand;  that  too  is  flesh. 
And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn'd;   and 

mine  own  flesh, 
Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted,  cries 
"  I  loathe  thee  :  "  yet  not  less,  O  Guinevere, 
For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 
My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into  my 

life 
So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee  still. 
Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thee  still. 
Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul, 
And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father  Christ, 
Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are  pure 
We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and 

thou 
Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine, 

and  know 
I  am  thine  husband  —  not  a  smaller  soul, 
Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.     Leave  me 

that, 
I  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.     Now  must 

I  hence. 
Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet 

blow: 
They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead  mine 

hosts 
Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the  west. 
Where  I  must  strike  against  the  man  they 

call 
My  sister's  son  —  no  kin  of  mine,  who 

leagues 
With  Lords  of  the  White  Horse,  heathen, 

and  knights, 
Traitors  —  and  strike  him  dead,  and  meet 

myself 
Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious 

doom. 
And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the 

event; 
But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again, 
Never    lie    by    thy   side;     see    thee    no 

more  — 
Farewell ! ' 

And  while  she  grovell'd  at  his  feet. 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er 

her  neck, 
And  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen  head. 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that 

blest. 


Then,  listening  till  those  armed  steps 

were  gone. 
Rose  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  anguish 

found 
The    casement :    '  peradventure,'  so   she 

thought, 
*  If  I  might  see  his  face,  and  not  be  seen.' 
And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the  door ! 
And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each  a 

light 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about 

the  Queen, 
To  guard  and  foster  her  for  evermore. 
And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm 

was  lower'd, 
To 'which    for  crest  the  golden   dragon 

clung 
Of  Britain;   so  she  did  not  see  the  face, 
Which  then  was  as  an  angel's,  but  she 

saw. 
Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the 

lights. 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship 
Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a  steam  of 

fire. 
And  even  then  he  turn'd;   and  more  and 

more 
The   moony   vapour   rolling   round    the 

King, 
Who  seem'd  the  phantom  of  a  Giant  in 

it, 
Enwound   him   fold   by  fold,  and  made 

him  gray 
And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 
Before  her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his  doom. 

Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  arms  and 
cried  aloud 

'  O  Arthur  ! '  there  her  voice  brake  sud- 
denly. 

Then  —  as  a  stream  that  spouting  from 
a  cliff 

Fails  in  mid-air,  but  gathering  at  the  base 

Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the 
vale  — 

Went  on  in  passionate  utterance  : 

'  Gone  —  my  lord  ! 
Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be  slain  ! 
And   he    forgave  me,  and    I    could    not 

speak. 
Farewell?     I  should   have  answer'd  his 

farewell. 


GUINEVERE. 


457 


His  mercy  choked  me.     Gone,  my  lord 

the  King, 
My  own  true  lord  1  how  dare  I  call  him 

mine  ? 
The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me, 
And   makes  me  one  pollution :    he,  the 

King, 
Call'd  me  polluted  :   shall  I  kill  myself? 
What  help  in  that?      I  cannot  kill   my 

sin. 
If  soul  be  soul ;   nor  can  I  kill  my  shame ; 
No,  nor  by  living  can  I  live  it  down. 
The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks 

to  months. 
The   months   will    add    themselves    and 

make  the  years, 
The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries. 
And  mine  will  ever  be  a  name  of  scorn. 
I  must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of  fame. 
Let   the  world   be;    that  is   but   of  the 

world. 
What  else?  what  hope?     I  think  there 

was  a  hope. 
Except   he  mock'd   me  when  he  spake 

of  hope; 
His   hope   he  call'd    it;     but   he  never 

mocks, 
For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little  hearts. 
And  blessed  be  the  King,  w-ho  hath  for- 
given 
My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left  me  hope 
That  in  mine  own  heart  1  can  live  down 

sin 
And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the  heavens 
Before  high  God.     Ah,  great  and  gentle 

lord, 
Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a  saint 
Among     his     warring     senses,     to     thy 

knights  — 
To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride,  that 

took 
Full  easily  all  impressions  from  below, 
Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised  the 

height 
To  which   I  would  not  or   I   could   not 

climb  — 
I  thought    I  could  not    breathe  in  that 

fine  air 
That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light  — 
I  yearn'd  for  warmth  and  colour  which 

I  found 
In  Lancelot  —  now  I  see  thee  what  thou 

art. 


Thou  art  the  highest  and  most    human 

too, 
Not  Lancelot  nor  another.     Is  there  none 
Will    tell    the  King  I    love  him  tho'  so 

late? 
Now  —  ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Battle? 

■     none : 
Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer  life, 
But  now  it  were  too  daring.    Ah  my  God, 
What  might  I  not  have  made  of  thy  fair 

world, 
Had   I    but   loved   thy  highest  creature 

here? 
It  was  my  duty  to  have  loved  the  highest : 
It  surely  was  my  profit  had  I  known  : 
It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  had  I 

seen. 
We  needs  must   love  the  highest  when 

we  see  it. 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.' 

Here  her  hand 
Grasp'd,  made    her   vail   her  eyes :    she 

look'd  and  saw 
The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and  said 

to  her, 
'  Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  /  not  forgiven  ?  ' 
Then  glancing  up  beheld  the  holy  nuns 
All  round  her,  weeping;   and  her  heart 

was  loosed 
Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  these  and 

said, 

'  Ye  know  me  then,  that  wdcked  one, 
who  broke 
The  vast  design  and  purpose  of  the  King. 

0  shut  me  round  with  narrowing  nunnery- 

walls, 
Meek    maidens,  from    the  voices  crying 
"  shame." 

1  must  not  scorn  mvself:    he    loves  me 

still. 
Let  no  one  dream  but  that  he  loves  me 

still. 
So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me, 
Nor  shun  to  call   me  sister,  dwell  with 

you; 
Wear   black    and  white,  and    be  a  nun 

like  you, 
Fast  with   your  fasts,  not    feasting  with 

your  feasts; 
Grieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving  at 

your  joys, 


458 


THE   PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


But  not  rejoicing ;  mingle  with  your  rites ; 
Pray  and  be  pray'd  for;   lie  before  your 

shrines; 
Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy  house; 
Walk   your  dim  cloister,  and   distribute 

dole 
To  poor  sick  people,  richer  in  His  eyes 
Who  ransom'd  us,  and  haler  too  than  I; 
And  treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and  heal 

mine  own; 
And    so  wear   out  in  almsdeed    and    in 

prayer 
The    sombre    close    of   that    voluptuous 

day. 
Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the 

King.' 


She  said  :  they  took  her  to  themselves; 
and  she 

Still  hoping,  fearing, '  is  it  yet  too  late?' 

Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their  Ab- 
bess died. 

Then  she,  for  her  good  deeds  and  her 
pure  life, 

And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in  her, 

And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she  had 
borne, 

Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess, 
lived 

For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an  Ab- 
bess, past 

To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is 
peace. 


End  of  '  The  Round  Table.'' 


THE   PASSING   OF   ARTHUR. 


That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
First   made    and    latest   left    of    all    the 

knights. 
Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than  a 

voice 
In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  those 
With  whom   he   dwelt,  new  faces,  other 

minds. 

For  on  their  march  to  westward,  Bedi- 
vere, 

Who  slowly  paced  among  the  slumbering 
host, 

Heard  in  his  tent  the  moanings  of  the 
King: 

*  I   found  Him  in   the  shining  of  the 

stars, 
I  mark'd   Him  in  the  flowering  of  His 

fields. 
But  in  His  ways  with  men  I  find  Him  not. 
I  waged  His  wars,  and  now  I  pass  and  die. 
O  me  !  for  why  is  all  around  us  here 
As  if  some  lesser  god  had  made  the  world. 
But  had  not  force  to  shape  it  as  he  would, 
Till  the  High  God  behold  it  from  beyond. 
And  enter  it,  and  make  it  beautiful? 
Or  else  as  if  the  world  were  wholly  fair, 
i^ut  that  these  eyes  of  men  are  dense  and 

dim, 
And  have  not  puwcr  to  see  it  as  it  is  : 


Perchance,  because  we    see  not   to  the 

close; — 
For  I,  being  simple,  thought  to  work  His 

will, 
And  have  but  stricken  with  the  sword  in 

vain; 
And  all  whereon  I   lean'd  in  wife  and 

friend 
Is  traitor  to  my  peace,  and  all  my  realm 
Reels  back  into  the  beast,  and  is  no  more. 
My  God,  thou   hast  forgotten  me  in  my 

death  : 
Nay  —  Cjod  my  Christ  —  I  pass  but  shall 

not  die.' 

Then,  ere  that  last  weird  battle  in  the 
west. 
There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Gawain 

kiU'd 
In  Lancelot's  war,  the   ghost  of  Gawain 

blown 
Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  his  ear 
Went  shrilling,  '  Hollow,  hollow  all   de- 
light ! 
Hail,  King !  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass 

away. 
Farewell !  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for  thee. 
And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering  wind, 
And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  all  delight.' 
And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds  that 
change 


THE  PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


459 


Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail  their 

way 
P'rom  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long  wind 

the  dream 
Shrill'd ;   but  in  going  mingled  with  dim 

cries 
Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the  hills, 
As  of  some  lonely  city  sack'd  by  night, 
When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child  with 

wail 
Pass  to  new  lords;   and  Arthur  woke  and 

call'd, 
'Who  spake?     A  dream.     O  light  upon 

the  wind, 
Thine,  Gawain,  was  the  voice  —  are  these 

dim  cries 
Thine?  or  doth  all  that  haunts  the  waste 

and  wild 
Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go   along   with 

me?' 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  and 

spake : 
'  O  me,  my  King,  let  pass  whatever  will, 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of  the 

field; 
But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory 

cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  cloud 
For  ever :  but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not  pass. 
Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in 

death 
Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the  man; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from  him, 

but  rise  — 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the  west. 
And  with  him  many  of  thy  people,  and 

knights 
Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved,  but 

grosser  grown 
Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows  and 

thee. 
Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thee  for 

the  King. 
Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old.' 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere: 
*  Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we  strove 

in  youth. 
And   brake   the  petty  kings,  and  fought 
with  Rome, 


Or  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman 
wall. 

And  shook  him  thro'  the  north.  Ill  doom 
is  mine 

To  war  against  my  people  and  my  knights. 

The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights  him- 
self. 

And  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me  once, 
the  stroke 

That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death  to 
me. 

Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a  way 

Thro'  this  blind  haze,  which  ever  since  I 
saw 

One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 

Hath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the  world.' 

Then   rose  the   King  and   moved   his 

host  by  night. 
And  ever  push'd  Sir  Modred,  league  by 

league. 
Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyonesse  — 
A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again; 
Where    fragments   of  forgotten  peoples 

dwelt. 
And  the  long  mountains  ended  in  a  coast 
Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 
There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no  more, 
And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the  King; 
And  there,  that  day  when  the  great  hght 

of  heaven 
Burn'd  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling  year, 
On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea  they 

closed. 
Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a  fight 
Like   this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the 

west. 
A  deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand   and 

sea: 
Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed 

it,  drew 
Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart  was 

cold 

With  formless  fear;   and  ev'n  on  Arthur 

fell 
Confusion,  since  he    saw  not  whom  he 

fought. 
For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the 

mist, 
And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing  whom 

lie  slew; 


460 


THE   PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden  youth, 
And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old  ghosts 
Look  in  upon  the  battle;  and  in  the  mist 
Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base. 
And  chance  and  craft  and   strength  in 

single  fights, 
And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 
Shocks,  and  the   splintering  spear,  the 

hard  mail  hewn, 
Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of  brands, 

the  crash 
Of  battleaxes    on    shattered    helms,    and 

shrieks 
After   the    Christ,   of  those   who   falling 

down 
Look'd  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the 

mist; 
And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor 

knights. 
Oaths,  insult,  filth,  and  monstrous  blas- 
phemies, 
Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  labouring  of 

the  lungs 
In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the 

light, 
Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the 

dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  deathbed  after 

wail 
Of  suffering,  silence  follows,  or  thro'  death 
Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that 

shore. 
Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething 

seas, 
A  dead  hush  fell;    but  when  the  dolorous 

day 
Grew    drearier    toward    twilight   falling, 

came 
A  bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North,  and 

blew 
The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the 

tide 
Rose,  and  the  pale  King  glanced  across 

the  field 
Of  battle  :  but  no  man  was  moving  there; 
Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon. 
Nor  yet  of  heathen;   only  the  wan  wave 
Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro 
Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up  and 

down 
Tumbling    the    hollow    helmets    of    tlie 

fallen. 


And  shiver'd  brands  that  once  had  fought 

with  Rome, 
And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 

vere. 
And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day 

long 
Had  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the  King : 

'  Hearest    thou   this   great  voice   that 

shakes  the  world. 
And  wastes  the  narrow  realm   whereon 

we  move, 
And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead. 
My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died  for 

me?  — 
O  Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath  fall'n 
Confusion,  till  I  know  not  what  I  am, 
Nor  whence    I    am,   nor  whether    I    be 

King, 
Behold,    I    seem   but    King    among   the 

dead.' 

Then  spake    the    bold    Sir    Bedivere : 

'  My  King, 
King  everywhere  !  and  so  the  dead  have 

kings, 
There  also  will  I  worship  thee  as  King. 
Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I  live 
Who  love  thee;   but  who  hates  thee,  he 

that  brought 
The    heathen    back    among   us,    yonder 

stands, 
Modred  unharm'd,  the  traitor  of  thine 

house.' 

Then  spake  the  King :  '  My  house  hath 

been  my  doom. 
But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my  house 
Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath   one  roOf 

with  me. 
My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware  my 

vows, 
Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them,  own'd 

me  King. 
And  well  for  thee,   saying  in   ray  dark 

hour. 
When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne  hath 

fail'd, 
That  (juick  ox  dead  thou  huldest  me  for 

Kinu. 


THE   PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


461 


King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry; 
And  one  last  act  of  knighthood  shalt  thou 

see 
Yet,  ere  I  pass.'     And  uttering  this  the 

King 
Made  at  the  man :   then  Modred  smote 

his  liege 
Hard  on  that  helm  which  many  a  heathen 

sword 
Had  beaten  thin;   while  Arthur  at  one 

blow, 
Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 
Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself,  he 

fell. 

So  all  day  long   the    noise   of  battle 

roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  Table,  man  by  man. 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonesse  about  their  lord, 
King  Arthur.     Then,  because  his  wound 

was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That    stood  on  a  dark  strait   of   barren 

land  : 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
'  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famousknights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such 

a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think 

that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds. 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 
The'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come 

again 
To  rule  once  more;   but,  let  what  will  be, 

be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride :   for  thou  remem- 

berest  how 


In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an 

arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful, 
Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  row'd 

across 
And  took  it,  and   have  worn  it,   like  a 

king; 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known : 
But  now  delay  not:  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere  : 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring 
me  word.' 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
'  It  is  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 

thus. 
Aidless,    alone,    and    smitten    thro'    the 

helm  — 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man; 
Yet  1  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee 

word.' 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he 

stept, 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 

tombs. 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 

men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He, 

stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock. 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excali- 
bur, 

And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter 
moon. 

Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 
ran  forth 

And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the 
hilt: 

For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 
sparks. 

Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 

Of  subtlest  jewellery.      He  gazed  so  long 

That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he 
stood, 


462 


THE  PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


This   way    and    that    dividing    the    swift 

mind, 
In  act  to  throw  :  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That   whistled   stiff  and    dry  about   the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

*  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which 

I  gave? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast 
heard?' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

*  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag.' 

To  whom  replied   King  Arthur,   faint 
and  pale : 

*  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy 

name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again. 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me 

word.' 

Then  went  Sir   Bedivere   the   second 

time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 

mere, 
Counting    the    dewy    pebbles,    fix'd    in 

thought; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 

smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud : 

'And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  Vjrand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever   from   the 

earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of 
manv  men. 


What    good    should  follow    this,   if  this 

were  done? 
What    harm,    undone?     Deep    harm    to 

disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were    it    well   to  obey  then,   if   a    king 

demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 

he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumours  of  a  doubt?     But  were  this 

kept, 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 

kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 

arms. 
Saying,   "  King  Arthur's  sword,   Excali- 
bur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the 

deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills." 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the 

aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honour  and  much  fame 

were  lost.' 

So   spake    he,    clouded  with  his  own 

conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 

Then   spoke  King  Arthur,   breathing 
heavily : 
*  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast 
heard? ' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
'  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds.' 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much 
in  wrath  : 
'  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !    Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 


THE  PASS IX G    OF  ARTHUR. 


463 


That  how'd    the   will.      I   see   tliee  what 

thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights. 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious 

hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee 

hence : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands.' 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir   Bedivere,   and 

ran, 
And,   leaping  down    the    ridges    lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the   bulrush  beds,  and   clutch'd 

the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.     The 

great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendour  of  the 

moon. 
And    flashing    round    and    round,    and 

whirl'd  in  an  arch, 
Shot   like    a   streamer    of  the    northern 

morn. 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock 
By  night,  with  noises   of  the  Northern 

Sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur : 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed   in   white    samite,   mystic,   won- 
derful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 

mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then    spoke    King    Arthur,    drawing 

thicker  breath  : 
'Now  see   I   by  thine   eyes  that   this   is 

done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or 

seen? ' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
'  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the 
gems 


Should   blind    my   purpose,   for    I    never 

saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheel- 
ing him; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed   in  white    samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 
That     caught     him     by    the     hilt,     and 

brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 
mere.' 

And  answ  er  made  King  Arthur,  breath- 
ing hard  : 

'My  end  draws  nigh;  'tis  time  that  I 
were  gone. 

Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my 
weight, 

And  bear  me  to  the  margin ;   yet  I  fear 

My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 
die.' 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half 

rose. 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 

not  words; 
Then  took  with  care,  and   kneeling  on 

one  knee. 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid 

hands. 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 

tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted 

hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his 

bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd 

the  King, 
Muttering  and    murmuring   at    his    ear, 

'  Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die.' 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 

to  ridge. 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as 

he  walk'd. 


464 


THE  PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him  like 

a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His  feet   on   juts  of  slippery   crag   that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten  with    the    dint  of  armed 

heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 

barge. 
Dark  as   a  funeral   scarf  from  stem    to 

stern, 
Beneath  them;  and  descending  they  were 

ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms, 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream 

—  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold :  and 

from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  '  Place  me  in 

the  barge.' 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those 

three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King, 

and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
And   loosed   the    shatter'd    casque,  and 

chafed  his  hands. 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining 

loud. 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  a  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood  :   for  all  his  face 

was  white 
And    colourless,   and    like    the    wither'd 

moon 


Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  spring- 
ing east; 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd 
with  drops 

Of  onset;  and  the  light  and  lustrous 
curls  — 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 

High  from  the  dais-throne  —  were  parch'd 
with  dust; 

Or  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 

Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that 
fringed  his  lips. 

vSo  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King; 

Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 
rest. 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tourna- 
ment. 

Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 
charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere  : 
'  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I 

go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

eyes? 
For  now  I  see  the  true    old   times   are 

dead, 
When  every  morning   brought   a  noble 

chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light 

that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dis- 
solved 
Which    was   an    image   of    the    mighty 

world. 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the 

years. 
Among    new    men,    strange  faces,  other 

minds.' 

And  slowly  answer'd  Arthur  from  the 

barge  : 
'  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one   good   custom    should    corrupt 

the  world, 


THE   PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


465 


Comfort  thyself:   what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 

have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but 

thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray    for   my   soul.       More    things   are 

wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore, 

let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for    me  night    and 

day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or 

goats 
That    nourish    a   blind    life   within    the 

brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 

prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call 

them  friend? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 

way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 

God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long 

way 
With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go 
(For    all   my   mind   is    clouded   with    a 

doubt)  — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 
Where    falls    not   hail,    or    rain,   or    any 

snow. 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;   but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard 

lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  sum- 
mer sea. 
Where  I  will  heal  me   of  my   grievous 

wound.' 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and 
sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 
the  flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 

Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 
of  dawn, 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

2H 


But  when  that  moan  had  past  for  ever- 
more, 

The  stillness  of  the  dead  world's  winter 
dawn 

Amazed  him,  and  he  groan'd,  '  The  King 
is  gone.' 

And  therewithal  came  on  him  the  weird 
rhyme, 

'  From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 
he  goes.' 

Whereat  he  slowly  turn'd  and  slowly 

ciomb 
The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag; 
Thence  mark'd  the    black    hull    moving 

yet,  and  cried, 
'  He  passes  to  be  King  among  the  dead. 
And  after  healing  of  his  grievous  wound 
He  comes  again;   but  —  if  he  come  no 

more  — 
O  me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon  black 

boat, 
Who    shriek'd    and    wail'd,    the    three 

whereat  we  gazed 
On  that  high  day,  when,    clothed  with 

living  light. 
They  stood  before  his  throne  in  silence, 

friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at   his 

need?' 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there 

came,  but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry. 
Sounds,  as  if  some    fair    city   were    one 

voice 
Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about,' 

and  clomb 
Ev'n  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  and 

saw. 
Straining   his    eyes  beneath   an   arch  of 

hand, 
Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare 

the  King, 
Down  that   long  water  opening  on  the 

deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new 

year. 


466 


TO    THE    QUEEN. 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 


O  LOYAL  to  the  royal  in  thyself, 
And  loyal  to  the  land,  as  this  to  thee  — 
Bear  witness,  that  rememberable  day, 
When,  pale  as  yet,  and  fever-worn,  the 

Prince 
Who  scarce  had  pluck'd   his   flickering 

life  again 
From  halfway  down  the  shadow  of  the 

grave, 
Past    with   thee    thro'    thy   people    and 

their  love, 
And  London  roll'd  one  tide  of  joy  thro' 

all 
Her  trebled  millions,  and  loud  leagues  of 

man 
And   welcome  I    witness,  too,  the   silent 

cry. 
The  prayer  of  many  a  race  and  creed, 

and  clime  — 
Thunderless     lightnings   striking    under 

sea 
From  sunset  and  sunrise  of  all  thy  realm, 
And  that  true  North,  whereof  we  lately 

heard 
A  strain  to  shame  us  '  keep  you  to  your- 
selves; 
So  loyal   is   too    costly!    friends  —  your 

love 
Is  but  a  burthen :   loose  the  bond,  and 

go.' 
Is  this  the  tone  of  empire?  here  the  faith 
That  made  us  rulers?  this,  indeed,  her 

voice 
And  meaning,  whom  the  roar  of  Hougou- 

mont 
'Left    mightiest    of    all    peoples    under 

heaven? 
What    shock   has  fool'd   her  since,  that 

^he  should  speak 
So  feebly  ?  wealthier  —  wealthier  —  hour 

by  hour ! 
The  voice  of  Britain,  or  a  sinking  land, 
Some  third-rate  isle  half-lost  among  her 

seas? 
There  rang  her  voice,  when  the  full  city 

peal'd 
Thee  and  thy  Prince  I     The  loyal  to  their 

crown 
Are  loyal  to  their  own  far  sons,  who  love 


Our    ocean-empire   with    her   boundless 

homes 
For  ever-broadening    England,  and  her 

throne 
In    our  vast   Orient,   and   one   isle,   one 

isle. 
That  knows  not  her  own  greatness  :    if 

she  knows 
And  dreads  it  we  are  fall'n.  —  But  thou, 

my  Queen, 
Not  for  itself,  but  thro'  thy  living  love 
For  one  to  whom  I  made  it  o'er  his  grave 
Sacred,  accept  this  old  imperfect  tale, 
New-old,  and  shadowing   Sense  at  war 

with  Soul 
Rather  than  that  gray  king,  whose  name, 

a  ghost. 
Streams  like  a  cloud,  man-shaped,  from 

mountain  peak, 
And  cleaves  to  cairn  and  cromlech  still; 

or  him 
Of  Geoffrey's  book,  or  him  of  Malleor's, 

one 
Touch'd   by  the  adulterous   finger  of  a 

time 
That  hover'd  between  war  and  wanton- 
ness. 
And  crownings  and  dethronements  :   take 

withal 
Thy  poet's   blessing,  and  his  trust   that 

Heaven 
Will   blow  the   tempest  in  the  distance 

back 
From  thine  and  ours  :  for  some  are  scared, 

who  mark. 
Or  wisely  or  unwisely,  signs  of  storm, 
Waverings    of    every    vane    with    every 

wind. 
And  wordy  trucklings   to    the    transient 

hour. 
And  fierce  or  careless  looseners  of   the 

faith. 
And  Softness  l^reeding  scorn  of  simple 

life, 
Or  Cowardice,  the  child  of  kist  for  gold, 
Or    Labour,    with    a   groan    and    not    a 

voice, 
Or  Art  with  poisonous  honey  stol'n  from 

France, 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


467 


And  that  which  knows,  but  careful  for 
itself, 

And  that  which  knows  not,  ruling  that 
which  knows 

To  its  own  harm :  the  goal  of  this  great 
world 

Lies  beyond  sight :  yet  —  if  our  slowly- 
grown 

And  crown'd  Republic's  crowning  com- 
mon-sense, 


That  saved  her  many  times,  not  fail  — 

their  fears 
Are  morning   shadows   huger    than    the 

shapes 
That  cast  them,  not  those  gloomier  which 

forego 
The    darkness    of    that    battle    in    the 

West, 
Where  all  of  high  and  holy  dies  away. 


THE    LOVER'S    TALE. 


The  original  Preface  to  '  The  Lover's  Tale '  states  that  it  was  composed  in  my  nineteenth  year.  Two 
only  of  the  three  parts  then  written  were  printed,  when,  feeling  the  imperfection  of  the  poem,  I  with- 
drew it  from  the  press.  One  of  my  friends,  however,  who,  boylike,  admired  the  boy's  work,  distributed 
among  our  common  associates  of  that  hour  some  copies  of  these  two  parts,  without  my  knowledge, 
without  the  omissions  and  amendments  which  I  had  in  contemplation,  and  marred  by  the  many  mis- 
prints of  the  compositor.  Seeing  that  these  two  parts  have  of  late  been  mercilessly  pirated,  and  that 
what  I  had  deemed  scarce  worthy  to  live  is  not  allowed  to  die,  may  I  not  be  pardoned  if  I  suffer  the 
whole  poem  at  last  to  come  into  the  light  —  accompanied  with  a  reprint  of  the  sequel  —  a  work  of  my 
mature  life  — '  The  Golden  Supper "  ? 
May  1879. 

ARGUMENT. 

JuLi.\N,  whose  cousin  and  foster-sister,  Camilla,  has  been  wedded  to  his  friend  and  rival,  Lionel,  en- 
deavours to  narrate  the  story  of  his  own  love  for  her,  and  the  strange  sequel.  He  speaks  (in  Parts  IL 
and  IIL)  of  having  been  haunted  by  visions  and  the  sound  of  bells,  tolling  for  a  funeral,  and  at  last 
ringing  for  a  marriage;  but  he  breaks  away,  overcome,  as  he  approaches  the  Event,  and  a  witness  to 
it  completes  the  tale. 


I. 


Here  far  awav,  seen  from  the  topmost 

cliff. 
Filling  with  purple  gloom  the  vacancies 
Between  the  tufted  hills,  the  sloping  seas 
Hung  in  mid-heaven,  and  half-way  down 

rare  sails. 
White  as  white  clouds,  floated  from  sky 

to  sky. 
Oh  !  pleasant  breast  of  waters,  quiet  bay, 
Like  to  a  quiet  mind  in  the  loud  world, 
Where  the  chafed  breakers  of  the  outer 

sea 
Sank  powerless,  as  anger  falls  aside 
And  withers  on  the  breast  of  peaceful 

love ; 
Thou  didst  receive  the  growth  of  pines 

that  fledged 
The    hills   that    watch'd    thee,    as    Love 

watcheth  Love, 


In  thine  own  essence,  and  delight  thyself 
To  make  it  wholly  thine  on  sunny  days. 
Keep  thou  thy  name  of  '  Lover's  Bay.' 

See,  sirs, 
Even  now  the  Goddess  of  the  Past,  that 

takes 
The  heart,  and  sometimes   touches  but 

one  string 
That  quivers,  and  is  silent,  and  sometimes 
Sweeps   suddenly  all   its  half-moulder'd 

chords 
To  some  old  melody,  begins  to  play 
That  air  which  pleased  her  first.     I  feel 

thy  breath; 
I  come,  great  Mistress  of  the  ear  and  eye  : 
Thy  breath  is  of  the  pinewood;   and  tho' 

years 
Have    hollow'd  out  a  deep   and   stormy 

strait 
Betwixt  the  native  land  of  Love  and  me, 
Breathe  but  a  little  on  me,  and  the  sail 


468 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


Will  draw  me  to  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
The  lucid  chambers  of  the  morning  star, 
And  East  of  Life. 

Permit  me,  friend,  I  prythee, 
To  pass  my  hand  across  my  brows,  and 

muse 
On  those  dear  hills,  that  never  more  will 

meet 
The  sight  that  throbs  and  aches  beneath 

my  touch, 
As  tho'  there  beat  a  heart  in  either  eye; 
For  when  the  outer  lights  are  darken'd 

thus, 
The  memory's  vision  hath  a  keener  edge. 
It  grows  upon  me  now — the  semicircle 
Of  dark-blue  waters  and  the  narrow  fringe 
Of  curving  beach  —  its  wreaths  of  drip- 
ping green  — 
Its  pale  pink  shells  —  the  summerhouse 

aloft 
That  open'd  on  the  pines  with  doors  of 

glass, 
A  mountain  nest  —  the  pleasure-boat  that 

rock'd, 
Light-green  with  its  own  shadow,  keel  to 

keel, 
Upon    the    dappled    dimplings    of    the 

wave, 
That  blanch'd  upon  its  side. 

O  Love,  O  Hope  ! 
They  come,  they  crowd  upon  me  all  at 

once  — 
Moved  from    the   cloud   of  unforgotten 

things, 
That  sometimes  on  the  horizon  of  the 

mind 
Lies    folded,    often   sweeps    athwart    in 

storm  — 
Flash  upon  flash  they  lighten  thro'  me  — 

days 
Of  dewy  dawning  and  the  amber  eves 
When  thou  and  I,  Camilla,  thou  and  I 
Were   borne    about    the   bay   or   safely 

moor'd 
Beneath  a  low-brow'd  cavern,  where  the 

tide 
Plash'd,  sapping  its  worn  ribs;    and  all 

without 
The  slowly-ridging  rollers  on  the  cliffs 
Clash'd,  calling  to  each  other,  and  thro' 

the  arch 


Down  those  loud  waters,  like  a  setting 
star, 

Mixt  with  the  gorgeous  west  the  light- 
house shone, 

And  silver-smiling  Venus  ere  she  fell 

Would  often  loiter  in  her  balmy  blue, 

To  crown  it  with  herself. 

Here,  too,  my  love 
Waver'd  at  anchor  with  me,  when  day 

hung 
From    his    mid-dome    in    Heaven's    airy 

halls; 
Gleams  of  the  water-circles  as  they  broke, 
Flicker'd  like  doubtful  smiles  about  her 

lips, 
Quiver'd  a  flying  glory  on  her  hair, 
Leapt  like  a  passing  thought  across  her 

eyes; 
And  mine  with   one  that  will  not  pass, 

till  earth 
And  heaven  pass  too,  dwelt  on  my  heaven, 

a  face 
Most  starry-fair,  but  kindled  from  within 
As  'twere  with   dawn.     She   was  dark- 

hair'd,  dark-eyed: 
Oh,  such  dark  eyes!  a  single  glance  of 

them 
Will   govern  a  whole  life  from  birth  to 

death, 
Careless  of  all  things  else,  led  on  with  light 
In  trances  and  in  visions:  look  at  them. 
You  lose  yourself  in  utter  ignorance; 
You  cannot  find  their  depth;   for  they 

go  back, 
And    farther   back,    and    still   withdraw 

themselves 
Quite  into  the  deep  soul,  that  evermore 
Fresh  springing  from  her  fountains  in  the 

brain, 
Still  pouring  thro',  floods  with  redundant 

life 
Her  narrow  portals. 

Trust  me,  long  ago 
I  should  have  died,  if  it  were  possible 
To  die  in  gazing  on  that  perfectness 
Which  I  do  bear  within  me :   I  had  died, 
But  from  my  farthest  lapse,  my  latest  ebb, 
Thine  image,  like  a  charm  of  light  and 

strength 
Upon  the  waters,  push'd  me  back  again 
On  these  deserted  sands  of  barren  life. 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


469 


Tho'  from  the  deep  vault  where  the  heart 

of  Hope 
Fell  into  dust,  and  crumbled  in  the  dark  — 
Forgetting  how  to  render  beautiful 
Her  countenance  with  quick  and  health- 
ful blood  — 
Thou  didst  not  sway  me  upward;   could 

I  perish 
While  thou,  a  meteor  of  the  sepulchre, 
Didst  swathe  thyself  all  round   Hope's 

quiet  urn 
For  ever?     He,  that  saith  it,  hath  o'er- 

stept 
The  slippery  footing  of  his  narrow  wit. 
And  fall'n  away  from  judgment.     Thou 

art  light, 
To  which  my  spirit  leaneth  all  her  flowers, 
And  length  of  days,  and  immortality 
Of    thought,   and    freshness    ever    self- 

renew'd. 
For  Time  and  Grief  abode  too  long  with 

Life, 
And,  like  all  other  friends  i'  the  world,  at 

last 
They  grew  aweary  of  her  fellowship  : 
So   Time   and    Grief    did    beckon    unto 

Death, 
And  Death  drew  nigh  and  beat  the  doors 

of  Life ; 
But  thou  didst  sit  alone  in  the  inner  house, 
A  wakeful  portress,  and  didst  parle  with 

Death,— 
'This  is  a   charmed   dwelling   which    I 

hold;' 
So  Death  gave  back,  and  would  no  fur- 
ther come. 
Yet  is  my  life  nor  in  the  present  time, 
Nor  in  the  present  place.     To  me  alone, 
Push'd  from  his  chair  of  regal  heritage, 
The  Present  is  the  vassal  of  the  Past : 
So  that,  in  that  I  have  lived,  do  I  live, 
And  cannot  die,  and  am,  in  having  been  — 
A  portion  of  the  pleasant  yesterday. 
Thrust    forward    on    to-day    and    out  of 

place; 
A   body   journeying   onward,   sick    with 

toil, 
The  weight  as  if  of  age  upon  my  limbs. 
The   grasp   of  hopeless  grief  about    my 

heart, 
And  all  the  senses  weaken'd,  save  in  that, 
Which   long  ago   they  had  glean'd  and 

garner'd  up 


Into  the  granaries  of  memory  — 

The  clear  brow,  bulwark  of  the  precious 

brain, 
Chink'd  as  you  see,  and  seam'd  —  and  all 

the  while 
The  light  soul  twines  and  mingles  with 

the  growths 
Of  vigorous  early  days,  attracted,  won. 
Married,  made  one  with,  molten  into  all 
The  beautiful  in  Past  of  act  or  place. 
And  like  the  all-enduring  camel,  driven 
Far  from  the  diamond  fountain  by  the 

palms, 
Who    toils   across    the    middle   moonlit 

nights, 
Or  when  the  white  heats  of  the  blinding 

noons 
Beat  from  the  concave  sand;   yet  in  him 

keeps 
A  draught  of  that  sweet  fountain  that  he 

loves, 
To  stay  his  feet  from  falling,  and  his  spirit 
From  bitterness  of  death. 

Ye  ask  me,  friends, 
When  I  began  to  love.     How  should  I 

tell  you? 
Or  from  the  after- fulness  of  my  heart, 
Flow  back  again  unto  my  slender  spring 
And  first  of   love,  tho'   every  turn    and 

depth 
Between  is  clearer  in  my  life  than  all 
Its  present  flow.     Ye  know  not  what  ye 

ask. 
How  should  the  broad  and  open  flower 

tell 
W^hat  sort  of  bud  it  was,  when,  prest 

together 
In  its  green  sheath,  close-lapt  in  silken 

folds, 
It  seem'd  to  keep  its  sweetness  to  itself, 
Yet  was  not  the  less  sweet   for   that  it 

seem'd? 
For  young  Life  knows  not  when  young 

Life  was  born, 
But  takes  it  all  for  granted  :   neither  Love, 
Warm  in  the  heart,  his  cradle,  can  re- 
member 
Love  in  the  womb,  but  resteth  satisfied, 
Looking  on  her  that  brought  him  to  the 

light: 
Or  as  men  know  not  when  they  fall  asleep 
Into  delicious  dreams,  our  other  life, 


470 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


So  know  I  not  when  I  began  to  love. 
This  is  my  sum  of  knowledge  —  that  my 

love 
Grew  with  myself — say  rather,  was  my 

growth, 
My  inward  sap,  the  hold  I  have  on  earth, 
My    outward    circling    air    wherewith    I 

breathe, 
Which  yet  upholds  my  life,  and  evermore 
Is  to  me  daily  life  and  daily  death  : 
For  how  should    I  have    lived  and  not 

have  loved? 
Can  ye  take  off  the  sweetness  from  the 

flower. 
The  colour  and  the  sweetness  from  the 

rose, 
And  place  them  by  themselves;    or  set 

apart 
Their  motions  and  their  brightness  from 

the  stars. 
And  then  point  out  the  flower  or  the  star? 
Or  build  a  wall  betwixt  my  life  and  love. 
And  tell   me  where    I    am?     'Tis    even 

thus : 
In  that  I  live  I  love;   because  I  love 
I  live  :  whate'er  is  fountain  to  the  one 
Is  fountain  to  the  other ;  and  whene'er 
Our  God  unknits  the  riddle  of  the  one, 
There  is  no  shade  or  fold  of  mystery 
Swathing  the  other. 

Many,  many  years 
(For  they  seem  many  and  my  most  of 

life, 
And  well  I  could  have  linger'd  in  that 

porch, 
So  unproportion'd  to  the  dwelHng-place), 
In  the  Maydevvs  of  childhood,  opposite 
The  flush  and  dawn  of  youth,  we  lived 

together, 
Apart,  alone  together  on  those  hills. 

Before  he  saw  my  day  my  father  died, 
And  he  was  happy  that  he  saw  it  not; 
But  I  and  the  Hrst  daisy  on  his  grave 
From  the  same  clay  came  into  light  at 

once. 
As  Love  and  I  do  number  equal  years, 
So  she,  my  love,  is  of  an  age  with  me. 
How  like  each   other   was  the    birth   of 

each  ! 
On  the  same  morning,  almost  the  same 

hour, 


Under  the  selfsame  aspect  of  the  stars, 
(Oh  falsehood  of  all  starcraft!)  we  were 

born. 
How  like   each  other  was  the  birth   of 

each  ! 
The  sister  of  my  mother  —  she  that  bore 
Camilla  close  beneath  her  beating  heart, 
Which  to  the  imprison'd  spirit  of  the  child, 
With  its  true-touched  pulses  in  the  flow 
And  hourly  visitation  of  the  blood, 
Sent  notes  of  preparation  manifold, 
And  mellow'd  echoes  of  the  outer  world  — 
My  mother's  sister,  mother  of  my  love. 
Who  had  a  twofold  claim  upon  my  heart, 
One  twofold  mightier  than  the  other  was, 
In  giving  so  much  beauty  to  the  world, 
And  so  much  wealth  as  God  had  charged 

her  with  — 
Loathing  to  put  it  from  herself  for  ever, 
Left  her  own  life  with  it;  and  dying  thus, 
Crown'd  with  her  highest  act  the  placid 

face 
And  breathless  body  of  her  good  deeds 

past. 

So  were  we  born,  so  orphan'd.     She 
was  motherless 
And  I  without  a  father.     So  from  each 
Of   those  two  pillars   which  from   earth 

uphold 
Our  childhood,  one  had  fallen  away,  and 

all 
The  careful  burthen  of  our  tender  years 
Trembled  upon  the  other.    He  that  gave 
Her  life,  to  me  delightedly  fulfiU'd 
All  lovingkindnesses,  all  offices 
Of  watchful  care  and  trembling  tender- 
ness. 
He  waked  for  both  :  he  pray'd  for  both  : 

he  slept 
Dreaming  of  both :  nor  was  his  love  the 

less 
Because  it  was  divided,  and  shot  forth 
Boughs  on  each  side,  laden  with  whole- 
some shade, 
Wherein  we  nested  sleeping  or  awake. 
And  sang  aloud  the  matin-song  of  life. 

.Slie  was  my  foster-sister :   on  one  arm 
The  flaxen  ringlets  of  our  infancies 
Wander'd,  the  while  we  rested:    one  soft 

lap 
Pillow'd  us  l)oth:  a  c^mimou  light  of  eyes 


THE   LOVER'S    TALE. 


47^ 


Was  on  us  as  we  lay :   our  baby  lips, 
Kissing  one  bosom,  ever  drew  from  thence 
The  stream  of  life,  one  stream,  one  life, 

one  blood. 
One  sustenance,  which,  still  as  thought 

grew  large. 
Still   larger   moulding   all   the   house  of 

thought, 
Made   all   our  tastes    and    fancies   like, 

perhaps  — 
All  —  all  but  one;    and  strange  to  me, 

and  sweet, 
Sweet  thro'  strange  years  to  know  that 

whatsoe'er 
Our  general  mother  meant  for  me  alone, 
Our  mutual  mother  dealt  to  both  of  us  : 
So  what  was  earliest  mine  in  earliest  life, 
I  shared  with  her  in  whom  myself  remains. 
As  was  our  childhood,  so  our  infancy, 
They  tell  me,  was  a  very  miracle 
Of  fellow-feeling  and  communion. 
They   tell    me    that    we    would    not    be 

alone,  — 
We  cried  when  we  were  parted;   when  I 

wept, 
Her  smile  lit  up  the  rainbow  on  my  tears, 
Stay'd  on  the  cloud  of  sorrow;   that  we 

loved 
The  sound  of  one  another's  voices  more 
Than  the   gray  cuckoo   loves  his  name, 

and  learn'd 
To  lisp  in  tune  together;   that  we  slept 
In  the  same  cradle  always,  face  to  face, 
Heart  beating  time  to  heart,  lip  pressing 

lip, 
Folding  each  other,  breathing  on   each 

other, 
Dreaming   together   (dreaming  of  each 

other 
They  should  have  added),  till  the  morning 

light 
Sloped  thro'  the  pines,   upon  the   dewy 

pane 
Falling,    unseal'd    our    eyelids,    and    we 

woke 
To    gaze  upon   each   other.     If  this  be 

true, 
At   thought    of    which    my   whole    soul 

languishes 
And  faints,  and  hath  no  pulse,  no  breath 

—  as  tho' 
A  man  in  some  still  garden  should  infuse 
Rich  atar  in  the  bosom  of  the  rose, 


Till,  drunk  with  its  own  wine,  and  over- 
full 
Of  sweetness,  and  in  smelling  of  itself, 
It  fall  on  its  own  thorns  —  if  this  be  true  — 
And  that  way  my  wish  leads  me  ever- 
more 
Still  to  believe  it  —  'tis  so  sweet  a  thought, 
Why  in  the  utter  stillness  of  the  soul 
Doth    question'd    memory    answer    not, 

nor  tell 
Of  this  our  earliest,  our  closest-drawn, 
Most   loveliest,   earthly-heavenliest    har- 
mony ? 
O  blossom'd  portal  of  the  lonely  house. 
Green  prelude,  April  promise,  glad  new- 
year 
Of  Being,  which  with  earliest  violets 
And  lavish  carol  of  clear-throated  larks 
Fill'd  all  the  March  of  life  \  —  I  will  not 

speak  of  thee. 
These  have  not  seen  thee,  these  can  never 

know  thee, 
They  cannot    understand  me.     Pass  we 

then 
A  term  of  eighteen  years.    Ye  would  but 

laugh. 
If   I    should    tell   you    how  I    hoard    in 

thought 
The  faded  rhymes  and  scraps  of  ancient 

crones. 
Gray  relics  of  the  nurseries  of  the  world. 
Which  are  as  gems  set  in  my  memory, 
Because  she  learnt    them  with    me;    or 

what  use 
To  know  her  father  left  us  just  before 
The    daffodil   was   blown?    or    how   we 

found 
The  dead  man  cast  upon  the  shore?    All 

this 
Seems  to  the  quiet  daylight  of  your  minds 
But  cloud  and  smoke,  and  in  the  dark  of 

mine 
Is  traced  with  flame.     Move  with  me  to 
the  event. 
There  came  a  glorious  morning,  such  a 
one 
As  dawns  but  once  a  season.     Mercury 
On   such   a  morning  would    have   flung 

himself 
From   cloud   to    cloud,   and    swum,  with 

balanced  wings 
To  some  tall  mountain  :   when  I  saiil  to 
her, 


472 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


'  A  day  for  Gods  to  stoop,'  she  answered, 

'Ay, 
And  men   to  soar :  '    for    as    that    other 

gazed, 
Shading  his  eyes  till  all  the  fiery  cloud. 
The  prophet  and    the    chariot    and   the 

steeds, 
Suck'd  into  oneness  like  a  little  star 
Were  drunk    into    the  inmost    blue,  we 

stood. 
When  first  we  came  from  out  the  pines  at 

noon, 
With    hands    for    eaves,  uplooking    and 

almost 
Waiting   to  see  some   blessed   shape   in 

heaven. 
So  bathed  we  were  in  brilliance.     Never 

yet 
Before  or  after  have  I  known  the  spring 
Pour  with  such  sudden  deluges  of  light 
Into  the  middle  summer;    for  that  day 
Love,  rising,  shook  his  wings,  and  charged 

the  winds 
With  spiced  May-sweets  from  bound  to 

bound,  and  blew 
Fresh  fire  into  the  sun,  and  from  within 
Burst  thro'  the  heated  buds,  and  sent  his 

soul 
Into  the  songs  of  birds,  and  touch'd  far- 
off 
His  mountain-altars,  his  high  hills,  with 

flame 
Milder  and  purer. 

Thro'  the  rocks  we  wound : 
The  great  pine  shook  with  lonely  sounds 

of  joy 
That  came  on  the  sea-wind.     As  moun- 
tain streams 
Our  bloods  ran  free  :  the  sunshine  seem'd 

to  brood 
More  warmly  on  the  heart  than  on  the 

brow. 
We  often  paused,  and,  looking  back,  we 

saw 
The  clefts  and  openings  in  the  mountains 

fiU'd 
With  the  blue  valley  and  the  glistening 

brooks. 
And  all  the  low  dark  groves,  a  land  of 

love ! 
A  land  of  promise,  a  land  of  memory, 
A  land  of  promise  flowing  with  the  milk 


And  honey  of  delicious  mem.ories  ! 

And  down  to  sea,  and  far  as  eye  could 

ken. 
Each  way  from  verge  to  verge   a   Holy 

Land, 
Still  growing  holier  as  you  near'd  the  bay, 
For  there  the  Temple  stood. 

When  we  had  reach'd 
The    grassy   platform    on    some    hill,    I 

stoop'd, 
I  gather'd  the  wild  herbs,  and    for  her 

brows 
And  mine  made  garlands  of  the  selfsame 

flower. 
Which  she   took   smiling,  and  with   my 

work  thus 
Crown'd   her   clear    forehead.     Once  or 

twice  she  told  me 
(For  I  remember  all  things)  to  let  grow 
The    flowers   that   run    poison    in    their 

veins. 
She  said,  '  The  evil  flourish  in  the  world.' 
Then  playfully  she  gave  herself  the  lie  — 
'Nothing  in  nature  is  unbeautiful; 
So,  brother,  pluck  and  spare  not.'     So  I 

wove 
Ev'n  the  dull-blooded  poppy-stem,  *  whose 

flower, 
Hued  with  the  scarlet  of  a  fierce  sunrise, 
Like  to  the  wild  youth  of  an  evil  prince, 
Is   without    sweetness,  but  who   crowns 

himself 
Above  the  naked  poisons  of  his  heart 
In  his  old  age.'     A  graceful  thought  of 

hers 
Grav'n  on  my  fancy  !     And  oh,  how  like 

a  nymph, 
A  stately  mountain  nymph  she  look'd  ! 

how  native 
Unto  the  hills  she    trod    on !     While    I 

gazed 
My  coronal  slowly  disentwined  itself 
And  fell  between  us  both;   tho'  while  I 

gazed 
My  spirit  leap'd  as  with  those  thrills  of 

bliss 
That  strike  across  the  soul  in  prayer,  and 

show  us 
That  we  are  surely  heard.     Methought  a 

light 
Burst  from  the  garland  I  had  wov'n,  and 

stood 


THE   LOVER'S    TALE. 


473 


A  solid  glory  on  her  bright  black  hair; 
A  light  methought  broke  from  her  dark, 

dark  eyes, 
And  shot  itself  into  the  singing  winds; 
A  mystic  light  flash'd  ev'n  from  her  white 

robe 
As  from  a  glass  in  the  sun,  and  fell  about 
My  footsteps  on  the  mountains. 

Last  we  came 
To  what   our  people  call   '  The   Hill  of 

Woe.' 
A   bridge  is  there,  that,  look'd  at  from 

beneath 
Seems  but  a  cobweb  filament  to  link 
The   yawning   of  an    earthquake-cloven 

chasm. 
And  thence  one  night,  when  all  the  winds 

were  loud, 
A  woful  man  (for  so  the  story  went) 
Had  thrust  his  wife  and  child  and  dash'd 

himself 
Into  the  dizzy  depth  below.     Below, 
Fierce  in  the  strength  of  far  descent,  a 

stream 
Flies   with    a   shatter'd  foam  along  the 
chasm. 
The  path  was  perilous,  loosely  strown 
with  crags  : 
We  mounted  slowly;   yet  to  both  there 

came 
The  joy  of  life  in  steepness  overcome, 
And   victories    of    ascent,    and   looking 

down 
On  all  that  had  look'd  down  on  us;   and 

joy 
In  breathing  nearer  heaven;   and  joy  to 

me. 
High  over  all  the  azure-circled  earth. 
To  breathe  with  her  as  if  in  heaven  itself; 
And  more  than  joy  that  I  to  her  became 
Her  guardian  and  her  angel,  raising  her 
Still  higher,  past  all  peril,  until  she  saw 
Beneath  her  feet  the  region  far  away. 
Beyond    the     nearest   mountain's    bosky 

brows, 
Arise  in  open  prospect  —  heath  and  hill, 
And  hollow  lined  and  wooded  to  the  lips, 
And  steep-down   walls    of  battlemented 

rock 
Gilded   with    broom,    or    shatter'd    into 

spires, 
And  glory  of  broad  waters  interfused, 


Whence  rose  as  it  were  breath  and  steam 
of  gold. 

And  over  all  the  great  wood  rioting 

And  climbing,  streak'd  or  starr'd  at 
intervals 

With  falling  brook  or  blossom'd  bush  — 
and  last. 

Framing  the  mighty  landscape  to  the 
west, 

A  purple  range  of  mountain-cones,  be- 
tween 

Whose  interspaces  gush'd  in  blinding 
bursts 

The  incorporate  blaze  of  sun  and  sea. 

At  length 
Descending  from  the  point  and  standing 

both, 
There  on  the  tremulous  bridge,  that  from 

beneath 
Had  seem'd  a  gossamer  filament  up  in  air, 
We  paused  amid  the  splendour.     All  the 

west 
And    ev'n    unto    the   middle   south  was 

ribb'd 
And  barr'd  with  bloom  on  bloom.     The 

sun  below, 
Held  for  a  space  'twixt  cloud  and  wave, 

shower'd  down 
Rays  of  a  mighty  circle,  weaving  over 
That  various  wilderness  a  tissue  of  light 
Unparallel'd.      On    the    other   side,   the 

moon. 
Half-melted  into  thin  blue  air,  stood  still. 
And  pale  and  fibrous  as  a  wither'd  leaf. 
Nor  yet  endured  in  presence  of  His  eyes 
To  indue  his  lustre;   most  unloverlike. 
Since  in  his  absence  full  of  light  and  joy. 
And    giving   light   to    others.     But   this 

most, 
Next  to  her  presence  whom  I  loved  so 

well, 
Spoke  loudly  even  into  my  inmost  heart 
As   to    my    outward    hearing :    the    loud 

stream, 
Forth  issuing  from  his  portals  in  the  crag 
(A   visible    link    unto    the  home    of  my 

heart). 
Ran  amber  toward  the  west,  and  nigh 

the  sea 
Parting   my    own   loved    mountains  was 

received. 
Shorn  of  its  strength,  into  the  sympathy 


474 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


Of  that  small  bay,  which  out  to  open 

main 
Glow'd  intermingling  close  beneath  the 

sun. 
Spirit  of  Love  !  that  little  hour  was  bound 
Shut    in    from    Time,    and    dedicate    to 

thee  : 
Thy  fires  from    heaven  had   touch'd   it, 

and  the  earth 
They  fell  on  became  hallow'd  evermore. 

We  turn'd :  our  eyes  met :   hers  were 

bright,  and  mine 
Were  dim  with  floating  tears,  that  shot 

the  sunset 
In  lightnings  round  me;   and  my  name 

was  borne 
Upon  her  breath.     Henceforth  my  name 

has  been 
A   hallow'd  memory  like   the  names  of 

old, 
A  centr'd,  glory-circled  memory. 
And  a  peculiar  treasure,  brooking  not 
Exchange  or  currency  :  and  in  that  hour 
A  hope  flow'd  round  me,  like  a  golden 

mist 
Charm'd  amid  eddies  of  melodious  airs, 
A  moment,   ere    the    onward  whirlwind 

shatter  it, 
Waver'd    and    floated  —  which   was  less 

than  Hope, 
Because  it  lack'd  the   power  of  perfect 

Hope; 
But  which  was  more  and  higher  than  all 

Hope, 
Because  all  other  Hope  had  lower  aim; 
Even  that  this  name  to  which  her  gracious 

lips 
Did  lend  such  gentle  utterance,  this  one 

name. 
In    some    obscure    hereafter,    might    in- 

wreathe 
(How  lovelier,  nobler  then  !)  her  life,  her 

love. 
With  my  life,  love,  soul,  spirit,  and  heart 

and  strength. 
'  Brother,'  she  said,  '  let  this  he  call'd 

henceforth 
The   Hill  of  Hope;  '  and   I   rephed,  'O 

sister, 
My  will  is  one  with  thine;   the  Hill  of 

Hope.' 
Nevertheless,  we  did  not  change  the  name. 


r  did  not  speak  :   I  could  not  speak  my 
love. 
Love  lieth  deep  :   Love  dwells  not  in  lip- 
depths. 
Love  wraps  his  wings  on  either  side  the 

heart. 
Constraining  it  with  kisses  close  and  Avarm, 
Absorbing  all  the  incense  of  sweet  thoughts 
So   that   they  pass  not  to  the  shrine  of 

sound. 
Else  had  the  life  of  that  delighted  hour 
Drunk  in  the  largeness  of  the  utterance 
Of  Love;   but  how  should  Earthly  meas- 
ure mete 
The  Heavenly-unmeasured  or  unlimited 

Love, 
Who  scarce  can  tune  his  high  majestic 

sense 
Unto  the  thundersong  that  wheels   the 

spheres, 
Scarce  living  in  the  /Eolian  harmony, 
And  flowing  odour  of  the  spacious  air. 
Scarce   housed  within  the  circle  of  this 

Earth, 
Be  cabin'd  up  in  words  and  syllables. 
Which    pass   with    that  which    breathes 

them?     Sooner  Earth 
Might  go  round  Heaven,  and  the  strait 

girth  of  Time 
Inswathe  the  fulness  of  Eternity, 
Than  language  grasp  the  infinite  of  Love. 

O  day  which  did  enwomb  that  happy 

hour. 
Thou  art  blessed  in  the  years,  divinest  day  ! 
O  Genius  of  that  hour  which  dost  uphold 
Thy  coronal  of  glory  like  a  God, 
Amid  thy  melancholy  mates  far-seen, 
Who  walk  before  thee,  ever  turning  round 
To  gaze  upon  thee  till  their  eyes  are  dim 
With  dwelling  on  the  light  and  depth  of 

thine. 
Thy    name    is    ever    worshipp'd    among 

hours  I 
Had  I  died  then,  I  had  not  seem'd  to  die, 
For  bliss  stood  round  me  like  the  light  of 

Heaven,  — 
Had  I  died  then,  I  had  not  known  the 

death; 
Yea  had    the   Power   from   whose    right 

hand  the  light 
< )[  Life  issueth,  and  from  wliosc  left  hand 

flf^weth 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


475 


The   Shadow  of  Death,  perennial   efflu- 
ences, 
Whereof  to  all  that  draw  the  wholesome 

air, 
Somewhile    the    one  must    overflow  the 

other; 
Then  had  he  stemm'd  my  day  with  night, 

and  driven 
My   current    to   the   fountain   whence  it 

sprang,— 
Even  his  own  abiding  excellence  — 
On  me,  methinks,  that  shock  of  gloom 

had  fall'n 
Unfelt,  and  in  this  glory  I  had  merged 
The  other,  like  the  sun  I  gazed  upon. 
Which  seeming  for  the  moment  due  to 

death, 
And  dipping  his  head  low  beneath  the 

verge, 
Vet  bearing  round  about  him  his  own  day, 
In  confidence  of  unabated  strength, 
Steppeth  from  Heaven  to  Heaven,  from 

light  to  light, 
And  holdeth  his  undimmed  forehead  far 
Into  a  clearer  zenith,  pure  of  cloud. 

We  trod  the  shadow  of  the  downward 

hill; 
We  past  from    light  to   dark.     On    the 

other  side 
Is  scoop'd  a  cavern  and  a  mountain  hall, 
Which  none  have  fathom'd.     If  you  go 

far  in 
(The  country  people  rumour)  you  may 

hear 
The  moaning  of  the  woman  and  the  child. 
Shut  in  the  secret  chambers  of  the  rock. 
I  too  have  heard  a  sound  —  perchance  of 

streams 
Running  far  on  within  its  inmost  halls, 
The  home  of  darkness;   but  the  cavern- 
mouth, 
Half  overtrailed  with  a  wanton  weed. 
Gives    birth   to   a  brawling   brook,  that 

passing  lightly 
Adown  a  natural  stair  of  tangled  roots. 
Is  presently  received  in  a  sweet  grave 
Of  eglantines,  a  place  of  burial 
Far  lovelier  than  its  cradle;    for  unseen, 
But  taken  with  the  sweetness  of  the  place. 
It  makes  a  constant  bubbling  melody 
That  drowns  the  nearer  echoes,     Lower 

down 


Spreads  out  a  little  lake,  that,  flooding, 
leaves 

Low  banks  of  yellow  sand;  and  from  the 
woods 

That  belt  it  rise  three  dark,  tall  cy- 
presses, — 

Three  cypresses,  symbols  of  mortal  woe, 

That  men  plant  over  graves. 

Hither  we  came, 
And  sitting  down  upon  the  golden  moss. 
Held  converse  sweet  and  low  —  low  con- 
verse sweet. 
In  which  our  voices  bore  least  part.     The 

wind 
Told  a  lovetale  beside  us,  how  he  woo'd 
The   waters,   and   the  waters   answering 

lisp'd 
To   kisses   of  the   wind,  that,  sick  with 

love. 
Fainted  at  intervals,  and  grew  again 
To    utterance    of    passion.      Ye    cannot 

shape 
Fancy  so  fair  as  is  this  memory. 
Methought  all  excellence  that  ever  was 
Had  drawn  herself  from  many  thousand 

years, 
And  all  the  separate  Edens  of  this  earth, 
To    centre   in   this   place    and    time.      I 

listen'd. 
And  her  words  stole  with  most  prevailing 

sweetness 
Into  my  heart,  as  thronging  fancies  come 
To  boys  and  girls  when  summer  days  are 

new, 
And  soul  and  heart  and  body  are  all  at 

ease : 
What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all? 
It  was  so  happy  an  hour,  so  sweet  a  place. 
And  I  was  as  the  brother  of  her  blood. 
And  by  that  name   I   moved  upon  her 

breath ; 
Dear    name,    which    had    too    much    of 

nearness  in  it 
And  heralded  the  distance  of  this  time  ! 
At  first  her  voice  was  very  sweet  and  low, 
As  if  she  were  afraid  of  utterance; 
But  in  the  onward  current  of  her  speech, 
(As  echoes  of  the  hollow-banked  brooks 
Are  fashion'd  by  the  channel  which  they 

keep), 
Her  words  did  of  their  meaning  borrow 

&ound. 


476 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


Her  cheek  did  catch  the  colour  of  her 

words. 
I  heard  and  trembled,  yet  I  could  but 

hear; 
My   heart    paused  —  my    raised    eyelids 

would  not  fall, 
But  still  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  the  sky. 
I  seem'd   the   only  part   of  Time   stood 

still. 
And  saw  the  motion  of  all  other  things; 
While  her  words,  syllable  by  syllable. 
Like  water,  drop  by  drop,  upon  my  ear 
Fell;   and  I  wish'd,  yet  wish'd  her  not  to 

speak; 
But  she  spake  on,  for  I  did  name  no  wish, 
What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all 
Her  maiden  dignities  of  Hope  and  Love — 
'  Perchance,' she  said,  'return'd.'     Even 

then  the  stars 
Did  tremble  in  their  stations  as  I  gazed; 
But   she    spake  on,   for  I  did  name  no 

wish, 
No   wish  —  no    hope.       Hope    was    not 

wholly  dead. 
But  breathing  hard  at  the  approach  of 

Death,  — 
Camilla,  m'y  Camilla,  who  was  mine 
No  longer  in  the  dearest  sense  of  mine  — 
For  all  the  secret  of  her  inmost  heart. 
And  all  the  maiden  empire  of  her  mind, 
Lay  like  a  map  before  me,  and  I  saw 
There,  where  I  hoped  myself  to  reign  as 

king, 
There,  where  that  day  I  crown'd  myself 

as  king. 
There  in  my  realm  and  even  on  my  throne, 
Another  !  then  it  seem'd  as  tho'  a  link 
Of  some   tight   chain  within  my  inmost 

frame 
Was  riven  in  twain :  that  life  I  heeded 

not 
Flow'd  from  me,  and  the  darkness  of  the 

grave. 
The    darkness    of   the   grave    and    utter 

night, 
Did  swallow  up  my  vision;   at  her  feet, 
Even  the  feet  of  her  I  loved,  I  fell, 
Smit  with  exceeding  sorrow  unto  Death. 

Then  had  the  earth  beneath  me  yawn- 
ing cloven 
With  such  a  sound  as  when  an  iceberg 
splits 


From  cope  to  base  —  had  Heaven  from 

all  her  doors. 
With  all  her  golden  thresholds  clashing, 

roll'd 
Her   heaviest    thunder  —  I    had   lain   as 

dead. 
Mute,   blind    and  motionless  as  then  I 

lay; 
Dead,   for  henceforth  there  was  no  life 

for  me  ! 
Mute,    for    henceforth    what    use    w^re 

words  to  me  ! 
Blind,  for  the  day  was  as  the  night   to 

me ! 
The  night  to   me   was   kinder  than  the 

day; 
The  night  in  pity  took  away  my  day, 
Because  my  grief  as  yet  was  newly  born 
Of    eyes    too    weak    to   look    upon   the 

light; 
And  thro'  the  hasty  notice  of  the  ear 
Frail  Life  was  startled  from  the  tender 

love 
Of  him  she  brooded  over.     Would  I  had 

lain 
Until  the  plaited  ivy-tress  had  wound 
Round  my  worn  limbs,  and  the  wild  brier 

had  driven 
Its   knotted  thorns   thro'  my  unpaining 

brows, 
Leaning  its  roses  on  my  faded  eyes. 
The  wind  had  blown  above  me,  and  the 

rain 
Had   fall'n    upon    me,    and    the    gilded 

snake 
Had    nestled   in    this    bosom-throne    of 

Love, 
But  I  had  been  at  rest  for  evermore. 

Long  time  entrancement  held  me.    All 

too  soon 
Life  (like  a  wanton  too-officious  friend, 
W^ho  will  not  hear  denial,  vain  and  rude 
With  proffer  of  unwish'd-for  services) 
Entering  all  the  avenues  of  sense 
Past  thro'  into  his  citadel,  the  brain, 
With  hated  warmth  of  apprehensiveness. 
And  first  the  chillness  of  the  sprinkled 

brook 
Smote  on  my  brows,  and  then  I  seem'd 

to  hear 
Its    murmur,    as    the    drowning    seaman 

hears, 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


477 


Who  with  his  head   below   the  surface 

dropt 
Listens  the  muffled  booming  indistinct 
Of  the  confused  floods,  and  dimly  knows 
His  head  shall  rise  no  more  :  and  then 

came  in 
The   white    light    of    the   weary    moon 

above, 
Diffused  and  molten  into  flaky  cloud. 
Was  my  sight  drunk  that  it  did  shape  to 

me 
Him  who  should  own  that  name?     Were 

it  not  well 
If  so  be  that  the  echo  of  that  name 
Ringing  within  the  fancy  had  updrawn 
A  fashion  and  a  phantasm  of  the  form 
It    should  attach  to?     Phantom! — had 

the  ghastliest 
That  ever  lusted  for  a  body,  sucking 
The  foul  steam  of  the  grave  to  thicken 

by  it, 
There    in    the     shuddering     moonlight 

brought  its  face 
And  what   it   has   for    eyes   as    close  to 

mine 
As  he  did — better  that  than  his,  than  he 
The  friend,  the    neighbour,    Lionel,  the 

beloved. 
The  loved,  the  lover,  the  happy  Lionel, 
The  low-voiced,  tender-spirited  Lionel, 
All  joy,  to  whom  my  agony  was  a  joy. 
O  how  her  choice  did  leap  forth  from  his 

eyes  I 
O  how  her  love  did  clothe  itself  in  smiles 
About  his  lips  1   and  — not  one  moment's 

grace  — 
Then  when  the  eflect  weigh'd  seas  upon 

my  head 
To  come  my  way  I  to  twit  me  with  the 

cause ! 

Was  not  the  land  as  free  thro'  all  her 

ways 
To  him  as  me?     Was  not  his  wont  to 

walk 
Between  the    going  light    and    growing 

night? 
Had   I   not    learnt   my   loss   before   he 

came? 
Could  that  be  more  because  he  came  my 

way? 
Why  should  he  not  come  my  way  if  he 

would  ? 


And  yet  to-night,  to-night  —  when  all  my 

wealth 
Flash'd  from  me  in  a  moment  and  I  fell 
Beggar'd  for  ever  —  why  should  he  come 

my  way 
Robed  in  those  robes  of  light  I  must  not 

wear, 
With  that  great  crown  of  beams  about 

his  brows  — 
Come  like  an  angel  to  a  damned  soul, 
To   tell   him   of  the    bhss  he  had  with 

God- 
Come  like  a  careless  and  a  greedy  heir 
That  scarce  can  wait  the  reading  of  the 

will 
Before  he  takes  possession?     Was  mine 

a  mood 
To  be  invaded  rudely,  and  not  rather 
A  sacred,  secret,  unapproached  woe, 
Unspeakable?     I  was  shut  up  with  Grief; 
She  took  the  body  of  my  past  delight, 
Narded   and  swathed  and  balm'd  it  for 

herself. 
And  laid  it  in  a  sepulchre  of  rock 
Never  to  rise  again.     I  was  led  mute 
Into  her  temple  like  a  sacrifice; 
I    was  the    High    Priest    in    her    holiest 

place, 
Not  to  be  loudly  broken  in  upon. 

Oh  friend,  thoughts  deep  and  heavy  as 

these  wellnigh 
O'erbore  the  limits  of  my  brain  :  but  he 
Bent  o'er  me,  and  my  neck  his  arm  up- 

stay'd. 
I  thought  it  was  an  adder's  fold,  and  once 
I  strove  to  disengage  myself,  but  fail'd, 
Being  so  feeble  :  she  bent  above  me,  too; 
Wan  was  her  cheek;    for  whatsoe'er  of 

blight 
Lives  in  the  dewy  touch  of  pity  had  made 
The  red  rose  there  a  pale  one  —  and  her 

eyes  — 
I    saw   the    moonlight    glitter    on    their 

tears  — 
And  some  few  drops  of  that  distressful 

rain 
Fell  on  my  face,  and   her  long  ringlets 

moved. 
Drooping  and  beaten  by  the  breeze,  and 

brush'd 
My  fallen  forehead  in  their  to  and  fro, 
For  in  the  sudden  anguish  of  her  heart 


478 


THE   LOVER'S    TALE. 


Loosed  from  their  simple  thrall  they  had 

flow'd  abroad, 
And  floated   on  and    parted   round    her 

neck, 
Mantling  her  form  halfway.     She,  when 

I  woke, 
Something  she  ask'd,  I  know  not  what, 

and  ask'd, 
Unanswer'd,  since  I  spake  not;    for  the 

sound 
Of  that  dear  voice  so  musically  low, 
And  now  first   heard  with  any  sense  of 

pain, 
As  it  had  taken  life  away  before, 
Choked  all  the  syllables,  that  strove  to 

rise 
From  my  full  heart. 

The  blissful  lover,  too, 
P>om  his  great  hoard  of  happiness  dis- 

till'd 
Some  drops  of  solace;   like  a  vain  rich 

man. 
That,   having   always    prosper'd    in   the 

world, 
Folding    his    hands,    deals   comfortable 

words 
To    hearts   wounded    for   ever;    yet,   in 

truth, 
Fair   speech    was    his   and    delicate    of 

phrase, 
Falling   in  whispers   on   the   sense,  ad- 

dress'd 
More  to  the  inward    than   the  outward 

ear. 
As  rain  of  the  midsummer  midnight  soft, 
Scarce-heard,  recalling  fragrance  and  the 

green 
Of  the  dead  spring :  but  mine  was  wholly 

dead, 
No  bud,  no  leaf,  no  flower,  no  fruit  for 

me. 
Yet  who  had  done,  or  who  had  sufifer'd 

wrong? 
And  why  was    I    to    darken  their  pure 

love. 
If,  as  I   found,  they  two  did  love  each 

other, 
Because  my  own  was   darken'd?     Why 

was  I 
To  cross  between  their  happy  star  and 

them? 
To  stand  a  shadow  by  their  shining  doors. 


And  vex  them  with  my  darkness?     Did 

I  love  her? 
Ye  know  that    I    did   love  her;    to  this 

present 
INIy  fuU-orb'd  love  has  waned  not.     Did 

I  love  her. 
And  could  I  look  upon  her  tearful  eyes? 
\Vhat    had    she    done    to    weep?     Why 

should  she  weep? 

0  innocent  of  spirit  —  let  my  heart 
Break    rather  —  whom   the  gentlest   airs 

of  Heaven 
Should  kiss  with  an  unwonted  gentleness. 
Her  love  did  murder  mine?     What  then? 

She  deem'd 

1  wore  a  brother's  mind :  she  call'd  me 

brother : 
She  told  me  all  her  love :  she  shall  not 
weep. 

The  brightness  of  a  burning  thought, 

awhile 
In   battle  with    the  glooms  of  my  dark 

will, 
Moonlike  emerged,  and  to  itself  lit  up 
There  on  the    depth   of  an  unfathom'd 

woe 
Reflex  of  action.     Starting  up  at  once, 
As    from    a    dismal    dream    of  my   own 

death, 
I,  for  I  loved  her,  lost  my  love  in  Love; 
I,  for  I  loved  her,  graspt  the  hand  she 

lov'd, 
And  laid  it  in  her  own,  and  sent  my  cry 
Thro'  the  blank  night  to  Him  who  loving 

made 
The  happy  and  the  unhappy  love,  that 

He 
Would  hold  the  hand  of  blessing  over 

them, 
Lionel,  the  happy,  and  her,  and  her,  his 

bride ! 
Let  them  so  love  that  men  and  boys  may 

say, 
'  Lo !    how  they  love    each    other ! '   till 

their  love 
Shall  ripen  to  a  proverb,  unto  all 
Known,  when  their  faces  are  forgot  in 

the  land  — 
One  golden  dream  of  love,  from  which 

may  death 
Awake  them  with   heaven's  music  in  a 

life 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


A19 


More  living  to  some  happier  happiness, 
Swallowing  its  precedent  in  victory. 
And  as  for  me,  Camilla,  as  for  me,  — 
The  dew  of  tears  is  an  unwholesome  dew. 
They  will  but  sicken  the  sick  plant  the 

more. 
Deem  that  I  love  thee  but  as  brothers  do, 
So  shalt  thou  love  me  still  as  sisters  do; 
Or  if  thou  dream  aught  farther,  dream 

but  how 
I  could  have  loved  thee,  had  there  been 

none  else 
To  love  as  lovers,  loved  again  by  thee. 

Or   this,  or  somewhat    like   to   this,  I 

spake, 
When  I  beheld  her  weep  so  ruefully; 
For  sure  my  love  should  ne'er  indue  the 

front 
And  mask  of  Hate,  who  lives  on  others' 

moans. 
Shall  Love  pledge  Hatred  in  her  bitter 

draughts, 
And  batten  on  her  poisons?     Love  for- 
bid ! 
Love  passeth  not  the  threshold  of  cold 

Hate, 
And   Hate  is  strange    beneath    the  roof 

of  Love. 
O  Love,  if  thou  be'st  Love,  dry  up  these 

tears 
Shed  for  the  love  of  Love;   for  tho'  mine 

image. 
The  subject  of  thy  power,  be  cold    in 

her, 
Yet,  like  cold  snow,  it  melteth   in   the 

source 
Of  these  sad  tears,  and  feeds  their  down- 
ward flow. 
So  Love,  arraign'd  to  judgment  and  to 

death. 
Received. unto  himself  a  part  of  blame. 
Being  guiltless,  as  an  innocent  prisoner. 
Who,    when    the    woful    sentence    hath 

been  past. 
And  all  the  clearness  of  his  fame  hath 

gone 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  curse  of  man. 
First   falls  asleep    in  swoon,  wherefrom 

awaked, 
And    looking    round    upon    his    tearful 

friends, 
Forthwith  and  in  his  agony  conceives 


A    shameful    sense    as    of    a    cleaving 

crime  — 
For  whence  without    some  guilt  should 

such  grief  be? 

So  died  that  hour,  and   fell  into  the 
abysm 
Of  forms  outworn,  but  not    to  me  out- 
worn, 
Who  never   hail'd   another  —  was  there 

one? 
There  might  be  one  —  one  other,  worth 

the  life 
That  made  it  sensible.     So  that  hour  died 
Like  odour  rapt  into  the  winged  wind 
Borne  into  alien  lands  and  far  away. 

There  be  some  hearts  so  airily  built, 

that  they, 
They  —  when  their  love  is  wreck'd  —  if 

Love  can  wreck  — 
On  that  sharp  ridge  of  utmost  doom  ride 

highly 
x\bove  the  perilous  seas  of  Change  and 

Chance; 
Nay,  more,  hold  out  the  lights  of  cheer- 
fulness; 
As  the  tall  ship,  that  many  a  dreary  year 
Knit   to  some  dismal   sandbank    far   at 

sea. 
All    thro'    the    livelong    hours*  of  utter 

dark, 
Showers  slanting  light  upon  the  dolorous 

wave. 
For    me  —  what    light,    what   gleam    on 

those  black  ways 
Where  Love  could  walk  with   banish'd 

Hope  no  more? 

It   was   ill-done   to   part  you,    Sisters 

fair; 
Love's  arms  were  wreath'd  about  the  neck 

of  Hope, 
And  Hope  kiss'd  Love,  and  Love  drew  in 

her  breath 
In  that  close  kiss,  and  drank  her  whis- 

per'd  tales. 
They   said   that    Love  would    die  when 

Hope  was  gone. 
And  Love   mourn'd  long,  and  sorrow' d 

after  Hope; 
At  last  she  sought  out  Memory,  and  they 

trod 


48o 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


The   same    old   paths   where    Love  had 

walk'd  with  Hope, 
And  Memory  fed  the  soul  of  Love  with 

tears. 

11. 

From  that  time  forth  I  would  not  see  her 

more; 
But  many  weary  moons  I  lived  alone  — 
Alone,   and   in    the   heart   of  the    great 

forest. 
Sometimes  upon  the  hills  beside  the  sea 
All  day  I  watch'd  the    floating  isles  of 

shade, 
And  sometimes  on  the  shore,  upon  the 

sands 
Insensibly  I  drew  her  name,  until 
The  meaning  of  the  letters  shot  into 
My  brain ;  anon  the  wanton  billow  wash'd 
Them  over,  till  they  faded  like  my  love. 
The  hollow  caverns  heard  me  —  the  black 

brooks 
Of  the  mid-forest  heard  me  —  the  soft 

winds, 
Laden   with   thistledown   and   seeds    of 

flowers, 
Paused  in  their  course  to  hear  me,  for  my 

voice 
Was  all  of  thee :  the  merry  linnet  knew 

me. 
The  squirrel  knew  me,  and  the  dragonfly 
Shot  by  me  like  a  flash  of  purple  fire. 
The  rough  brier  tore  my  bleeding  palms; 

the  hemlock. 
Brow-high,  did  strike  my  forehead  as  I 

past; 
Yet  trod  I  not  the  wildflower  in  my  path. 
Nor  bruised  the  wildbird's  egg. 

Was  this  the  end? 
Why  grew  we  then  together  in  one  plot? 
Why  fed  we  from  one  fountain?  drew  one 

sun? 
Why  were  our  mothers'  branches  of  one 

stem? 
Why  were  we  one  in  all  things,  save  in 

that 
Where  to  have  been  one  had  been  the 

cope  and  crown 
Of  all  I  hoped  and  fear'd?  —  if  that  same 

nearness 
Were  father  to  this  distance,  and  that  ^v/^ 
Vauntcourier  to  this  double  ?  if  Affection 


Living  slew  Love,  and  Sympathy  hew'd  out 
The  bosom-sepulchre  of  Sympathy? 

Chiefly  I  sought  the  cavern  and  the 
hill 

Where  last  we  roam'd  together,  for  the 
sound 

Of  the  loud  stream  was  pleasant,  and  the 
wind 

Came  wooingly  with  woodbine  smells. 
Sometimes 

All  day  I  sat  within  the  cavern-mouth. 

Fixing  my  eyes  on  those  three  cypress- 
cones 

That  spired  above  the  wood;  and  with 
mad  hand 

Tearing  the  bright  leaves  of  the  ivy- 
screen, 

I  cast  them  in  the  noisy  brook  beneath. 

And  watch'd  them  till  they  vanish'd  from 
my  sight 

Beneath  the  bower  of  wreathed  eglan- 
tines : 

And  all  the  fragments  of  the  living  rock 

(Huge  blocks,  which  some  old  trembling 
of  the  world 

Had  loosen'd  from  the  mountain,  till  they 
fell 

Half-digging  their  own  graves)  these  in 
my  agony 

Did  I  make  bare  of  all  the  golden  moss. 

Wherewith  the  dashing  runnel  in  the 
spring 

Had  liveried  them  all  over.     In  my  brain 

The  spirit  seem'd  to  flag  from  thought  to 
thought, 

As  moonlight  wandering  thro'  a  mist : 
my  blood 

Crept  like  marsh  drains  thro'  all  my  lan- 
guid limbs; 

The  motions  of  my  heart  seem'd  far  within 
me, 

Unfrequent,  low, as  tho'  it  told  its  pulses; 

And  yet  it  shook  me,  that  my  frame  would 
shudder, 

As  if  'twere  drawn  asunder  by  the  rack. 

But  over  the  deep  graves  of  Hope  and 
Fear, 

And  all  the  broken  palaces  of  the  Past, 

Brooded  one  master-passion  evermore, 

Like  to  a  low-hung  and  a  fiery  sky 

Above  some  fair  metropolis,  earth- 
shock'd,  — 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


481 


Hung  round  with  ragged  rims  and  burn- 
ing folds, — 
Embathing  all  with  wild  and  woful  hues, 
Great  hills  of  ruins,  and  collapsed  masses 
Of  thundershaken  columns  indistinct, 
And    fused   together    in    the    tyrannous 

light  — 
Ruins,  the  ruin  of  all  my  life  and  me  ! 

Sometimes  I  thought  Camilla  was  no 

more, 
Some  one  had  told  me  she  was  dead,  and 

ask'd 
If  I  would  see  her  burial:   then  I  seem'd 
To  rise,  and  through  the  forest-shadow 

borne 
With  more  than  mortal  swiftness,  I  ran 

down 
The  steepy  sea-bank,  till  I  came  upon 
The  rear  of  a  procession,  curving  round 
The  silver-sheeted  bay  :  in  front  of  which 
Six  stately  virgins,  all  in  white,  upbare 
A  broad  earth-sweeping  pall  of  whitest 

lawn, 
Wreathed  round  the  bier  with  garlands : 

in  the  distance. 
From  out  the  yellow  woods  upon  the  hill 
Look'd  forth  the  summit  and  the  pinna- 
cles 
Of  a  gray  steeple  — ;  thence  at  intervals 
A  low  bell  tolling.     All  the  pageantry, 
Save  those  six  virgins  which  upheld  the 

bier, 
Were  stoled  from  head  to  foot  in  flowing 

black; 
One  walk'd  abreast  with  me,  and  veil'd 

his  brow, 
And  he  was  loud  in  weeping  and  in  praise 
Of  her,  we  foUow'd  :  a  strong  sympathy 
Shook  all  my  soul :   I  flung  myself  upon 

him 
In  tears  and  cries  :  I  told  him  all  my  love, 
How   I    had    loved  her    from    the  first; 

whereat 
He  shrank  and  howl'd,  and  from  his  brow 

drew  back 
His  hand  to  push  me  from  him;   and  the 

face, 
The  very  face  and  form  of  Lionel 
Flash'd  thro'  my  eyes  into  my  innermost 

brain. 
And  at  his  feet  I  seem'd  to  faint  and  fall, 
To  fall  and  die  away.     I  could  not  rise 

21 


Albeit  I  strove  to  follow.     They  past  on. 
The  lordly  Phantasms !   in  their  floating 

folds 
They  past  and  were  no  more  :   but  I  had 

fallen 
Prone  by  the  dashing  runnel  on  the  grass. 

Alway  the  inaudible  invisible  thought, 
Artificer  and  subject,  lord  and  slave, 
Shaped  by  the  audible  and  visible, 
Moulded  the  audible  and  visible  ; 
All  crisped  sounds  of  wave  and  leaf  and 

wind, 
Flatter'd  the  fancy  of  my  fading  brain; 
The  cloud-pavilion'd  element,  the  wood. 
The  mountain,  the  three  cypresses,  the 

cave. 
Storm,  sunset,  glows  and  glories  of  the 

moon 
Below   black    firs,  when   silent-creeping 

winds  * 

Laid  the  long  night  in  silver  streaks  and 

bars. 
Were    wrought    into    the    tissue    of  my 

dream : 
The    meanings  in    the   forest,    the    loud 

brook. 
Cries  of  the  partridge  like  a  rusty  key 
Turn'd  in  a  lock,  owl-whoop    and    dor- 
hawk-whirr 
Awoke  me  not,  but  were  a  part  of  sleep, 
And  voices  in  the  distance  calling  to  me 
And  in  my  vision  bidding  me  dream  on. 
Like  sounds  without  the   twilight  realm 

of  dreams. 
Which  wander  round    the  bases  of  the 

hills, 
And  murmur  at  the  low-dropt  eaves  of 

sleep. 
Half-entering  the  portals.     Oftentimes 
The  vision  had  fair  prelude,  in  the  end 
Opening  on  darkness,  stately  vestibules 
To  caves  and  shows  of  Death :  whether 

the  mind, 
With  some  revenge,  —  even  to  itself  un- 
known, — 
Made  strange  division  of  its  suffering 
With  her,  whom  to  have  suffering  view'd 

had  been 
Extremest  pain;   or  that  the  clear-eyed 

Spirit, 
Being  blunted   in  the   Present,  grew  at 

length 


482 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


Prophetical  and  prescient  of  \vhate"er 
The  Future  had  in  store :  or  that  which 

most 
Enchains  belief,  the  sorrow  of  my  spirit 
Was  of  so  wide  a  compass  it  took  in 
All  I  had  loved,  and  my  dull  agony, 
Ideally  to  her  transferr'd,  became 
Anguish  intolerable. 

The  day  waned; 
Alone  I  sat  with  her :   about  my  brow 
Her  warm  breath  floated  in  the  utterance 
Of  silver-chorded  tones :    her   lips  were 

sunder'd 
With  smiles  of  tranquil  bliss,  which  broke 

in  light 
Like  morning  from  her  eyes  —  her  elo- 
quent eyes, 
(As  I  have  seen  them  many  a  hundred 

times) 
Fill'd  all  with  pure  clear  fire,  thro'  mine 

down  rain'd 
Their  spirit-searching  splendours.     As  a 

vision 
Unto  a  haggard  prisoner,  iron-stay'd 
In  damp   and    dismal    dungeons    under- 
ground. 
Confined  on  points  of  faith,  when  strength 

is  shock'd 
W^ith  torment,  and  expectancy  of  worse 
Upon  the  morrow,  thro'  the  ragged  walls. 
All  unawares  before  his  half-shut  eyes, 
Comes  in  upon  him  in  the  dead  of  night, 
And  with  the  excess  of  sweetness  and  of 

awe, 
Makes  the  heart  tremble,  and  the  sight 

run  over 
Upon  his  steely  gyves;  so  those  fair  eyes 
Shone  on  my  darkness,  forms  which  ever 

stood 
Within  the  magic  cirque  of  memory, 
Invisible  but  deathless,  waiting  still 
The  edict  of  the  will  to  reassume 
The  semblance  of  those  rare  realities 
Of  which  they  were  the  mirrors.     Now 

the  light 
Which  was  their  life,  burst  through  the 

cloud  of  thought 
Keen,  irrepressible. 

It  was  a  room 
Within   the    summer-house    of  which   I 
spake, 


Hung  round  with  paintings  of  the  sea, 

and  one 
A  vessel  in  mid-ocean,  her  heaved  prow 
Clambering,  the  mast  bent  and  the  ravin 

wind 
In  her  sail  roaring.    From  the  outer  day, 
Betwixt  the  close-set  ivies  came  a  broad 
And  solid  beam  of  isolated  light. 
Crowded  with  driving  atomies,  and  fell 
Slanting  upon  that  picture,  from  prime 

youth 
Well-known   well-loved.      She    drew   it 

long  ago 
Forthgazing  on  the  waste  and  open  sea, 
One  morning  when  the  upblown  billow 

ran 
Shoreward  beneath  red  clouds,  and  I  had 

pour'd 
Into  the  shadowing  pencil's  naked  forms 
Colour  and  life :  it  was  a  bond  and  seal 
Of  friendship,    spoken    of  with    tearful 

smiles ; 
A  monument  of  childhood  and  of  love; 
The  poesy  of  childhood;   my  lost  love 
Symbol' d    in    storm.      We    gazed   on    it 

together 
In    mute    and    glad    remembrance,    and 

each  heart 
Grew  closer  to  the  other,  and  the  eye 
Was   riveted    and    charm-bound,  gazing 

like 
The   Indian  on  a  still-eyed  snake,  low- 

couch'd  — 
A  beauty  which  is  death;   w^hen  all   at 

once 
That  painted  vessel,  as  with  inner  life, 
Began  to  heave  upon  that  painted  sea; 
An    earthquake,    my   loud    heart-beats, 

made  the  ground 
Reel  under  us,  and  all  at  once,  soul,  life 
And  breath  and  motion,  past  and  flow'd 

away 
To    those    unreal    billows :     round    and 

round 
A  whirlwind  caught  and  bore  us;  mighty 

gyres 
Rapid  and  vast,  of   hissing  spray  wind- 
driven 
Far   thro'    the    dizzy   dark.     Aloud   she 

shrieked; 
My  heart  was  cloven  with  pain;  I  wound 

my  arms 
About  her;  we  whirl'd  giddily;  the  wind 


THE   LOVER'S    TALE. 


48: 


Sung;   but  I    claspM   her  without   fear: 

her  weight 
Shrank  in  my  grasp,   and  over  my  dim 

eyes, 
And  parted  lips  which  drank  her  breath, 

down-hung 
The   jaws  of   Death  :   I,  groaning,  from 

me  flung 
Her  empty  phantom :   all  the  sway  and 

whirl 
Of  the  storm  dropt  to  windless  calm,  and  I 
Down  welter'd  thro'  the  dark  ever  and 

ever. 

III. 

I    CAME    one    day    and    sat    among   the 

stones 
Strewn  in  the  entry  of  the  moaning  cave; 
A  morning  air,  sw^eet  after  rain,  ran  over 
The  rippling  levels  of  the  lake,  and  blew 
Coolness  and  moisture  and  all  smells  of 

bud 
And  foliage  from  the  dark  and  dripping 

woods 
Upon  mv  fever'd  brows  that  shook  and 

th'robb'd 
From    temple    unto    temple.      To    what 

height 
The  day  had  grown  I  know  not.     Then 

came  on  me 
The  hollow  tolling  of  the  bell,  and  all 
The  vision  of  the  bier.     As  heretofore 
I  walk'd  behind  with  one  who  veil'd  his 

brow. 
Methought  by  slow  degrees   the    sullen 

bell 
ToU'd  quicker,  and  the  breakers  on  the 

shore 
Sloped  into  louder  surf:   those  that  went 

with  me. 
And  those  that  held  the  bier  before  my 

face. 
Moved  with  one  spirit  round  about  the 

bay, 
Trod  swifter  steps;    and  while  I  walk'd 

with  these 
In    marvel    at   that    gradual    change,    I 

thought 
Four  bells  instead  of  one  began  to  ring. 
Four  merrv  bells,  four  merrv  marriage- 
bell's, 
In    clanging    cadence   jangling    peal   on 

peal  — 


A    long   loud   clash   of  rapid    marriage- 
bells. 
Then  those  who  led  the  van,  and  those 

in  rear, 
Rush'd  into   dance,  and  like  wild   Bac- 
chanals 
Fled  onward  to  the  steeple  in  the  woods  : 
I,  too,  was  borne  along  and  felt  the  blast 
Beat  on  my  heated  eyelids :   all  at  once 
The  front  rank  made  a  sudden  halt;   the 

bells 
Lapsed  into  frightful  stillness;   the  surge 

fell 
From  thunder  into  whispers;    those  six 

maids 
With  shrieks  and  ringing  laughter  on  the 

sand 
Threw  down  the  bier;   the  woods  upon 

the  hill 
Waved  with  a  sudden  gust  that  sweeping 

down 
Took  the  edges  of  the  pall,  and  blew  it  far 
Until  it  hung,  a  little  silver  cloud 
Over  the  sounding  seas :    I  turn'd :    my 

heart 
Shrank   in  me,  like  a  snowflake  in  the 

hand. 
Waiting  to  see  the  settled  countenance 
Of    her    I    loved,    adorn'd   with    fading 

flowers. 
But  she  from  out  her  death-like  chrysalis, 
She  from  her  bier,  as  into  fresher  life, 
My  sister,  and  my  cousin,  and  my  love, 
Leapt  lightly  clad  in  bridal  white  —  her 

hair 
Studded  with  one  rich  Provence  rose  — 

a  light 
Of  smiling  welcome  round  her  lips  —  her 

eyes 
And  cheeks  as  bright  as  when  she  climb'd 

the  hill. 
One  hand  she  reach'd  to  those  that  came 

behind. 
And  while  I  mused  nor  yet  endured  to 

take 
So  rich  a  prize,  the  man  who  stood  with 

me 
Stept  gaily  forward,  throwing  down  his 

robes. 
And  claspt  her  hand  in  his :    again  the 

bells 
Jangled  and  clang'd ;    again  the  stormy 

surf 


484 


THE    GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


Crash'd  in  the  shingle  :   and  the  whirling 

rout 
Led  by  those  two  rush'd  into  dance,  and 

fled 
Wind-footed  to  the  steeple  in  the  woods, 
Till   they  were    swallow'd   in   the    leafy 

bowers. 
And  I  stood  sole  beside  the  vacant  bier. 

There,  there,  my  latest  vision  —  then  the 
event ! 

IV. 

THE   GOLDEN    SUPPER.^ 

(^Another  speaks^ 

He  flies  the  event :  he  leaves  the  event 

to  me : 
Poor  Julian  —  how  he  rush'd  away;   the 

bells, 
Those  marriage-bells,  echoing  in  ear  and 

heart  — 
But  cast  a  parting  glance  at  me,  you  saw, 
As  who    should  say,   '  Continue.'     Well 

he  had 
One   golden  hour  —  of  triumph  shall   I 

say? 
Solace  at  least  —  before  he  left  his  home. 

Would  you  had  seen  him  in  that  hour 

of  his ! 
He  moved  thro'  all  of  it  majestically  — 
Restrain'd  himself  quite  to  the  close  — 

but  now  — 

Whether  they  ivere  his  lady's  marriage- 
bells, 
Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 
I  never  ask'd :  but  Lionel  and  the  girl 
Were  wedded,  and  our  Julian  came  again 
Back  to  his  mother's  house  among  the 

pines. 
But   these,  their   gloom,  the  mountains 

and  the  Bay, 
The   whole   land  weigh'd  him  down  as 

iEtna  does 
The  Giant  of  Mythology :  he  would  go, 
Would  leave  the  land  for  ever,  and  had 
gone 

'  This  poem  is  founded  upon  a  story  in  Boc- 
caccio.    See  Introduction,  p.  467. 


Surely,  but  for  a  whisper,  '  Go  not  yet,' 
Some   warning  —  sent    divinely  —  as    it 

seem'd 
By  that  which  follow'd  —  but  of  this   I 

deem 
As  of  the  visions  that  he  told  —  the  event 
Glanced   back    upon   them   in  his  after 

life. 
And  partly  made  them  —  tho'  he  knew  it 

not. 

And  thus  he  stay'd  and  would  not  look 

at  her  — 
No    not    for    months:    but,    when    the 

eleventh  moon 
After  their  marriage  lit  the  lover's  Bay, 
Heard  yet  once  more  the  tolling  bell,  and 

said, 
Would  you  could  toll  me  out  of  life,  but 

found  — 
All  softly  as  his  mother  broke  it  to  him  — 
A  crueller  reason  than  a  crazy  ear, 
P'or  that  low  knell  tolling  his  lady  dead  — 
Dead  —  and  had  lain  three  days  without 

a  pulse : 
All  that  look'd  on  her  had  pronounced 

her  dead. 
And  so  they  bore  her   (for   in   Julian's 

land 
They   never   nail   a   dumb   head   up    in 

elm), 
Bore  her  free-faced  to  the  free  airs  of 

heaven, 
And   laid    her  in  the  vault  of  her  own 

kin. 

What  did  he  then?  not  die:  he  is  here 
and  hale  — 

Not  plunge  headforemost  from  the  moun- 
tain there. 

And  leave  the  name  of  Lover's  Leap : 
not  he  : 

He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  whisper 
now. 

Thought  that  he  knew  it.  'This,  I 
stay'd  for  this; 

0  love,  I  have  not  seen  you  for  so  long. 
Now,  now,  will  I  go  down  into  the  grave, 

1  will  be  all  alone  with  all  I  love. 

And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.     She  is  his  no 

more : 
The  dead  returns  to  me,  and  I  go  down 
To  kiss  the  dead.' 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


485 


The  fancy  stirr'd  him  so 
He  rose  and  went,  and  entering  the  dim 

vault, 
And,  making  there  a  sudden  light,  beheld 
All  round  about  him  that  which  all  will 

be. 
The  light  was  but  a  flash,  and  went  again. 
Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he  saw 
His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her  face; 
Her  breast  as  in  a  shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bands  of  silver,  which  the 

moon 
Struck  from  an  open  grating  overhead 
High  in  the  wall,  and  all  the  rest  of  her 
Drown'd  in  the  gloom  and  horror  of  the 

vault. 

*  It  was  my  wish,'  he  said,  '  to  pass,  to 

sleep. 
To  rest,  to  be  with  her  —  till  the  great 

day 
Peal'd  on  us  with  that  music  which  rights 

all, 
And   raised    us    hand    in    hand.'     And 

kneeling  there 
Down  in  the  dreadful  dust  that  once  was 

man, 
Dust,  as  he  said,  that  once  was  loving 

hearts, 
Hearts  that  had  beat  with  such  a  love  as 

mine  — 
Not  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as 

her  — 
He  softly  put  his  arm  about  her  neck 
And  kiss'd  her  more  than  once,  till  help- 
less death 
And  silence  made  him  bold  —  nay,  but  I 

wrong  him. 
He   reverenced   his   dear   lady  even   in 

death ; 
But,    placing   his    true   hand    upon    her 

heart, 
*0,  you  warm  heart,'   he  moan'd,  'not 

even  death 
Can  chill  you  all  at  once  :  '  then  starting, 

thought 
His    dreams   had    come    again.     *  Do    I 

wake  or  sleep? 
Or  am  I  made  immortal,  or  my  love 
Mortal  once  more  ?  '    It  beat  —  the  heart 

—  it  beat : 
Faint  —  but  it  beat :    at  which  his  own 

began 


To  pulse  with  such  a  vehemence  that  it 

cbrown'd 
The  feebler  motion  underneath  his  hand. 
But  when  at  last  his  doubts  were  satisfied, 
He  raised  her  softly  from  the  sepulchre. 
And,  wrapping  her  aHover  with  the  cloak 
He  came  in,  and  now  striding  fast,  and 

now 
Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  but  evermore 
Holding  his  golden  burthen  in  his  arms, 
So  bore  her  thro'  the  solitary  land 
Back  to  the  mother's   house  where  she 

was  born. 

There  the  good  mother's  kindly  minis- 
tering. 
With  half  a  night's  appliances,  recall'd 
Her  fluttering  life  :  she  raised  an  eye  that 

ask'd 
'  Where?'  till  the  things  familiar  to  her 

youth 
Had  made  a  silent  answer  :  then  she  spoke 
'Here!    and   how  came    I   here?'    and 

learning  it 
(They  told   her   somewhat   rashly  as   I 

think) 
At  once  began  to  wander  and  to  wail, 
*Ay,  but  you  know  that  you  must  give 

me  back  : 
Send!  bid  him  come;  '  but  Lionel  was 

away  — 
Stung   by   his   loss   had   vanish'd,  none 

knew  where. 
'  He  casts  me  out,'  she  wept,  '  and  goes ' 

—  a  wail 
That  seeming  something,  yet  was  nothing, 

born 
Not  from  believing  mind,  but  shatter'd 

nerve, 
Yet  haunting  Julian,  as  her  own  reproof 
At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 
Then,    when    her    own    true    spirit    had 

return'd, 
*  Oh  yes,  and  you,'  she  said,  '  and  none 

but  you? 
For  you  have   given  me  life    and    love 

again. 
And  none  but  you  yourself  shall  tell  him 

of  it. 
And  you  shall   give  me  back  when   he 

returns.' 
'  Stay   then    a    little,'    answer'd    Julian, 

'  here. 


486 


THE    GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


And   keep    yourself,    none    knowing,   to 

yourself; 
And  I  will  do  your  will.     I  may  not  stay, 
No,  not  an  hour;   but  send  me  notice  of 

him 
When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I  return, 
And  I  will  make  a  solemn  offering  of  you 
To    him    you    love.'      And    faintly    she 

replied, 
*  And  I  will  do  yoicr  will,  and  none  shall 

know. ' 

Not  know?  with  such  a  secret  to  be 

known. 
But  all  their    house  was   old  and   loved 

them  both, 
And  all  the  house  had  known  the  loves 

of  both; 
Had  died  almost  to  serve  them  any  way, 
And  all  the  land  was  waste  and  solitary  : 
And  then  he  rode  away;   but  after  this, 
An  hour  or  two,  Camilla's  travail  came 
Upon  her,  and  that  day  a  boy  was  born, 
Heir  of  his  face  and  land,  to  Lionel. 

And  thus  our  lonely  lover  rode  away, 
And  pausing  at  a  hostel  in  a  marsh. 
There  fever  seized  upon  him  :   myself  was 

then 
Travelling  that  land,  and  meant  to  rest 

an  hour; 
And  sitting  down  to  such  a  base  repast, 
It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it  — 
I  heard  a  groaning  overhead,  and  climb'd 
The  moulder'd  stairs  (for  everything  was 

vile) 
And  in  a  loft,  with  none  to  wait  on  him, 
Found,  as  it  seem'd,  a  skeleton  alone. 
Raving  of  dead  men's  dust  and  beating 

hearts. 

A  dismal  hostel  in  a  dismal  land, 
A  flat  malarian  world  of  reed  and  rush  ! 
But  there    from   fever  and    my   care   of 

him 
Sprang  up  a  friendship  that  may  help  us 

^yet. 
for  while  we   roam'd   along  the  dreary 

coast, 
And   waited   for   her   message,  piece  by 

piece 
I  learnt  the  drearier  story  of  his  life; 
And,  thu'  he  loved  and  honuur'd  T-ionel, 


Found   that   the   sudden    wail   his   lady 

made 
Dwelt  in  his  fancy :    did   he  know  her 

worth. 
Her    beauty    even?    should    he    not    be 

taught, 
Ev'n  by  the  price  that  others  set  upon  it, 
The  value  of  that  jewel  he  had  to  guard? 

Suddenly  came  her  notice  and  we  past, 
I  with  our  lover  to  his  native  Bay. 

This  love  is  of  the  brain,  the  mind,  the 

soul : 
That  makes  the  sequel  pure;   tho'  some 

of  us 
Beginning  at  the  sequel  know  no  more. 
Not  such  am  I :  and  yet  I  say  the  bird 
That    will    not    hear    my   call,   however 

sweet. 
But    if    my   neighbour   whistle   answers 

him  — 
What   matter?   there  are  others  in  the 

wood. 
Vet  when  I  saw  her  (and  I  thought  him 

crazed, 
Tho'  not  with  such  a  craziness  as  needs 
A  cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes  of 

hers  — 
Oh  !  such  dark  eyes !  and  not  her  eyes 

alone, 
But  all  from  these  to  where  she  touch'd 

on  earth. 
For  such  a  craziness  as  Julian's  look'd 
No  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So  sweetly  and  so  modestly  she  came 
To  greet  us,  her  young  hero  in  her  arms  ! 
'  Kiss  him,'  she  said.     '  You  gave  me  life 

again. 
He,  but  for  you,  had  never  seen  it  once. 
His  other   father  you !     Kiss   him,   and 

then 
Forgive  him,  if  his  name  be  Julian  too.' 

Talk  of  lost  hopes  and  broken  heart ! 

his  own 
Sent  such  a  flame  into  his  face,  I  knew 
Some    sudden    vivid    pleasure    hit    him 

there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to  go, 
And  sent  at  once  to  Lionel,  praying  him 


THE   LOVER'S    TALE. 


487 


By  that  great  love  they  both  had  borne 

the  dead, 
To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with  him 
Before  he  left  the  land  for  evermore; 
And    then    to    friends  —  they   were    not 

many  —  who  lived 
Scatteringly  about    that    lonely   land    of 

his, 
And  bade  them  to  a  banquet  of  farewells. 

And   Julian  made  a  solemn    feast :    I 

never 
Sat  at  a  costlier;    for  all  round  his  hall 
From   column    on    to    column,    as   in    a 

wood, 
Not  such  as  here  —  an  equatorial  one, 
Great   garlands   swung    and    blossom'd; 

and  beneath, 
Heirlooms,  and  ancient  miracles  of  Art, 
Chalice  and  salver,  wines  that.  Heaven 

knows  when, 
Had  suck'd  the  fire  of  some    forgotten 

sun, 
And   kept  it  thro'  a   hundred   years   of 

gloom. 
Yet  glowing  in  a  heart  of  ruby  —  cups 
Where  nymph  and  god  ran  ever  round  in 

gold  — 
Others   of  glass   as    costly  —  some  with 

gems 
Movable  and  resettable  at  will, 
And  trebling  all  the  rest  in  value  —  Ah 

heavens ! 
Why  need  I  tell  you  all?  —  suffice  to  say 
That  whatsoever  such  a  house  as  his. 
And  his  was  old,  has  in  it  rare  or  fair 
W^as  brought  before  the  guest :  and  they, 

the  guests, 
Wonder'd  at  some  strange  light  in  Julian's 

eyes 
(I  told  you  that  he  had  his  golden  hour). 
And  such  a  feast,  ill-suited  as  it  seem'd 
To  such  a  time,  to  Lionel's  loss  and  his 
And  that  resolved  self-exile  from  a  land 
He  never  would  revisit,  such  a  feast 
So    rich,  so  strange,  and   stranger    ev'n 

.than  rich, 
But  rich  as  for  the  nuptials  of  a  king. 

And  stranger  vet,  at  one  end  of  the 
hall 
Two    great    funereal    curtains,    looping 
down, 


Parted  a  little  ere  they  met  the  floor. 
About  a  picture  of  his  lady,  taken 
Some  years  before,  and  falling  hid   the 

frame. 
And  just  above  the  parting  was  a  lamp : 
So  the  sweet    figure   folded   round  with 

night 
Seem'd  stepping  out  of  darkness  with  a 

smile. 

Well  then  —  our  solemn  feast  —  we  ate 

and  drank. 
And  might  —  the  wines   being   of  such 

nobleness  — 
Have  jested  also,  but  for  Julian's  eyes. 
And  something  weird  and  wild  about  it 

all: 
What  was  it?  for  our  lover  seldom  spoke, 
Scarce  touch'd  the  meats;   but  ever  and 

anon 
A  priceless  goblet  with  a  priceless  wine 
Arising,  show'd  he  drank  beyond  his  use; 
And  when  the  feast  was  near  an  end,  he 

said  : 

'There    is   a   custom    in    the    Orient, 

friends  — 
I  read  of  it  in  Persia  —  when  a  man 
Will  honour  those  who  feast  with  him, 

he  brings 
And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  accounts 
Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  may  be. 
This  custom ' 

Pausing  here  a  moment,  all 
The   guests   broke    in    upon    him   with 

meeting  hands 
And  cries  about  the  banquet  — '  Beautiful ! 
Who  could  desire  more  beauty  at  a  feast?  ' 

The  lover  answer'd,  'There    is   more 

than  one 
Here  sitting  who  desires  it.    Laud  me  not 
Before  my  time,  but  hear  me  to  the  close. 
This  custom  steps  yet  further  when  the 

guest 
Is  loved  and  honour'd  to  the  uttermost. 
For  after  he  hath  shown   him   gems  or 

gold,  . 

He  brings  and  sets  before  him   in  rich 

guise 
That  which  is  thrice  as  beautiful  as  these, 


488 


THE    GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


The  beauty  that  is  dearest  to  his  heart  — 
"  O  my  heart's  lord,  would  I  could  show 

you,"  he  says, 
"  Ev'n  my  heart   too."     And  I  propose 

to-night 
To  show  you  what  is  dearest  to  my  heart, 
And  my  heart  too. 

'  But  solve  me  first  a  doubt. 
I  knew  a  man,  nor  many  years  ago; 
He  had  a  faithful  servant,  one  who  loved 
His  master  more  than  all  on  earth  beside. 
He  falling  sick,  and  seeming   close    on 

death, 
His  master  would  not  wait  until  he  died, 
But  bade  his  menials  bear  him  from  the 

door, 
And  leave  him  in  the  public  way  to  die. 
I  knew  another,  not  so  long  ago. 
Who  found  the  dying  servant,  took  him 

home. 
And  fed,  and  cherish'd  him,  and  saved 

his  life. 
I  ask  you  now,  should  this  first  master 

claim 
His  service,  whom  does  it  belong  to?  him 
Who  thrust  him  out,  or  him  who  saved 

his  life?' 

This  question,  so   flung   down   before 

the  guests, 
And   balanced   either   way  by  each,    at 

length 
When  some  were  doubtful  how  the  law 

would  hold, 
Was  handed  over  by  consent  of  all 
To  one  who  had  not  spoken,  Lionel. 

Fair  speech  was  his,  and    delicate  of 

phrase. 
And  he  beginning  languidly  —  his  loss 
Weigh'd  on  him  yet  —  but  warming  as  he 

went, 
Glanced  at  the  point  of  law,  to  pass  it  by. 
Affirming  that  as  long  as  either  lived. 
By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  gratefulness. 
The  service  of  the  one  so  saved  was  due 
All  to  the  saver — adding,  with  a  smile, 
The  first  for  many  weeks  —  a  semi-smile 
As  at  a  strong  conclusion  — '  body  and 

soul 
And  life  and  limbs,  all  his  to  work  his 

will.' 


Then  Julian  made  a  secret  sign  to  me 
To  bring  Camilla  down  before  them  all. 
And  crossing  her  own  picture  as  she  came, 
And  looking  as  much  lovelier  as  herself 
Is  lovelier  than  all  others  —  on  her  head 
A  diamond  circlet,  and  from  under  this 
A  veil,  that  seemed  no  more  than  gilded 

air, 
Flying  by  each  fine  ear,  an  Eastern  gauze 
With  seeds  of  gold  —  so,  with  that  grace 

of  hers, 
Slow-moving  as  a  wave  against  the  wind, 
That  flings  a  mist  behind  it  in  the  sun  — 
And    bearing   high  in  arms  the   mighty 

babe. 
The   younger  Julian,  who   himself  was 

crown'd 
With  roses,  none  so  rosy  as  himself — 
And  over  all  her  babe  and  her  the  jewels 
Of  many  generations  of  his  house 
Sparkled  and  flash'd,  for  he  had  decked 

them  out 
As  for  a  solemn  sacrifice  of  love  — 
So  she  came  in  :  —  I  am  long  in  telling  it, 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  strange, 
Sad,  sweet,  and  strange  together  —  floated 

in  — 
While  all  the  guests  in  mute  amazement 

rose  — 
And  slowly  pacing  to  the  middle  hall. 
Before  the  board,  there  paused  and  stood, 

her  breast 
Hard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her  feet. 
Not  daring  yet  to  glance  at  Lionel. 
But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights  nor 

feast 
Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  eyes  of  men;   who 

cared 
Only  to  use  his  own,  and  staring  wide 
And  hungering  for  the  gilt  and  jewell'd 

world 
About  him,  look'd,  as  he  is  like  to  prove, 
When  Julian  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he  saw. 

'My   guests,'    said    Julian:    'you    are 
honour'd  now 
Ev'n  to  the  uttermost :   in  her  behold 
Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  to 

me.' 
Then  waving  us  a  sign  to  seat  ourselves, 
Led  his  dear  lady  to  a  chair  of  state. 
And  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  saw  his  face 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


489 


Fire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 
Thrice  in  a  second,  felt  him  tremble  too, 
And  heard  him  muttering,  '  So  like,  so 

like ; 
She  never  had  a  sister.      I  knew  none. 
Some  cousin  of  his  and  hers  —  O  God,  so 

like  !  ' 
And  then  he  suddenly  ask'd  her  if  she 

were. 
She  shook,  and  cast  her  eyes  down,  and 

was  dumb. 
And  then  some  other  questional  if  she 

came 
From  foreign  lands,  and  still  she  did  not 

speak. 
Another,  if  the  boy  were  hers :  but  she 
To  all  their  queries  answer'd  not  a  word, 
Which  made  the  amazement   more,  till 

one  of  them 
Said,    shuddering,  *  Her  spectre  ! '     But 

his  friend 
Replied,  in  half  a  whisper,  '  Not  at  least 
The  spectre  that  will  speak  if  spoken  to. 
Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 
Prove,  as  I  almost   dread   to   find   her, 

dumb !  ' 

But  Julian,  sitting  by  her,  answer'd  all : 
*  She  is  but    dumb,  because  in  her  you 

see 
That   faithful   servant  whom   we   spoke 

about, 
Obedient  to  her  second  master  now; 
Which  will  not  last.    I  have  here  to-night 

a  guest 
So  bound  to  me  by  common  love  and 

loss 

What!    shall  I  bind   him  more?    in  his 

behalf. 
Shall  I  exceed  the  Persian,  giving  him 
That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest  to 

me, 
Not  only  showing?  and  he  himself  pro- 
nounced 
That  my  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  to  give. 

*  Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all  of 

you 
Not  to  break  in  on  what  I  say  by  word 
Or   whisper,  while   I   show  you    all  my 

heart.' 
And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 
As  here  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily  — 


The  passionate  moment  would  not  suffer 

that  — 
Past  thro'  his  visions  to  the  burial ;   thence 
Down  to  this  last  strange  hour  in  his  own 

hall; 
And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  all  his 

guests 
Once  more  as  by  enchantment ;  all  but  he, 
Lionel,  who  fain  had  risen,  but  fell  again, 
And  sat  as  if  in  chains  —  to  whom  he  said  : 

'Take    my   free   gift,  my    cousin,    for 

your  wife; 
And  were  it  only  for  the  giver's  sake. 
And  tho'  she  seem  so  like  the  one  you  lost. 
Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly. 
Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring  her 

back  : 
I  leave    this  land  for   ever.'     Here   he 

ceased. 

Then   taking   his    dear    lady    by    one 

hand. 
And  bearing  on  one  arm  the  noble  babe. 
He  slowly  brought  them  both  to  Lionel. 
And  there  the  widower  husband  and  dead 

wife 
Rush'd  each  at  each  with  a  cry,  that  rather 

seem'd 
For  some  new  death  than  for  a  life  re- 

new'd; 
Whereat  the  very  babe  began  to  wail; 
At   once    they  turn'd,    and    caught  and 

brought  him  in 
To  their  charm'd  circle,  and,  half  killing 

him 
With  kisses,  round  him  closed  and  claspt 

again. 
But  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  freed  himself 
From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a  face 
All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of  life. 
And  love,   and   boundless   thanks  —  the 

sight  of  this 
So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that  turning 

to  me 
And  saying,  '  It  is  over :  let  us  go  '  — 
There   were    our    horses    ready   at    the 

doors  — 
We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mounting 

these 
He  past  for  ever  from  his  native  land; 
And    I   with   him,   my   Julian,   back   to 

mine. 


490 


THE  FIRST   QUARREL. 


TO  ALFRED  TENNYSON 

MY   GRANDSON. 

Golden-hair'd   Ally  whose   name  is  one  with 

mine, 
Crazy  with  laughter  and  babble  and  earth's  new 

wine, 
Now  that  the  flower  of  a  year  and  a  half  is  thine, 

0  little  blossom,  O  mine,  and  mine  of  mine, 
Glorious  poet  who  never  hast  written  a  line. 
Laugh,  for  the  name  at  the  head  of  my  verse  is 

thine. 
May'st  thou  never  be  wrong'd  by  the  name  that 
is  mine! 

THE   FIRST  QUARREL. 

(in  the  isle  of  wight.) 

I. 

*  Wait  a  little,'  you  say,  *  you  are  sure 

it'll  all  come  right,' 
But  the  boy  was  born  i'  trouble,  an'  looks 

so  wan  an'  so  white : 
Wait !  an'  once  I  ha'  waited  —  I  hadn't 

to  wait  for  long. 
Now  I  wait,  wait,  wait  for  Harry.  —  No, 

no,  you  are  doing  me  wrong ! 
Harry  and  I  were  married  :  the  boy  can 

hold  up  his  head, 
The  boy  was  born  in  wedlock,  but  after 

my  man  was  dead ; 

1  ha'  work'd  for  him  fifteen  years,  an'  I 

work  an'  I  wait  to  the  end. 
I  am  all  alone  in  the  world,  an'  you  are 
my  only  friend. 


Doctor,  if  you  can  wait,  I'll  tell  you  the 

tale  o'  my  life. 
When  Harry  an'  I  were  children,  he  call'd 

me  his  own  little  wife; 
I  was  happy  when  I  was  with  him,  an' 

sorry  when  he  was  away, 
An'  when  we  play'd  together,  I  loved  him 

better  than  play; 
He  workt  me  the  daisy  chain  —  he  made 

me  the  cowslip  ball, 
He  fought  the  boys  that  were  rude,  an'  I 

loved  him  better  than  all. 
Passionate  girl  tho'  I  was,  an'  often  at 

home  in  disgrace, 
I  never  could  quarrel  with  Harry  —  I  had 

but  to  look  in  his  face. 


III. 

There  was  a  farmer  in  Dorset  of  Harry's 

kin,  that  had  need 
Of  a  good  stout  lad  at  his  farm;   he  sent, 

an'  the  father  agreed; 
So  Harry  was  bound  to  the  Dorsetshire 

farm  for  years  an'  for  years; 
I  walked  with  him  down  to   the   quay, 

poor  lad,  an'  we  parted  in  tears. 
The   boat  was  beginning  to   move,  we 

heard  them  a-ringing  the  bell, 

*  I'll  never  love  any  but  you,  God  bless 

you,  my  own  little  Nell.' 

IV. 

I  was  a  child,  an'  he  was  a  child,  an'  he 

came  to  harm; 
There  was  a  girl,  a  hussy,  that  workt  with 

him  up  at  the  farm, 
One  had  deceived  her  an'  left  her  alone 

with  her  sin  an'  her  shame, 
An'  so  she  was  wicked  with  Harry;   the 

girl  was  the  most  to  blame. 

V. 

An'  years  went  over  till  I  that  was  little 

had  grown  so  tall. 
The  men  would  say  of  the  maids,  'Our 

Nelly's  the  flower  of  'em  all.' 
I  didn't  take  heed  o'  them,  but  I  taught 

myself  all  I  could 
To  make  a  good  wife  for  Harry,  when 

Harry  came  home  for  good. 

VI. 

Often  I  seem'd  unhappy,  and  often    as 

happy  too. 
For  I  heard  it  abroad  in  the  fields  *  I'll 

never  love  any  but  you;' 
'  I'll  never  love  any  but  you  '  the  morning 

song  of  the  lark, 

*  I'll  never  love  any  but  you '  the  nightin- 

gale's hymn  in  the  dark. 

VII. 

And  Harry  came  home  at  last,  but  he 

look'd  at  me  sidelong  and  shy, 
Vext  me  a  bit,  till    he  told  me  that  so 

many  years  had  gone  by, 
I  had  grown  so  handsome  and  tall  —  that 

I  might  ha'  forgot  him  somehow  — 
For  he  thought  —  there  were  other  lads  — 

he  was  fcar'd  to  look  at  me  now. 


THE   FIRST   QUARREL. 


491 


VIII. 

Hard  was  the  frost  in  the  field,  we  were 

married  o'  Christmas  day, 
Married  among  the  red  berries,  an'  all  as 

merry  as  May  — 
Those  were  the  pleasant  times,  my  house 

an'  my  man  were  my  pride, 
"We   seem'd    like   ships   i'    the    Channel 

a-sailing  with  wind  an'  tide. 

IX. 

But  work  was  scant  in  the  Isle,  tho'  he 

tried  the  villages  round, 
So  Harry  went  over  the  Solent  to  see  if 

work  could  be  found; 
An'    he  wrote  '  I    ha'  six  weeks'  work, 

little  wife,  so  far  as  I  know; 
I'll  come  for  an  hour  to-morrow,  an'  kiss 

you  before  I  go.' 

X. 

So  I  set  to  righting  the  house,  for  wasn't 

he  coming  that  day? 
An'  I  hit  on   an   old  deal-box  that  was 

push'd  in  a  corner  away, 
It  was  full  of  old  odds  an'  ends,  an'  a 

letter  along  wi'  the  rest, 
I  had  better  ha'  put  my  naked  hand  in  a 

hornets'  nest, 

XI. 

'  Sweetheart '  —  this  was  the  letter  —  this 

was  the  letter  I  read  — 
*  You  promised  to  find  me  work  near  you, 

an'  I  wish  I  was  dead  — 
Didn't  you   kiss   me    an'    promise?  you 

haven't  done  it,  my  lad, 
An'  I  almost  died  o'  your   going  away, 

an'  I  wish  that  I  had.' 

XII. 

I  too  wish  that  I  had — in  the  pleasant 

times  that  had  past. 
Before    I    quarrell'd    with    Harry  —  my 

quarrel  —  the  first  an'  the  last. 

XIII. 

For  Harry  came  in,  an'  I  flung  him  the 
letter  that  drove  me  wild, 

Kvi  he  told  it  me  all  at  once,  as  simple 
as  any  child, 


*  What  can  it  matter,  my  lass,  what  I  did 

wi'  my  single  life? 
I  ha'  been  as  true  to  you  as  ever  a  man 

to  his  wife; 
An'  she  wasn't  one  o'  the  worst.'    *  Then,' 

I  said,  *  I'm  none  o'  the  best.' 
An'  he  smiled  at   me,    '  Ain't   you,    my 

love?    Come,  come,  little  wife,  let 

it  rest ! 
The  man  isn't  like  the  woman,  no  need 

to  make  such  a  stir.' 
But  he  anger'd  me  all  the  more,  an'  I  said 

'  You  were  keeping  with  her, 
When  I  was  a-loving  you  all  along  an' 

the  same  as  before.' 
An'  he  didn't  speak  for  a  while,  an'  he 

anger'd  me  more  and  more. 
Then  he  patted  my  hand  in   his  gentle 

way,  '  Let  bygones  be ! ' 
'  Bygones  I  you  kept  yours  hush'd,'  I  said, 

'  when  you  married  me  ! 
By-gones  ma'  be  come-agains;  an'  she  — 

in  her  shame  an'  her  sin  — 
You'll  have  her  to  nurse  my  child,  if  I 

die  o'  my  lying  in  ! 
You'll  make  her  its  second   mother !     I 

hate  her  — an'  I  hate  you  ! ' 
Ah,  Harry,  my  man,  you  had  better  ha' 

beaten  me  black  an'  blue 
Than   ha'    spoken    as    kind  as  you  did, 

when  I  were  so  crazy  wi'  spite, 

*  Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it  'ill 

all  come  right.' 

XIV. 

An'  he  took  three  turns  in  the  rain,  an'  I 

watch'd  him,  an'  when  he  came  in 
I  felt  that  my  heart  was  hard,  he  was  all 

wet  thro'  to  the  skin, 
An'  I  never  said  '  off  wi'  the  wet,'  I  never 

said  '  on  wi'  the  dry,' 
So  I  knew  my  heart  was  hard,  when  he 

came  to  bid  me  goodbye. 
'  You  said  that  you  hated  me,  Ellen,  but 

that  isn't  true,  you  know; 
I  am  going  to  leave  you  a  bit — you'll 

kiss  me  before  I  go  ? ' 

XV. 

'  Going !    you're  going  to  her  —  kiss  her 

—  if  you  will,'  I  said  — 
I  was  near  my  time  wi'  the  boy,  I  must 

ha'  been  light  i'  my  head  — 


492 


RIZPAH. 


*  I  had  sooner  be  cursed  than  kiss'd ! '  — 
I  didn't  know  well  what  I  meant, 

But  I  turn'd  my  face  from  him,  an'  he 
turned  his  face  an'  he  went. 


XVI. 


I've 


And   then    he   sent   me   a   letter, 
gotten  my  work  to  do; 

You  wouldn't   kiss   me,   my  lass,   an'  I 
never  loved  any  but  you; 

I  am  sorry  for  all  the  quarrel  an'  sorry 
for  what  she  wrote, 

I  ha'  six  weeks'  work  in  Jersey  an'  go  to- 
night by  the  boat.' 

XVII. 

An'  the  wind  began  to  rise,  an'  I  thought 

of  him  out  at  sea. 
An'  I  felt  I  had  been  to  blame;   he  was 

always  kind  to  me. 
'  Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it   'ill 

all  come  right '  — 
An'  the  boat  went  down   that  night  — 

the  boat  went  down  that  night. 


RIZPAH. 

17—- 
I. 

Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over 

land  and  sea  — 
And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  *  O  mother 

come  out  to  me.' 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when 

he  knows  that  I  cannot  go? 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and 

the  full  moon  stares  at  the  snow. 

II. 

We  should  be  seen,  my  dear;  they  would 

spy  us  out  of  the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights   for  us,  and   the 

storm  rushing  over  the  down. 
When   I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but 

am  led  by  the  creak  of  the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I 

find    myself   drenched    with    the 

rain. 


III. 


Anything  fallen  again?  nay  —  what  was 

there  left  to  fall? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  num- 

ber'd  the   bones,  I   have   hidden 

them  all. 
What  am  I  saying?  and  what  are  you? 

do  you  come  as  a  spy? 
Falls?  what  falls?  who  knows?     As  the 

tree  falls  so  must  it  lie. 


IV. 


Who  let  her  in?  how  long  has  she  been? 

you  —  what  have  you  heard? 
Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet?  you  never  have 

spoken  a  word. 

0  —  to  pray  with  me  —  yes  —  a  lady  — 

none  of  their  spies  — 
But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart, 
and  begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 

V. 

Ah  —  you,  that  have  lived  so  soft,  what 
should  you  know  of  the  night. 

The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and  the 
bitter  frost  and  the  fright? 

1  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep  — 

you  were  only  made  for  the  day. 
I  have  gather'd  my  baby  together — and 
now  you  may  go  your  way. 

VI. 

Nay  —  for  it's  kind  of  you.  Madam,  to 
sit  by  an  old  dying  wife. 

But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have 
only  an  hour  of  life. 

I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he 
went  out  to  die. 

'They  dared  me  to  do  it,'  he  said,  and  he 
never  has  told  me  a  lie. 

I  whipt  him  for  robbing  an  orchard  once 
when  he  was  but  a  child  — 

'  The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,'  he  said; 
he  was  always  so  wild  — 

And  idle  —  and  couldn't  be  idle  —  my 
Willy  —  he  never  could  rest. 

The  King  should  have  made  him  a  sol- 
dier, he  would  have  been  one  of 
his  best. 


RIZPAH. 


493 


VII. 

But  he  lived  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates,  and 

they  never  would  let  him  be  good; 
They  swore  that  he    dare    not   rob   the 

mail,  and  he  swore  that  he  would; 
And  he    took  no  life,  but  he  took   one 

purse,  and  when  all  was  done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows  —  I'll  none 

of  it,  said  my  son. 

VIII. 

I  came  into  court  to  the  Judge  and  the 

lawyers.     I  told  them  my  tale, 
God's  own  truth  —  but   they  kill'd  him, 

they  kill'd   him  for   robbing   the 

mail. 
They  hang'd  him  in  chains  for  a  show  — 

we    had    always    borne    a   good 

name  — 
To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief —  and  then  put 

away  —  isn't  that  enough  shame? 
Dust  to  dust  —  low  down —  let  us  hide  ! 

but  they  set  him  so  high 
That   all  the   ships  of  the  world    could 

stare  at  him,  passing  by. 
God  'ill  pardon  the  hell-black  raven  and 

horrible  fowls  of  the  air, 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer  who 

kill'd  him  and  hang'd  him  there. 

IX. 

And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.     I  had 

bid  him  my  last  goodbye; 
They  had  fasten'd  the  door  of  his  cell. 

'  O  mother  !  '  I  heard  him  cry. 
I  couldn't  get  back  tho'  I  tried,  he  had 

something  further  to  say. 
And  now  I  never  shall  know  it.     The 

jailer  forced  me  away. 


Then  since  I  couldn't  but  hear  that  cry 

of  my  boy  that  was  dead, 
They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up :  they 

fasten'd  me  down  on  my  bed. 
'  Mother,  O  mother  ! '  — he  call'd  in  the 

dark  to  me  year  after  year  — 
They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me  — 

you  know  that  I  couldn't  but  hear; 


And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I  had 
grown  so  stupid  and  still 

They  let  me  abroad  again  —  but  the 
creatures  had  worked  their  will. 


XI. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of 

my  bone  was  left  — 
I  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers  —  and 

you,  will  you  call  it  a  theft?  — 
My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  suck'd  me, 

the  bones  that  had   laugh'd  and 

had  cried  — 
Theirs  ?   O  no  !  they  are  mine  —  not  theirs 

—  they  had  moved  in  my  side. 


XII. 

Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the  bones? 

I  kiss'd  'em,  I  buried  'em  all  — 
I  can't  dig  deep,  I  am  old  —  in  the  night 

by  the  churchyard  wall. 
My    Willy  'ill  rise   up  whole  when    the 

trumpet  of  judgment  'ill  sound; 
But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I  laid 

him  in  holy  ground. 

xni. 

They  would  scratch  him  up —  they  would 

hang   him    again    on   the   cursed 

tree. 
Sin  ?    O  yes  —  we  are  sinners,  I  know  — 

let  all  that  be, 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the  Lord's 

good  will  toward  men  — 
'  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,  the  Lord ' 

—  let  me  hear  it  again; 
'  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy  —  long- 
suffering.'     Yes,  O  yes ! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder  — 

the  Saviour  lives  but  to  bless. 
He'Vi  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except 

for  the  worst  of  the  worst. 
And  the  first  may  be  last  —  I  have  heard 

it  in  church  —  and  the  last  may 

be  first. 
Suffering  —  O  long-suffering  —  yes,  as  the 

Lord  must  know, 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the  wind 

and  the  shower  and  the  snow. 


494 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


XIV. 

Heard,  have  you?  what?  they  have  told 

you  he  never  repented  his  sin. 
How   do    they   know   it?    are    they   his 

mother?  are  ;>'<?«  of  his  kin ? 
Heard !  have  you  ever  heard,  when  the 

storm  on  the  downs  began, 
The  wind  that  'ill  wail  like  a  child  and 

the  sea  that  'ill  moan  like  a  man? 


XV. 


it's 


Election,  Election  and  Reprobation 

all  very  well. 
But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I  shall 

not  find  him  in  Hell. 
For  I  cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that  the 

Lord  has  look'd  into  my  care. 
And  He  means  me  I'm  sure  to  be  happy 

with  Willy,  I  know  not  where. 

XVI. 

And  if  he  be  lost  —  but  to  save  my  soul, 

that  is  all  your  desire  : 
Do  you  think  that  I  care  for  my  soul  if 

my  boy  be  gone  to  the  fire? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark  —  go, 

go,  you  may  leave  me  alone  — 
You  never  have  borne  a  child  —  you  are 

just  as  hard  as  a  stone. 

XVII. 

Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon !  I  think 
that  you  mean  to  be  kind. 

But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my 
Willy's  voice  in  the  wind  — 

The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright —  he  used 
but  to  call  in  the  dark, 

And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the  church 
and  not  from  the  gibbet  —  for 
hark! 

Nay  —  you  can  hear  it  yourself — it  is 
coming  —  shaking  the  walls  — 

Willy  —  the  moon's  in  a  cloud  —  Good- 
night.    I  am  going.     He  calls. 


THE  NORTHERN   COBBLER. 
I. 

Waait  till  our  Sally  cooms  in,  fur  thou 

mun  a'  sights  ^  to  tell. 
Eh,  but  I  be  maain  glad  to  seea  tha  sa 

'arty  an'  well. 


'  Cast   awaay    on   a    disolut   land   wi'    a 

vartical  soon  ^  !  ' 
Strange    fur   to   goa  fur   to   think  what 

saailors  a'  seean  an'  a'  doon; 
*  Sunimat  to  drink  —  sa'  'ot?  '     I  'a  nowt 

but  Adam's  wine: 
What's  the  'eat  o'  this  little  'ill-side  to  the 

'eat  o'  the  line? 

II. 

'What's  i'  tha  bottle  a-stanning  theer?' 

I'll  tell  tha.     Gin. 
But  if  thou  wants  thy  grog,  tha  mun  goa 

fur  it  down  to  the  inn. 
Naay  —  fur  I  be  maain-glad,  but  thaw  tha 

was  iver  sa  dry, 
Thou  gits  naw  gin  fro'  the  bottle  theer, 

an'  I'll  tell  tha  why. 

III. 

Mea  an'   thy  sister  was  married,  when 

wur  it?  back-end  o'  June, 
Ten  year  sin',  and  wa  'greed  as  well  as  a 

fiddle  i'  tune : 
I  could  fettle  and  clump  owd  booots  and 

shoes  wi'  the  best  on  'em  all. 
As   fer   as   fro'   Thursby   thurn   hup    to 

Harmsby  and  Hutterby  Hall. 
We  was  busy  as  beeas  i'  the  bloom  an'  as 

'appy  as  'art  could  think. 
An'  then  the  babby  wur  burn,  and  then 

I  taakes  to  the  drink. 

IV. 

An'  I  weant  gaainsaay  it,  my  lad,  thaw 

I  be  hafe  shaamed  on  it  now. 
We  could  sing  a  good  song  at  the  Plow, 

we  could  sing  a  good  song  at  the 

Plow; 
Thaw  once  of  a  frosty  night  I  slither'd  an' 

hurted  my  huck,^ 
An'   I   coom'd  neck-an'-crop  soomtimes 

slaape  down  i'  the  squad  an'  the 

muck  : 

'  The  vowels  a'i,  pronounced  separately  though 
in  the  closest  conjunction,  best  render  the  sound 
of  the  long  /  and  y  in  this  dialect.  But  since  such 
words  as  cra'iin  ,  da'iin  ,  luha'i,  a'i  (I),  etc.,  look 
awkward  except  in  a  page  of  express  phonetics, 
I  have  thought  it  better  to  leave  the  simple  /  and 
y,  and  to  trust  that  my  readers  will  give  them  the 
broader  pronunciation. 

2  The  00  short,  as  in  '  wood.*  ^  Hip. 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


495 


An'   once  I  fowt  wi'   the  Taailor  —  not 

hafe  ov  a  man,  my  lad  — 
Fur  he  scrawm'd  an'  scratted  my  faace 

like  a  cat,  an'  it  maade  'er  sa  mad 
That  Sally  she  turn'd  a  tongue-banger,i 

an'  raated  ma, '  Sottin'  thy  l)raains 
Guzzlin'    an'    soakin'    an'    smocikin'    an' 

hawmin'^  about  i'  the  laanes, 
Soa  sow-droonk  that  tha  doesn  not  touch 

thy  'at  to  the  Squire;  ' 
An'  I  loook'd  cock-eyed  at  my  noase  an' 

I  seead  'im  a-gittin'  o'  fire; 
But  sin'  I  wur  hallus  i'  liquor  an'  hallus 

as  droonk  as  a  king, 
Foalks'  coostom  flitted  awaay  like  a  kite 

wi'  a  brokken  string. 


An'  Sally  she  wesh'd  foalks'  cloaths  to 

keep  the  wolf  fro'  the  door, 
Eh  but  the  moor  she  riled  me,  she  druv 

me  to  drink  the  moor, 
Fur  I  fun',  when   'er  back   wur  turn'd, 

wheer  Sally's  owd  stockin'  wur  'id, 
An'  I  grabb'd  the  munny  she  maade,  and 

I  wear'd  it  o'  liquor,  I  did. 

VI. 

An'  one  night  I  cooms  'oam  like  a  bull 

gotten  loose  at  a  faair, 
An'  she  wur  a-waaitin'  fo'mma,  an'  cryin' 

and  tearin'  'er  'aair, 
An'   I   tummled   athurt    the   craadle  an' 

swear'd  as  I'd  break  ivry  stick 
O'  furnitur  'ere  i'   the  'ouse,  an'  I  gied 

our  Sally  a  kick. 
An'  I  mash'd  the  taables  an'  chairs,  an' 

she  an'  the  babby  beal'd.^ 
Fur  I  knaw'd  naw  moor  what  I  did  nor 

a  mortal  beast  o'  the  feald. 

VII. 

An'  when  I  waaked  i'  the  murnin'  I  seead 

that  our  Sally  went  laamed 
Cos'  o'  the  kick  as  I  gied  'er,  an'  I  wur 

dreadful  ashaamed; 
An'  Sally  wur  sloomy  *  an'  draggle  taail'd 

in  an  owd  turn  gown. 
An'  the  babby's  faace  wurn't  wesh'd  an' 

the  'ole  'ouse  hupside  down. 

^  Scold.        -  Lounging.        ^  Bellowed,  cried  out. 
*  Sluggish,  out  of  spirits. 


VIII. 

An'  then  I  minded  our  Sally  sa  pratty 

an'  neat  an'  sweeat, 
Straat  as  a  pole  an'  clean  as  a  flower  fro' 

'ead  to  feeat : 
An'  then  I  minded  the  fust  kiss  I  gied 

'er  by  Thursby  thurn; 
Theer  wur  a  lark  a-singin'  'is  best  of  a 

Sunday  at  mum. 
Couldn't  see  'im,  we  'card  'im  a-mountin' 

oop  'igher  an'  'igher, 
An'   then   'e    turn'd    to   the  sun,   an'   'e 

shined  like  a  sparkle  o'  fire. 
'  Doesn't  tha  see  'im,'  she  axes,  '  fur  I 

can  see  'im?'  an'  I 
Seead  nobbut   the  smile  o'   the  sun  as 

danced  in  'er  pratty  blue  eye; 
An'  I  says,  'I  mun  gie  tha  a  kiss,'  an' 

Sally  says  '  Noa,  thou  moant,' 
But  I  gied  'er  a  kiss,  an'  then  anoother, 

an'  Sally  says  'doant  I ' 

IX. 

An'  when  we  coom'd  into  Meeatin',  at 

fust  she  wur  all  in  a  tew, 
But,  arter,  we  sing'd  the   'ymn  togither 

like  birds  on  a  beugh; 
An'  Muggins  'e  preach'd  o'  Hell-fire  an' 

the  loov  o'  God  fur  men. 
An'  then  upo'  coomin'  awaay  Sally  gied 

me  a  kiss  ov  'ersen. 


Heer  wur  a  fall  fro'  a  kiss  to  a  kick  like 

Saatan  as  fell 
Down  out  o'  heaven  i'  Hell-fire  —  thaw 

theer's  naw  drinkin'  i'  Hell; 
Mea  fur  to  kick  our  Sally  as  kep  the  wolf 

fro'  the  door. 
All  along  o'  the  drink,  fur  I  loov'd  'er 

as  well  as  afoor. 

XI. 

Sa  like  a  great  num-cumpus  I  blubber' d 

awaay  o'  the  bed  — 
'  Weant    niver   do    it    naw   moor;'    an' 

Sally  loookt  up  an'  she  said, 
'I'll  upowd  it^  tha  weant;   thou'rt  like 

the  rest  o'  the  men, 

1  I'll  uphold  it. 


4> 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


Thou'll  goa  sniffin'  about  the  tap  till  tha 

does  it  agean. 
Theer's  thy  hennemy,  man,  an'  I  knaws, 

as  knaws  tha  sa  well, 
That,  if  tha  seeas  'im  an'  smells  'im  tha'll 

foUer  'im  slick  into  Hell.' 


XII, 

*  Naay,'  says  I,  *  fur  I  weant  goa  sniffin' 

about  the  tap.' 
'Weant    tha?'    she    says,    an'    mysen   I 
thowt  i'  mysen  '  mayhap.' 

*  Noa ; '  an'  I  started  awaay  like  a  shot, 

an'  down  to  the  Hinn, 
An'  I  browt  what  tha  seeas  stannin'  theer, 
yon  big  black  bottle  o'  gin. 

XIII. 

*  That  caps  owt,'  ^  says  Sally,  an'  saw  she 

begins  to  cry, 
But  I  puts  it  inter  'er  'ands  an'  I  says  to 
'er,  '  Sally,'  says  I, 

*  Stan'  'im  theer,  i'  the  naame  o'  the  Lord 

an'  the  power  ov  'is  Graace, 
Stan'  'im  theer  fur  I'll  loook  my  hennemy 

strait  i'  the  faace, 
Stan'  'im  theer  i'  the  winder,  an'  let  ma 

loook  at  'im  then, 
'E  seeams  naw  moor  nor  watter,  an'  'e's 

the  Divil's  oan  sen.' 

XIV. 

An'  I  wur  down  i'  tha  mouth,  couldn't  do 

naw  work  an'  all, 
Nasty  an'  snaggy  an'  shaaky,  an'  poonch'd 

ray  'and  wi'  the  hawl, 
But   she  wur   a   power  o'    coomfut,  an' 

sattled  'ersen  o'  my  knee, 
An'  coaxd  an'  coodled  me  oop  till  agean 

I  feel'd  mysen  free. 

XV. 

An'  Sally  she  tell'd   it  about,  an'  foalk 

stood  a-gawmin'  2  in' 
As  thaw  it  wur  summat  bewitch'd  istead 

of  a  quart  o'  gin; 

^  That's  beyond  everything. 
2  Staring  vacantly. 


An'  some  on  'em  said  it  wur  watter  —  an' 

I  wur  chousin'  the  wife. 
Fur  I  couldn't  'owd  'ands  off  gin,  wur  it 

nobbut  to  saave  my  life; 
An'  blacksmith  'e  strips  me  the  thick  ov 

'is  airm,  an'  'e  shaws  it  to  me, 

*  Feeal  thou   this !  thou  can't  graw  this 

upo'  watter  ! '  says  he. 
An'  Doctor  'e  calls  o'  Sunday  an'  just  as 
candles  was  lit, 

*  Thou  moant  do  it,'  he  says,  '  tha  mun 

break  'im  off  bit  by  bit.' 
'  Thou'rt  but  a  Methody-man,'  says  Par- 
son, and  laays  down  'is  'at. 
An'  'e  'points  to  the  bottle  o'  gin,  *  but  I 

respecks  tha  fur  that;' 
An'  Squire,  his  oan  very  sen,  walks  down 

fro'  the  'All  to  see. 
An'  'e  spanks  'is  'and  into  mine,  *  fur  I 

respecks  tha,'  says  'e; 
An'  coostom  agean  draw'd  in  like  a  wind 

fro'  far  an'  wide, 
And  browt  me  the  booots  to  be  cobbled 

fro'  hafe  the  coontryside. 

XVI. 

An'  theer  'e  stans  an'  theer  'e  shall  stan 

to  my  dying  daay; 
I  'a  gotten  to  loov  'im  agean  in  anoother 

kind  of  a  waay. 
Proud  on  'im,  like,  my  lad,  an'  I  keeaps 

'im  clean  an'  bright, 
Loovs  'im,  an'  roobs  'im,  an'  doosts  'im, 

an'  puts  'im  back  i'  the  light. 

XVII. 

Wouldn't  a  pint  a'  sarved  as  well  as  a 

quart  ?     Naw  doubt : 
But  I  liked  a  bigger  feller  to  fight  wi'  an' 

fowt  it  out. 
Fine  an'  meller  'e  mun  be  by  this,  if  I 

cared  to  taaste, 
But  I  moant,  my  lad,  and  I  weant,  fur 

I'd  feal  mysen  clean  disgraaced. 

XVIII. 

An'  once  I  said  to  the  Missis,  *  My  lass, 

when  I  cooms  to  die, 
Smash  the  bottle  to  smithers,  the  Divil's 

in  'im,'  said  I. 


THE  REVENGE. 


A91 


But   arter   I    chaiinged  my  mind,  an'  if 

Sally  be  left  aloan, 
I'll  hev  'im   a-buried  wi'mma  an'  taake 

'im  afoor  the  Throan. 

XIX. 

Coom   thou   'eer  —  yon   laady  a-steppin 

along  the  streeat, 
Doesn't  tha    knaw  'er  —  sa  pratty,    an' 

feat,  an'  neat,  an'  sweeat? 
Look  at  the  cloaths  on  'er  back,  thebbe 

ammost  spick-span-new. 
An'  Tommy's  faace  be  as  fresh  as  a  codlin 

wesh'd  i'  the  dew. 

XX. 

'Ere  be  our  Sally  an'  Tommy,  an'  we  be 

a-goin'  to  dine, 
Baacon   an'    taates,  an'   a    beslings-pud- 

din'  1  an'  Adam's  wine  ; 
But  if  tha  wants  ony  grog  tha  mun  goa 

fur  it  down  to  the  Hinn, 
Fur  I  weant  shed  a  drop  on  'is  blood, 

noa,  not  fur  Sally's  oan  kin. 

THE   REVENGE. 

A  BALLAD    OF  THE   FLEET. 
I. 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores   Sir  Richard 

Grenville  lay, 
And  a  pinnace,  like  a  flutter'd  bird,  came 

flying  from  far  away  : 
*  Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea !  we  have 

sighted  fifty-three ! ' 
Then    sware    Lord     Thomas    Howard : 

'  'Fore  God  I  am  no  coward; 
But   I   cannot  meet  them  here,  for   my 

ships  are  out  of  gear, 
And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must 

fly,  but  follow  quick. 
We  are  six  ships  of  the  line;    can  we 

fight  with  fifty-three?' 

n. 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville  :  '  I 
know  you  are  no  coward; 

You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with 
them  again. 

1  A  pudding  made  with  the  first  milk  of  the 
cow  after  calving. 

2K 


But  I've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are 
lying  sick  ashore. 

I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I 
left  them,  my  Lord  Howard, 

To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devil- 
doms of  Spain.' 

III. 

So    Lord    Howard   past   away  with  five 

ships  of  war  that  day. 
Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent 

summer  heaven; 
But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick 

men  from  the  land 
Very  carefully  and  slow, 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down 

below; 
For  we  brought  them  all  aboard. 
And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,   that 

they  were  not  left  to  Spain, 
To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for  the 

glory  of  the  Lord. 


TV. 


He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work 

the  ship  and  to  fight. 
And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till  the 

Spaniard  came  in  sight. 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon 

the  weather  bow. 
*  Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly? 
Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 
For  to  fight  is  but  to  die ! 
There'll  be  Httle  of  us  left  by  the  time 

this  sun  be  set.' 
And  Sir  Richard  said  again  :   '  We  be  all 

good  English  men. 
Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the 

children  of  the  devil, 
For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  Don  or 

devil  yet.' 

V. 

Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laugh'd,  and 
we  roar'd  a  hurrah,  and  so 

The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the 
heart  of  the  foe. 

With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and 
her  ninety  sick  below; 


498 


THE  REVENGE. 


For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and 
half  to  the  left  were  seen, 

And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  thro'  the 
long  sea-lane  between. 

VI. 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look'd  down 

from  their  decks  and  laugh'd, 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock 

at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delay'd 
By  their  mountain-like  San  Philip  that, 

of  fifteen  hundred  tons, 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with 

her  yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we 

stay'd. 

VII. 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip 
hung  above  us  like  a  cloud 

Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 

Long  and  loud. 

Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day. 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon 
the  starboard  lay. 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them 
all. 

VIII. 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  be- 
thought herself  and  went 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had 
left  her  ill  content; 

And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and 
they  fought  us  hand  to  hand, 

For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their 
pikes  and  musqueteers, 

And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a 
dog  that  shakes  his  ears 

When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 

IX. 

And  the  sun  went   down,  and  the  stars 

came  out  far  over  the  summer  sea, 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of 

the  one  and  the  fifty-three. 
Ship    after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 

their  high-built  galleons  came. 
Ship  after   ship,  the  whole   night   long, 

with  her  battle-thunder  and  flame: 


Ship   after  ship,  the  whole    night   long, 

drew  back  with  her  dead  and  her 

shame. 
For   some    were    sunk    and    many   were 

shatter'd,  and  so  could  fight  us  no 

more  — 
God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this 

in  the  world  before? 

X. 

For  he  said  '  Fight  on  !  fight  on  ! ' 
Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck; 
And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the 

short  summer  night  was  gone. 
With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had 

left  the  deck. 
But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing 

it  suddenly  dead. 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again   in 

the  side  and  the  head. 
And  he  said  '  Fight  on  !  fight  on  ! ' 

XI. 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun 

smiled  out  far  over  the  summer  sea. 
And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides 

lay  round  us  all  in  a  ring; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for 

they   fear'd    that   we   still    could 

sting. 
So  they  watch'd  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we. 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were 

slain. 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maim'd  for  life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the 

desperate  strife; 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were 

most  of  them  stark  and  cold, 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent, 

and  the  powder  was  all  of  it  spent; 
And    the    masts   and    the    rigging   were 

lying  over  the  side; 
liut  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride, 
'  We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day 

and  a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again  ! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men  ! 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 
We  die  —  does  it  matttr  when? 


THE   SISTERS. 


499 


Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner  —  sink 

her,  split  her  in  twain ! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the 

hands  of  Spain  ! ' 

XII. 

And  the    gunner  said  'Ay,  ay,'  but  the 

seamen  made  reply : 
'  We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if 

we  yield,  to  let  us  go; 
We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike 

another  blow.' 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they 

yielded  to  the  foe. 

XIII. 

And   the    stately  Spanish    men  to  their 

flagship  bore  him  then. 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the   mast,  old 

Sir  Richard  caught  at  last. 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with 

their  courtly  foreign  grace; 
But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried  : 
'  I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like 

a  valiant  man  and  true; 
I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is 

bound  to  do : 
With  a  joyful  spirit  I  Sir  Richard  Gren- 

ville  die  ! ' 
And  he  fell  upon  their"  decks,  and  he  died. 

XIV. 

And  they  stared  at  the   dead  that  had. 

been  so  valiant  and  true. 
And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of 

Spain  so  cheap 
That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship 

and  his  English  few; 
Was  he   devil   or  man?     He  was  devil 

for  aught  they  knew. 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honour  down 

into  the  deep, 
And  they  mann'd   the   Revenge  with  a 

swarthier  alien  crew, 
And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and 

long'd  for  her  own; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had 

ruin'd  awoke  from  sleep. 
And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the 

weather  to  moan, 


And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great 

gale  blew. 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised 

by  an  earthquake  grew. 
Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails 

and  their  masts  and  their  flags. 
And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on 

the  shot-shatter'd  navy  of  Spain, 
And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went  down 

by  the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


THE   SISTERS. 

They  have  left  the  doors  ajar;    and  by 

their  clash. 
And  prelude   on  the  keys,  I  know  the 

song, 
Their  favourite  —  which  I  call '  The  Tables 

Turned.' 
Evelyn  begins  it  '  O  diviner  Air.' 

EVELYN. 

O  diviner  Air, 

Thro'  the  heat,  the  drowth,  the  dust,  the 

glare, 
Far    from    out    the    west    in    shadowing 

showers. 
Over  all  the  meadow  baked  and  bare, 
Making  fresh  and  fair 
Ail  the  bowers  and  the  flowers, 
Fainting  flowers,  faded  bowers. 
Over  all  this  weary  world  of  ours. 
Breathe,  diviner  Air  I 

A  sweet  voice  that  —  you  scarce   could 

better  that. 
Now  follows  Edith  echoing  Evelyn. 

EDITH. 

O  diviner  light. 

Thro'  the  cloud  that  roofs  our  noon  with 

night. 
Thro'    the   blotting    mist,    the    blinding 

showers. 
Far  from  out  a  sky  for  ever  bright. 
Over  all  the  woodland's  flooded  bowers. 
Over  all  the  meadow's  drowning  flowers, 
Over  all  this  ruin'd  world  of  ours. 
Break,  diviner  light ! 


500 


THE   SISTERS. 


Marvellously   like,    their  voices  —  and 

themselves  ! 
The'  one  is  somewhat  deeper  than  the 

other, 
As    one    is   somewhat   graver    than    the 

other  — 
Edith  than  Evelyn.     Your  good  Uncle, 

whom 
You  count   the   father  of  your   fortune, 

longs 
For  this  aUiance :  let  me  ask  you  then, 
Which  voice  most  takes  you?   for  I  do 

not  doubt 
Being  a  watchful  parent,  you  are  taken 
With    one   or   other:    tho'    sometimes  I 

fear 
You   may  be  flickering,  fluttering   in  a 

doubt 
Between  the  two  —  which  must  not  be  — 

which  might 
Be  death  to  one  :  they  both  are  beautiful : 
Evelyn  is  gayer,  wittier,  prettier,  says 
The  common  voice,  if  one  may  trust  it : 

she? 
No  !  but  the  paler  and  the  graver,  Edith. 
Woo  her  and  gain  her  then :   no  waver- 
ing, boy ! 
The  graver  is  perhaps  the  one  for  you 
Who  jest  and  laugh  so  easily  and  so  well. 
For  love  will  go  by  contrast,  as  by  likes. 

No  sisters  ever  prized  each  other  more. 
Not  so  :  their  mother  and  her  sister  loved 
More  passionately  still. 

But  that  my  best 
And  oldest  friend,  your  Uncle,  wishes  it, 
And  that  I  know  you  worthy  everyway 
To  be  my  son,  I  might,  perchance,  be  loath 
To  part  them,  or  part  from  them  :   and 

yet  one 
Should  marry,  or  all  the  broad  lands  in 

your  view 
From  this  bay  window  —  which  our  house 

has  held 
Three  hundred  years  —  will  pass  collater- 
ally. 

My  father  with  a  child  on  either  knee, 
A  hand  upon  the  head  of  either  child. 
Smoothing  their  locks,  as  golden  as  his 

own 
Were  silver,  *  get  them  wedded '  would 

he  say. 


And  once  my  prattling  Edith  ask'd  him 

'why?' 
Ay,  why?  said  he,  'for  why  should  I  go 

lame? ' 
Then  told  them  of  his  wars,  and  of  his 

wound. 
.For   see  —  this   wine  —  the    grape    from 

whence  it  flow'd 
Was  blackening  on  the  slopes  of  Portugal, 
When  that  brave  soldier,  down  the  terrible 

ridge 
Plunged    in    the    last    fierce    charge    at 

Waterloo, 
And  caught  the  laming  bullet.     He  left 

me  this, 
Which  yet  retains  a  memory  of  its  youth. 
As   I    of    mine,    and    my   first    passion. 

Come ! 
Here's  to  your  happy  union  with  my  child  ! 

Yet  must  you  change  your  name :  no 
fault  of  mine ! 

You  say  that  you  can  do  it  as  willingly 

As  birds  make  ready  for  their  bridal- 
time 

By  change  of  feather :  for  all  that,  my 
boy. 

Some  birds  are  sick  and  sullen  when  they 
moult. 

An  old  and  worthy  name  !  but  mine  that 
stirr'd 

Among  our  civil  wars  and  earlier  too 

Among  the  Roses,  the  more  venerable. 

/  care  not  for  a  name  —  no  fault  of  mine. 

Once  more  —  a  happier  marriage  than  my 
own ! 

You  see  yon  Lombard  poplar  on  the 

plain. 
The  highway  running  by  it  leaves  a  breadth 
Of  sward  to  left  and  right,  where,  long 

ago. 
One  bright  May  morning  in  a  world  of 

song, 
I  lay  at  leisure,  watching  overhead 
The  aerial  poplar  wave,  an  amber  spire. 

I  dozed;   I  woke.     An  open  landaulet 
Whirl'd  by,  which,  after  it  had  past  nie, 

show'd 
Turning  my  way,  the    loveliest  face   on 

earth. 
The  face  of  one  there  sitting  opposite. 


THE   SISTERS. 


501 


On  whom  I  brought  a  strange  unhappi- 

ness, 
That  time  I  did  not  see. 

Love  at  first  sight 
May    seem — with    goodly    rhyme    and 

reason  for  it  — 
Possible  —  at  first  glimpse,  and  for  a  face 
Gone  in  a  moment  —  strange.     Yet  once, 

when  first 
I  came  on  lake  Llanberris  in  the  dark, 
A  moonless  night  with  storm  —  one  light- 
ning-fork 
Flash'd  out  the  lake;   and  tho'  I  loiter'd 

there 
The  full  day  after,  yet  in  retrospect 
That  less  than  momentary  thunder-sketch 
Of  lake  and  mountain  conquers  all  the 
day. 

The  Sun  himself  has  limn'd  the  face 

for  me. 
Not  quite  so  quickly,  no,  nor  half  as  well. 
For  look  you  here  —  the  shadows  are  too 

deep, 
And  like  the  critic's  blurring  comment 

make 
The  veriest  beauties  of  the  work  appear 
The  darkest  faults  :  the  sweet  eyes  frown  : 

the  lips 
Seem  but  a  gash.     My  sole  memorial 
Of  Edith  —  no,  the  other,  —  both  indeed. 

So  that  bright  face  was  flash'd   thro' 

sense  and  soul 
And  by  the  poplar  vanish'd  —  to  be  found 
Long  after,   as   it  seem'd,  beneath    the 

tall 
Tree-bowers,    and    those    long-sweeping 

beechen  boughs 
Of  our  New  Forest.     I  was  there  alone  : 
The  phantom  of  the  whirling  landaulet 
For  ever  past  me  by :   when  one  quick 

peal 
Of  laughter  drew  me  thro'  the  glimmer- 
ing glades 
Down  to  the  snowlike  sparkle  of  a  cloth 
On  fern  and  foxglove.    Lo,  the  face  again, 
My  Rosalind  in  this  Arden  —  Edith  —  all 
One    bloom    of    youth,    health,    beauty, 

happiness. 
And  moved  to  merriment   at   a  passing 

jest. 


There  one  of  those  about  her  knowing 

me 
Call'd  me  to  join  them;   so  with  these  I 

spent 
What  seem'd  my  crowning  hour,  my  day 

of  days. 

I  woo'd  her  then,  nor  unsuccessfully. 
The  worse  for  her,  for  me  !  was  I  content  ? 
Ay  —  no,  not  quite;   for  now  and  then  I 

thought 
Laziness,  vague  love-longings,  the  bright 

May, 
Had  made  a  heated  haze  to  magnify 
The  charm  of  Edith  —  that  a  man's  ideal 
Is    high    in    Heaven,    and    lodged   with 

Plato's  God, 
Not  findable  here  — content,  and  not  con- 
tent. 
In  some  such  fashion  as  a  man  may  be 
That  having  had  the  portrait  of  his  friend 
Drawn  by  an  artist,  looks  at  it,  and  says, 
'  Good  I  very  like  !   not  altogether  he.' 

As  yet  I  had    not   bound   myself  by 

words. 
Only  believing  I  loved  Edith,  made 
Edith   love    me.      Then    came    the    day 

when  I, 
Flattering  myself  that  all  my  doubts  were 

fools 
Born  of  the  fool  this  Age  that  doubts  of 

all  — 
Not  I  that  day  of  Edith's  love  or  mine  — 
Had  braced  mv  purpose  to  declare  my- 
self: 
I  stood  upon  the  stairs  of  Paradise. 
The  golden  gates  would  open  at  a  word. 
I  spoke  it  —  told  her  of  my  passion,  seen 
And   lost  and  found  again,  had  got  so 

far, 
Had  caught  her  hand,  her  eyelids  fell  — 

I  heard 
Wheels,  and  a  noise  of  welcome  at  the 

doors  — 
On  a  sudden  after  two  Italian  years 
Had  set  the  blossom  of  her  health  again, 
The    younger   sister,    Evelyn,    enter'd  — 

there. 
There  was  the  face,  and  altogether  she. 
The   mother    fell    about    the    daughter's 

neck. 
The  sisters  closed  in  one  another's  arms. 


502 


THE   SISTERS. 


Their  people  throng'd  about  them  from 

the  hall, 
And  in  the  thick  of  question  and  reply 
I  fled  the  house,  driven  by  one  angel  face 
And  all  the  Furies. 

I  was  bound  to  her; 
I  could  not  free  myself  in  honour  —  bound 
Not  by  the  sounded  letter  of  the  word, 
But  counterpressures  of  the  yielded  hand 
That  timorously  and  faintly  echoed  mine, 
Quick  blushes,  the  sweet  dwelling  of  her 

eyes 
Upon  me  when  she  thought  I   did   not 

see  — 
Were   these  not   bonds?    nay,    nay,    but 

could  I  wed  her 
Loving   the   other?    do    her    that   great 

wrong? 
Had  1  not  dream'd  I  loved  her  yester- 

morn? 
Had  I  not  known  where  Love,  at  first  a 

fear. 
Grew  after  marriage  to  full  height  and 

form? 
Yet    after    marriage,    that    mock-sister 

there  — 
Brother-in-law  —  the  fiery  nearness  of  it  — 
Unlawful  and  disloyal  brotherhood  — 
What  end  but  darkness  could  ensue  from 

this 
For  all  the  three  ?     So  Love  and  Honour 

jarr'd 
Tho'  Love   and  Honour  join'd  to  raise 

the  full 
High-tide  of  doubt  that  sway'd  me  up 

and  down 
Advancing  nor  retreating. 

Edith  wrote : 
*  My  mother  bids  me  ask'  (I  did  not  tell 

you  — 
A  widow  with  less  guile   than  many  a 

child. 
God  help  the  wrinkled  children  that  are 

Christ's 
As  well  as  the  plump  cheek  —  she  wrought 

us  harm. 
Poor  soul,  not  knowing)   'are  you  ill?' 

(so  ran 
The  letter)  '  you  have  not  been  here  of 

late. 
You  will  not  lind  me  here.     At  last  I  "[o 


On  that  long-promised  visit  to  the  North. 
I  told  your  wayside  story  to  my  mother 
And     Evelyn.       She     remembers     you. 

Farewell. 
Pray  come  and  see  my  mother.     Almost 

blind 
With  ever-growing  cataract,  yet  she  thinks 
She  sees   you  when   she  hears.     Again 

farewell.' 

Cold  words  from  one  I  had  hoped  to 

warm  so  far 
That   I   could  stamp  my  image  on   her 

heart ! 
'  Pray    come    and   see    my  mother,   and 

farewell.' 
Cold,   but   as   welcome   as   free    airs   of 

heaven 
After   a   dungeon's    closeness.       Selfish, 

strange  ! 
What   dwarfs    are    men !    my   strangled 

vanity 
Utter'd  a  stifled  cry  —  to  have  vext  myself 
And  all  in  vain  for  her  —  cold  heart  or 

none  — 
No  bride  for  me.     Yet  so  my  path  was 

clear 
To  win  the  sister. 

Whom  I  woo'd  and  won. 

For  Evelyn  knew  not  of  my  former  suit. 

Because  the  simple  mother  work'd  upon 

By  Edith  pray'd  me  not  to  whisper  of  it. 

And  Edith  would  be  bridesmaid  on  the 

day. 
But  on  that  day,  not  being  all  at  ease, 
I  from  the  altar  glancing  back  upon  her. 
Before  the  first  '  I  will  '  was  utter'd,  saw 
The  bridesmaid  pale,  statuelike,  passion- 
less— 
'  No  harm,  no  harm,'  I  turn'd  again,  and 

placed 
My  ring  upon  the  finger  of  my  bride. 

So,  when  we  parted,  Edith  spoke  no 

word, 
She  wept  no  tear,  but  round  my  Evelyn 

clung 
In  utter  silence  for  so  long,  I  thought, 
'  What,  will  she  never  set  her  sister  free?  ' 

We  left  her,  happy  each  in  each,  and 
then, 
As  tho'  the  happiness  of  each  in  each 


THE   SISTERS. 


503 


Were  not  enough,  must  fain  have  torrents, 

lakes, 
Hills,  the  great  things  of  Nature  and  the 

fair. 
To  lift  us  as  it  were  from  commonplace, 
And  help   us  to   our  joy.     Better   have 

sent 
Our  Edith  thro'  the  glories  of  the  earth, 
To  change  with  her  horizon,  if  true  Love 
Were  not  his  own  imperial  all-in-all. 

Far  off  we  went.     My  God,  I  would  not 
live 
Save  that  I  think  this  gross  hard-seem- 
ing world 
Is  our  misshaping  vision  of  the  Powers 
Behind  the  world,  that  make  our  griefs 
our  gains. 

For  on  the  dark  night  of  our  marriage- 
day 
The  great  Tragedian,  that  had  quench'd 

herself 
In  that  assumption  of  the  bridesmaid  — 

she 
That  loved  me  —  our    true    Edith  —  her 

brain  broke 
With  over-acting,  till  she  rose  and  fled 
Beneath  a  pitiless  rush  of  Autumn  rain 
To  the  deaf  church — to  be  let  in  —  to 

pray 
Before  that  altar  —  so  I  think;  and  there 
They  found  her  beating  the  hard  Protes- 
tant doors. 
She  died  and  she  was  buried  ere  we  knew. 

I  learnt  it  first.     I  had  to  speak.     At 

once 
The  bright  quick  smile  of  Evelyn,  that 

had  sunn'd 
The  morning  of  our  marriage,  past  away  : 
And  on  our  home-return  the  daily  want 
Of  Edith  in  the  house,  the  garden,  still 
Haunted  us  like  her  ghost;  and  by  and 

by, 

Either  from  that  necessity  for  talk 
Which  lives  with  blindness,  or  plain  in- 
nocence 
Of  nature,  or  desire  that  her  lost  child 
Should    earn    from   both    the    praise    of 

heroism, 
The  mother  broke    her  promise    to   the 
dead. 


And  told  the  living  daughter  with  what 

love 
Edith  had  welcomed  my  brief  wooing  of 

her, 
And    all    her    sweet    self-sacrifice    and 

death. 

Henceforth  that  mystic  bond  betwixt 

the  twins  — 
Did  I  not   tell  you  they  were  twins?  — 

prevail'd 
So  far  that  no  caress  could  win  my  wife 
Back  to  that  passionate  answer  of   full 

heart 
I   had  from  her  at  first.     Not   that  her 

love, 
Tho'  scarce  as  great  as  Edith's  power  of 

love. 
Had  lessen'd,  but  the  mother's  garrulous 

wail 
For  ever  woke  the  unhappy  Past  again. 
Till  that  dead  bridesmaid,  meant  to   be 

my  bride. 
Put  forth  cold  hands  between  us,  and  I 

fear'd 
The  very  fountains  of  her  life  were  chill'd; 
So  took  her  thence,  and  brought  her  here, 

and  here 
She  bore    a  child,  whom  reverently  we 

caird 
Edith;   and  in  the  second  year  was  born 
A  second  —  this  I  named  from  her  own 

self, 
Evelyn ;    then  two  weeks  —  no  more  — 

she  joined. 
In  and  beyond  the  grave,  that  one  she 

loved. 
Now  in  this  quiet  of  declining  life. 
Thro'  dreams  by  night  and  trances  of  the 

day. 
The  sisters  glide  about  me  hand  in  hand, 
Both  beautiful  alike,  nor  can  I  tell 
One  from  the  other,  no,  nor  care  to  tell 
One    from    the    other,    only    know    they 

come, 
They  smile   upon  me.  till,  remembering 

all 
The  love  they  both  have  born  me,  and 

the  love 
I  bore  them  both  —  divided  as  I  am 
From  either  by  the  stillness  of  the  grave  — 
I   know  not  which   of  these  I  love  the 

best. 


504 


THE    VILLAGE    WIFE;    OR,    THE   ENTAIL. 


Bnt you  love  Edith;  and  her  own  true 

eyes 
Are  traitors  to  her;    our  quick  Evelyn  — 
The  merrier,  prettier,  wittier,  as  they  talk, 
And  not  without  good  reason,  my  good 

son  — 
Is  yet  untouch'd :   and  I  that  hold  them 

both 
Dearest  of  all  things  —  well,   I  am  not 

sure  — 
But  if  there  lie  a  preference  eitherway, 
And  in  the  rich  vocabulary  of  Love 
'  Most  dearest '  be  a  true  superlative  — 
I  think  /  likewise  love  your  Edith  most. 


THE    VILLAGE  WIFE;    OR,    THE 
ENTAIL.1 


'OusE-KEEPER  sent  tha  my  lass,  fur  New 
Squire  coom'd  last  night. 

Butter  an'  heggs  —  yis  —  yis.  I'll  goa  wi' 
tha  back  :  all  right; 

Butter  I  warrants  be  prime,  an'  J  war- 
rants the  heggs  be  as  well, 

Hafe  a  pint  o'  milk  runs  out  when  ya 
breaks  the  shell. 

II. 

Sit  thysen  down  fur  a  bit :  hev  a  glass  o' 

cowslip  wine  ! 
I  liked  the  owd  Squire  an'  'is  gells  as 

thaw  they  was  gells  o'  mine, 
Fur  then  we  was  all  es  one,  the  Squire 

an'  'is  darters  an'  me, 
Hall  but  Miss  Annie,  the  heldest,  I  niver 

not  took  to  she  : 
But  Nelly,  the  last  of  the  cletch,^  I  liked 

'er  the  fust  on  'em  all. 
Fur  hoffens  we  talkt  o'  my  darter  es  died 

o'  the  fever  at  fall : 
An'  I  thowt  'tvvur  the  will  o'  the  Lord,  but 

Miss  Annie  she  said  it  wur  draains. 
Fur  she  hedn't  naw  coomfut  in  'er,  an' 

arn'd  naw  thanks  fur  'er  paains. 
Eh?  thebbe  all  wi'  the  Lord  my  childer, 

I  han't  gotten  none  ! 
Sa  new  Squire's  coom'd  wi'  'is  taail  in  'is 

'and,  an'  owd  Squire's  gone. 

1  See  note  to  '  Northern  Cobbler.' 
2  A  brood  of  chickens. 


III. 


Fur  'staate  be  i'  taail,  my  lass :  tha  dosn' 
knaw  what  that  be? 

But  I  knavvs  the  law,  I  does,  for  the  law- 
yer ha  towd  it  me. 

'  When  theer's  naw  'ead  to  a  'Ouse  by 
the  fault  o'  that  ere  maale  — 

The  gells  they  counts  fur  nowt,  and  the 
next  un  he  taakes  the  taail.' 


IV. 


What  be  the  next  un  like?  can  tha  tell 

ony  harm  on  'im,  lass?  — 
Naay  sit  down  —  naw  'urry  —  sa  cowd  !  — 

hev  another  glass  ! 
Straange  an'  cowd  fur  the  time  !  we  may 

happen  a  fall  o'  snaw  — 
Not  es  I  cares  fur  to  hear  ony  harm,  but 

I  likes  to  knaw. 
An'  1  'oaps  es  'e  beant  boooklarn'd :   but 

'e  dosn'  not  coom  fro'  the  shere; 
We'd  anew  o'  that  wi'  the  Squire,  an'  we 

haates  boooklarnin'  'ere. 


Fur  Squire  wur  a  Varsity  scholard,  an' 

niver  lookt  arter  the  land  — 
Whoats  or  tonups  or  taates  —  'e  'ed  hall  us 

a  boook  i'  'is  'and, 
Hallus  aloan  wi'  'is  boooks,  thaw  nigh 

upo'  seventy  year. 
An'  boooks,  what's  boooks?  thou  knaws 

thebbe  naither  'ere  nor  theer. 

VI. 

An'  the  gells,  they  hedn't  naw  taails,  an' 

the  lawyer  he  towd  it  me 
That   'is   taail  were  soa  tied    up    es  he 

couldn't  cut  down  a  tree  ! 
'  Drat   the  trees,'  says   I,  to  be   sewer  I 

haates  'em,  my  lass. 
Fur   we   puts  the  muck  o'  the  land  an' 

they  sucks  the  muck  fro'  the  grass. 

VII. 

An'  Squire  wur  hallus  a-smilin',  an'  gied 
to  the  tramps  goin'  by  — 

An'  all  u'  the  wust  i'  the  parish  —  wi' 
hoffens  a  drop  in  'is  eye. 


THE    VILLAGE    WIFE;    OR,    THE   ENTAIL. 


505 


An'  ivry  darter  o'  Squire's  hed  her  awn 

ridin-erse  to  'ersen, 
An'  they  rampaged  about  wi'  their  grooms, 

an'  was  'untin'  arter  the  men, 
An'  hallus  a-dallackt  ^  an'  dizen'd  out,  an' 

a-buyin'  new  cloathes, 
While  'e  sit  like  a  great  glimmer-gowk  '^ 

wi'  'is  glasses  athurt  'is  noase, 
An'  'is  noase  sa  grafted  wi'  snuff  es  it 

couldn't  be  scroob'd  awaay. 
Fur  atween  'is  readin'  an'  writin'  'e  snifft 

up  a  box  in  a  daay. 
An'  'e  niver  runn'd   arter   the    fox,  nor 

arter  the  birds  wi'  'is  gun. 
An'  'e  niver  not   shot    one  'are,  but    'e 

leaved  it  to  Charlie  'is  son, 
An'  'e  niver  not  fish'd  'is  awn  ponds,  but 

Charlie  'e  cotch'd  the  pike. 
For  'e  warn't  not  burn  to  the  land,  an'  'e 

didn't  take  kind  to  it  like; 
But  I  'ears  es  'e'd  gie  fur  a  howry^  owd 

book  thutty  pound  an'  moor. 
An'  'e'd  wrote  an  owd  book,  'is  awn  sen, 

sa  I  knaw'd  es  'e'd  coom  to  be  poor ; 
An'  'e  gied  —  I  be  fear'd  fur  to  tell  tha  'ow 

much  —  fur  an  owd  scratted  stoan. 
An'  'e  digg'd  up  a  loomp  i'  the  land  an' 

'e  got  a  brown  pot  an'  a  boan. 
An'  'e  bowt  owd  money,  es  wouldn't  goa, 

wi'  good  gowd  o'  the  Queen, 
An'  'e  bowt  little  statutes  all-naakt  an' 

which  was  a  shaame  to  be  seen; 
But  'e  niver   loookt  ower  a  bill,  nor  'e 

niver  not  seed  to  owt, 
An'  'e  niver  knawd  nowt  but  boooks,  an' 

boo5ks,  as  thou  knaws,  beant  nowt. 

VIII. 

But  owd  Squire's  laady  es  long  es  she 

lived  she  kep  'em  all  clear, 
Thaw  es  .long  es  she  lived  I  niver  hed 

none  of  'er  darters  'ere; 
But  arter  she  died  we  was  all  es  one,  the 

childer  an'  me, 
An'  sarvints  runn'd  in  an'  out,  an'  offens 

we  hed  'em  to  tea. 
Lawk  !   'ow  I  laugh'd  when  the  lasses  'ud 

talk  o'  their  Missis's  waays, 
An'  the  Missisis  talk'd  o'  the  lasses. — 

I'll  tell  tha  some  o'  these  daays. 


^  Overdrest  in  gay  colours. 
3  Filthy. 


2  Owl. 


Hoanly  ^Nliss  Annie  were  saw  stuck  cop, 

like  'er  mother  afoor  — 
'Er  an'  'er   blessed    darter  —  they  niver 

derken'd  my  door. 


IX. 


x\n'   Squire  'e  smiled    an'  'e  smiled   till 

'e'd  gotten  a  fright  at  last. 
An'  'e  calls  fur  'is  son,  fur  the  'turney's 

letters  they  foller'd  sa  fast; 
But  Squire  wur  afear'd  o'  'is  son,  an'  'e 

says  to  'im,  meek  as  a  mouse, 
'  Lad,  thou  rhun  cut  off  thy  taail,  or  the 

gells  'ull  goa  to  the  'Ouse, 
Fur  I  finds  es  I  be  that  i'  debt,  es  I  'oaps 

es  thou'll  'elp  me  a  bit, 
An'  if  thou'll  'gree  to  cut  off  thy  taail  I 

may  saave  mysen  yit.' 


X. 


But  Charlie  'e  sets  back  'is  ears,  an'  'e 

swears,  an'  'e  says  to  'im  '  Noii. 
I've  gotten  the  'staate   by  the  taail  an' 

be  dang'd  if  I  iver  let  goa ! 
Coom !    coom !    feyther,'    'e   says,    '  why 

shouldn't  thy  boooks  be  sowd? 
I    hears  es  soom  o'    thy  boooks  mebbe 

worth  their  weight  i'  gowd.' 


XI. 


Heaps  an'  heaps  o'  boooks,  I  ha'  see'd 

'em,  belong'd  to  the  Squire, 
But  the  lasses  'ed  teard  out  leaves  i'  the 

middle  to  kindle  the  fire; 
Sa  moast  on  'is  owd  big  boooks  fetch'd 

nigh  to  nowt  at  the  saale, 
And  Squire  were  at  Charlie  agean  to  git 

'im  to  cut  off  'is  taail. 


XII. 


Ya  wouldn't  find  Charlie's  likes  —  'e  were 
that  outdacious  at  'oam, 

Not  thaw  ya  went  fur  to  raake  out  Hell 
wi'  a  small-tooth  coamb  — 

Droonk  wi'  the  Quoloty's  wine,  an'  droonk 
wi'  the  farmer's  aale, 

Mad  wi'  the  lasses  an'  all  —  an'  'e  would- 
n't cut  off  the  taail. 


5o6 


THE    VILLAGE    WIFE;    OR,  THE  ENTAIL. 


XIII. 

Thou's  coom'd  oop  by  the  beck;   and  a 

thurn  be  a-grawin'  theer, 
I  niver  ha'  see'd  it  sa  white  wi'  the  Maay 

es  I  see'd  it  to-year  — 
Theerabouts  CharHe  joompt  —  and  it  gied 

me  a  scare  tother  night, 
Fur  I  thowt  it  wur  Charlie's  ghoast  i'  the 

derk,  fur  it  loookt  sa  white. 
'Billy,'  says  'e,  '  hev  a  joomp! '  —  thaw 

the  banks  o'  the  beck  be  sa  high, 
Fur  'e  ca'd  'is  'erse  Billy-rough-un,  thaw 

niver  a  hair  wur  awry; 
But    Billy  fell   bakkuds    o'    Charlie,   an' 

Charlie  'e  brok  'is  neck, 
Sa  theer  wur  a  hend  o'  the  taail,  fur  'e 

lost  'is  taail  i'  the  beck. 

XIV. 

Sa  'is  taail  wur  lost  an'  'is  boooks  wur 

gone  an'  'is  boy  wur  dead, 
An'  Squire  'e  smiled,  an  'e  smiled,  but  'e 

niver  not  lift  oop  'is  'ead : 
Hallus  a  soft  un  Squire  !  an'  'e  smiled, 

fur  'e  hedn't  naw  friend, 
Sa  feyther  an'  son  was  buried  togither, 

an'  this  wur  the  hend. 

XV. 

An'  Parson  es   hesn't   the  call,  nor  the 

mooney,  but  hes  the  pride, 
'E  reads  of  a  sewer  an'  sartan  'oap    o' 

the  tother  side; 
But  I  beant  that  sewer  es  the  Lord,  how- 

siver  they  praay'd  an'  praay'd, 
Lets    them   inter    'eaven   easy  es   leaves 

their  debts  to  be  paaid. 
Siver  the  mou'ds  rattled  down  upo'  poor 

owd  Squire  i'  the  wood, 
An'  I  cried  along  wi'  the  gells,  fur  they 

weant  niver  coom  to  naw  good. 

XVI. 

Fur  Molly  the  long  un  she  walkt  awaay 

wi'  a  hofificer  lad, 
An'  nawbody  'ejird  on  'er  sin,  sa  o'  coorse 

she  be  gone  to  the  bad  ! 
An'  Lucy  wur  laiime  o'  one  leg,  sweet- 

'arts  she  niver  'ed  none  — 
Straange  an'  unheppen  ^  Miss  Lucy  I   we 

najimed  her  '  Dot  an'  gaw  one  ! ' 

I  Ungainly,  awkward. 


An'  Hetty  wur  weak  i'  the  hattics,  wi'out 

ony  harm  i'  the  legs. 
An'  the  fever  'ed  baaked  Jinny's  'ead  es 

bald  es  one  o'  them  heggs. 
An'  Nelly  wur  up  fro'  the  craadle  es  big 

i'  the  mouth  es  a  cow, 
An'  saw  she  mun  hammergrate,!  lass,  or 

she  weiint  git  a  maate  onyhow  I 
An'  es  for  Miss  Annie  es  call'd  me  afoor 

my  awn  foalks  to  my  faace 
*  A  hignorant  village  wife  as  'ud  hev  to 

be  larn'd  'er  awn  plaace,' 
Hes  fur  Miss  Hannie  the  heldest  hes  now 

be  a-grawin'  sa  howd, 
I  knaws  that  mooch  o'  shea,  es  it  beant 

not  fit  to  be  towd ! 

XVII. 

Sa  I  didn't  not  taake  it  kindly  ov  owd 

Miss  Annie  to  saay 
Es  I  should  be  talkin'  ageiin  'em,  es  soon 

es  they  went  awaay. 
Fur,  lawks !   'ow  I  cried  when  they  went, 

an'  our  Nelly  she  gied  me  'er  'and, 
Fur  I'd  ha'  done  owt  for  the  Squire  an' 

'is  gells  es  belong'd  to  the  land; 
Boooks,  es  I  said  afoor,  thebbe  neyther 

'ere  nor  theer ! 
But  I  sarved  'em  wi'  butter  an'  heggs  fur 

huppuds  o'  twenty  year. 

XVIII. 

An'  they  hallus  paaid  what  I  hax'd,  sa  I 

hallus  deal'd  wi'  the  Hall, 
An'  theyknaw'd  what  butter  wur,  an'  they 

knaw'd  what  a  hegg  wur  an'  all; 
Hugger-mugger    they    lived,    but    they 

wasn't  that  easy  to  please. 
Till    I   gied  'em  Hinjian  curn,  an'  they 

laaid  big  heggs  es  tha  seeiis; 
An'   I    niver    puts  saame  -  i'  viy  butter, 

they  does  it  at  Willis's  farm, 
Taaste  another  drop  o'  the  wine  —  tweant 

do  tha  naw  harm. 

XIX. 

Sa  new  Squire's  coom'd  wi'  'is  taail  in  'is 
'and,  an'  owd  Squire's  gone; 

1  heard  'im  a  roomlin'  by,  but  avter  my 
nightcap  wur  on ; 

'  Emigrate.  -  Lard. 


IN   THE    CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL. 


507 


Sa  I  han't  clapt  eyes  on  'im  yit,  fur  he 
coom'd  last  night  sa  laate  — 

Pluksh  !  !  I  ^  the  hens  i'  the  peas  1  why 
didn't  tha  hesp  the  gaate? 


IN  THE   CHILDREN'S 
HOSPITAL. 

EMMIE. 


Our  doctor  had  call'd  in  another,  I  never 

had  seen  him  before, 
But  he  sent  a  chill  to  my  heart  when  I 

saw  him  come  in  at  the  door, 
Fresh  from  the  surgery-schools  of  France 

and  of  other  lands  — 
Harsh  red  hair,  big  voice,  big  chest,  big 

merciless  hands ! 
Wonderful  cures  he  had  done,  O  yes,  but 

they  said  too  of  him 
He  was  happier  using  the  knife  than  in 

trying  to  save  the  limb, 
And  that  I  can  w^ell  believe,  for  he  look'd 

so  coarse  and  so  red, 
I  could  think  he  was  one  of  those  who 

would  break  their  jests  on  the  dead. 
And  mangle  the  living  dog  that  had  loved 

him  and  fawn'd  at  his  knee  — 
Drench'd  with  the  hellish  oorali  —  that 

ever  such  things  should  be  ! 


Here  was  a  boy  —  I  am  sure  that  some  of 

our  children  would  die 
But  for  the  voice  of  Love,  and  the  smile, 

and  the  comforting  eye  — 
Here  was  a  boy  in  the  ward,  every  bone 

seem'd  out  of  its  place  — 
Caught  in  a  mill  and  crush'd  —  it  was  all 

but  a  hopeless  case  : 
And  he  handled  him  gently  enough;  but 

his  voice  and  his  face  were  not  kind, 
And  it  was  but  a  hopeless  case,  he  had 

seen  it  and  made  up  his  mind. 
And  he  said  to  me  roughly  '  The  lad  will 

need  little  more  of  your  care.' 
'  All  the  more  need,'  I  told  him,  '  to  seek 

the  Lord  Jesus  in  prayer; 

'  A  cry  accompanied  by   a  clapping  of  hands 
to  scare  trespassing  fowl. 


They  are  all  his  children  here,  and  I  pray 

for  them  all  as  my  own :  ' 
But  he  turn'd  to  me,  '  Ay,  good  woman, 

can  prayer  set  a  broken  bone? ' 
Then  he  mutter'd  half  to  himself,  but  I 

know  that  I  heard  him  say 
*  All  very  well  —  but  the  good  Lord  Jesus 

has  had  his  day.' 

III. 

Had?  has  it  come?     It  has  only  dawn'd. 

It  will  come  by  and  by. 
O  how  could  I  serve  in  the  wards  if  the 

hope  of  the  world  were  a  lie? 
How  could  I  bear  with  the  sights  and  the 

loathsome  smells  of  disease 
But  that  He  said  '  Ye  do  it  to  me,  when 

ye  do  it  to  these '? 

IV. 

So  he  went.     And  we  past  to  this  ward 

where   the   younger  children   are 

laid: 
Here  is  the  cot  of  our  orphan,  our  dar- 
ling, our  meek  little  maid ; 
Empty  you  see  just  now  I     We  have  lost 

her  who  loved  her  so  much  — 
Patient  of  pain  tho'  as  quick  as  a  sensi- 
tive plant  to  the  touch; 
Hers  was  the  prettiest  prattle,  it  often 

moved  me  to  tears, 
Hers  was  the  gratefullest   heart  I  have 

found  in  a  child  of  her  years  — 
Nay,  you  remember  our  Emmie  ;  you  used 

to  send  her  the  flowers; 
How  she  would  smile  at  'em,  play  with 

'em,  talk  to  'em  hours  after  hours  I 
They  that  can  wander  at  will  where  the 

works  of  the  Lord  are  reveal'd 
Little  guess  what  joy  can  be  got  from  a 

cowslip  out  of  the  field ; 
Flowers  to  these  '  spirits  in  prison  '  are  all 

they  can  know  of  the  spring, 
They  freshen  and  sweeten  the  wards  like 

the  waft  of  an  Angel's  wing; 
And  she  lay  with  a  flower  in  one  hand  and 

her  thin  hands  croston  her  breast — 
Wan,  but  as  pretty  as  heart  can  desire, 

and  we  thought  her  at  rest, 
Quietly  sleeping  —  so    quiet,  our  doctor 

said  '  Poor  little  dear, 
Nurse,    I    must   do  it  to-morrow;   she'll 

'never  live  thro'  it,  I  fear.' 


5o8 


DEDICATORY  POEM   TO    THE  PRINCESS  ALICE. 


V. 

I  walk'd  with  our  kindly  old  doctor  as 
far  as  the  head  of  the  stair, 

Then  I  return'd  to  the  ward;  the  child 
didn't  see  I  was  there. 

VI. 

Never  since  I  was  nurse,  had  I  been  so 

grieved  and  so  vext ! 
Emmie  had  heard  him.     Softly  she  call'd 

from  her  cot  to  the  next, 
'  He  says  I  shall  never  live   thro'  it,  O 

Annie,  what  shall  I  do?  ' 
Annie  consider'd.     '  If  I,'  said  the  wise 

little  Annie,  '  was  you, 
I  should  cry  to  the   dear  Lord  Jesus  to 

help  me,  for,  Emmie,  you  see, 
It's    all   in   the    picture    there :    "  Little 

children  should  come  to  me."  ' 
(Meaning  the  print  that  you  gave  us,  I 

find  that  it  always  can  please 
Our  children,  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  with 

children  about  his  knees.) 

*  Yes,  and  I  will,'  said  Emmie,  '  but  then 

if  I  call  to  the  Lord, 
How  should  he  know  that  it's  me?  such 

a  lot  of  beds  in  the  ward  !  ' 
That  was  a  puzzle  for  Annie.    Again  she 

consider'd  and  said : 

*  Emmie,  you  put  out  your  arms,  and  you 

leave  'em  outside  on  the  bed  — 
The  Lord  has  so  mtich  to  see  to  I  but, 

Emmie,  you  tell  it  him  plain. 
It's  the  little  girl  with  her  arms  lying  out 

on  the  counterpane.' 

VII. 

I  had  sat  three  nights  by  the  child  —  I 

could  not  watch  her  for  four  — 
My  brain  had    begun  to  reel  —  I  felt  I 

could  do  it  no  more. 
That  was  my  sleeping-night,  but  I  thought 

that  it  never  would  pass. 
There  was   a   thunderclap    once,  and    a 

clatter  of  hail  on  the  glass. 
And  there  was  a  phantom  cry  that  I  heard 

as  I  tost  about. 
The  motherless  bleat  of  a  lamb  in  the 

storm  and  the  darkness  without; 
My  sleep  was  broken  besides  with  dreams 

of  the  dreadful  knife 
And  fears  for  our  delicate   Emmie  who 

scarce  would  escape  with  her  life; 


Then  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  it  seem'd 
she  stood  by  me  and  smiled. 

And  the  doctor  came  at  his  hour,  and  we 
went  to  see  to  the  child. 

VIII. 

He  had    brought  his  ghastly    tools :  we 

believed  her  asleep  again  — 
Her  dear,  long,  lean,  little  arms  lying  out 

on  the  counterpane; 
Say  that  His  day  is  done  !  Ah  why  should 

we  care  what  they  say? 
The  Lord  of  the  children  had  heard  her, 

and  Emmie  had  past  away. 

DEDICATORY      POEM      TO     THE 
PRINCESS   ALICE. 

Dead   Princess,  living   Power,  if  that, 

which  lived 
True  life,  live  on  —  and  if  the  fatal  kiss^ 
Born  of  true  life  and  love,  divorce  thee 

not 
From  earthly  love  and  life  —  if  what  we 

call 
The  spirit  flash  not  all  at  once  from  out 
This  shadow  into  Substance  —  then  per- 
haps 
The  mellow'd    murmur  of  the  people's 

praise 
From    thine    own    State,    and    all    our 

breadth  of  realm. 
Where  Love  and  Longing  dress  thy  deeds 

in  light, 
Ascends  to  thee;   and  this  March  morn 

that  sees 
Thy  Soldier-brother'sbridal  orange-bloom 
Break  thro'  the  yews  and  cypress  of  thy 

grave. 
And  thine  Imperial  mother  smile  again, 
May  send  one  ray  to  thee  !  and  who  can 

tell  — 
Thou  —  England's  England-loving  daugh- 
ter—  thou 
Dying  so  English  thou  vvouldst  have  her 

flag 
Borne  on  thy  coffin^ where  is  he   can 

swear 
But   that  some   broken  gleam  from  our 

poor  earth 
May  touch  thee,  while  remembering  thee, 

I  lay 


THE  DEFENCE    OF  LUCK  NO  IV. 


509 


At  thy  pale  feet  this  ballad  of  the  deeds 
Of    England,    and    her    banner    in    the 
East? 

THE  DEFENCE   OF   LUCKNOW. 


Banner  of  England,  not  for  a  season,  O 

banner  of  Britain,  hast  thou 
Floated  in  conquering  battle  or  flapt  to 

the  battle-cry  ! 
Never  with  mightier  glory  than  when  we 

had  rear'd  thee  on  high 
Flying  at  top  of  the  roofs  in  the  ghastly 

siege  of  Lucknow  — 
Shot  thro'  the  staff  or  the  halyard,  but 

ever  we  raised  thee  anew, 
And    ever   upon    the    topmost   roof  our 

banner  of  England  blew. 

II. 

Frail  were  the  works  that  defended  the 

hold  that  we  held  With  our  lives  — 
Women  and  children  among  us,  God  help 

them,  our  children  and  wives! 
Hold  it  we  might  —  and  for  fifteen  days 

or  for  twenty  at  most. 
'Never    surrender,    I    charge    you,   but 

every  man  die  at  his  post ! ' 
Voice  of  the  dead  whom  we  loved,  our 

Lawrence  the  best  of  the  brave  : 
Cold   were    his    brows   when   we    kiss'd 

him  —  we  laid  him  that  night  in 

his  grave. 
'  Every  man  die  at  his  post !  '  and  there 

hail'd  on  our  houses  and  halls 
Death  from  their  rifle-bullets,  and  death 

from  their  cannon-balls. 
Death   in    our  innermost    chamber,  and 

death  at  our  slight  barricade. 
Death  while  we  stood  with  the  musket, 

and  death  while  we  stoopt  to  the 

spade, 
Death  to  the  dying,  and  wounds  to  the 

wounded,  for  often  there  fell. 
Striking  the  hospital  wall,  crashing  thro' 

it,  their  shot  and  their  shell, 
'  Death  —  for  their  spies  were  among  us, 

their  marksmen  were  told  of  our 

best, 
So  that  the  brute  bullet  broke  thro'  the 

brain  that  could  think  for  the  rest; 


Bullets  would  sing  by  our  foreheads,  and 

bullets  would  rain  at  our  feet  — 
Fire  from  ten  thousand   at  once  of  the 

rebels  that  girdled  us  round  — 
Death  at  the   glimpse  of  a  finger  from 

over  the  breadth  of  a  street, 
Death  from  the  heights  of  the  mosque 

and  the  palace,  and  death  in  the 

ground  ! 
Mine?     yes,    a    mine!       Countermine! 

down,  down  !   and  creep  thro'  the 

hole! 
Keep  the  revolver  in  hand  !  you  can  hear 

him  —  the  murderous  mole  ! 
Quiet,  ah  !  quiet  —  wait  till  the  point  of 

the  pickaxe  be  thro' ! 
Click  with  the  pick,  coming  nearer  and 

nearer  again  than  before  — 
Now  let  it  speak,  and  you  fire,  and  the 

dark  pioneer  is  no  more; 
And    ever    upon    the    topmost   roof  our 

banner  of  England  blew ! 

III. 

Ay,  but  the  foe  sprung  his  mine  many 

times,  and  it  chanced  on  a  day 
Soon  as  the  blast  of  that  underground 

thunderclap  echo'd  away. 
Dark  thro'  the  smoke   and  the   sulphur 

like    so    many     fiends     in     their 

hell  — 
Cannon-shot,     musket-shot,     volley     on 

volley,  and  yell  upon  yell  — 
Fiercely  on  all  the  defences  our  myriad 

enemy  fell. 
What  have  they  done?  w^here  is  it?     Out 

yonder.     Guard  the  Redan  ! 
Storm  at  the  Water-gate  !   storm  at  the 

Bailey-gate  !  storm,  and  it  ran 
Surging   and   swaying    all    round  us,  as 

ocean  on  every  side 
Plunges  and   heaves  at   a  bank   that  is 

daily  devour'd  by  the  tide  — 
So  many  thousands  that  if  they  be  bold 

enough,  who  shall  escape? 
Kill  or  be  kill'd,  live  or  die,  they  shall 

know  we  are  soldiers  and  men  ! 
Ready!     take    aim    at    their    leaders  — 

their  masses  are  gapp'd  with  our 

grape  — 
Backward  they  reel  like  the  wave,  like 

the  wave  flinging  forward  again, 


5IO 


THE  DEFENCE    OF  LUCK  NOW. 


Flying  and  foil'd  at  the  last  by  the  hand- 
ful they  could  not  subdue; 

And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 

IV, 

Handful  of  men   as  we  were,  we  were 

English  in  heart  and  in  limb, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  race  to 

command,  to  obey,  to  endure, 
Each  of  us  fought  as  if  hope  for  the  gar- 
rison hung  but  on  him  ; 
Still  —  could  we  watch  at  all  points?  we 

were  every  day  fewer  and  fewer. 
There  was  a  whisper  among  us,  but  only 

a  whisper  that  past : 
*  Children  and  wives  —  if  the  tigers  leap 

into  the  fold  unawares  — 
Every  man  die  at  his  post  —  and  the  foe 

may  outlive  us  at  last  — 
Better  to  fall  by  the  hands  that  they  love, 

than  to  fall  into  theirs !  ' 
Roar  upon  roar  in  a  moment  two  mines 

by  the  enemy  sprung 
Clove  into  perilous  chasms  our  walls  and 

our  poor  palisades. 
Rifleman,  true  is  your  heart,  but  be  sure 

that  your  hand  be  as  true  ! 
Sharp  is  the  fire  of  assault,  better  aimed 

are  your  flank  fusillades  — 
Twice  do  we  hurl  them  to  earth  from  the 

ladders  to  which  they  had  clung, 
Twice  from  the  ditch  where  they  shelter 

we  drive  them  with  hand-grenades ; 
And    ever    upon    the    topmost   roof  our 

banner  of  England  blew. 


Then  on  another  wild  morning  another 
wild  earthquake  out-tore 

Clean  from  our  lines  of  defence  ten  or 
twelve  good  paces  or  more. 

Rifleman,  high  on  the  roof,  hidden  there 
from  the  light  of  the  sun  — 

One  has  leapt  up  on  the  breach,  crying 
out :  '  Follow  me,  follow  me  I '  — 

Mark  him  —  befalls!  then  another,  and 
him  too,  and  down  goes  he. 

Had  they  been  bold  enough  then,  who 
can  tell  but  the  traitors  had  won? 

Boardings  and  rafters  and  doors  —  an  em- 
brasure I  make  wav  for  the  gun  ! 


Now  double-charge  it  with  grape  !     It  is 

charged     and    we    hre,    and    they 

run. 
Praise  to  our  Indian  brothers,  and  let  the 

dark  face  have  his  due  ! 
Thanks    to    the   kindly  dark   faces  who 

fought  with  us,  faithful  and  few. 
Fought  with  the  bravest  among  us,  and 

drove  them,  and  smote  them,  and 

slew, 
That    ever  upon    the  topmost    roof  our 

banner  in  India  blew. 


VI. 


Men  will  forget  what  we  suffer  and  not 

what  we  do.     We  can  fight ! 
But  to  be  soldier  all  day  and  be  sentinel 

all  thro'  the  night  — 
Ever  the   mine    and  assault,  our  sallies, 

their  lying  alarms. 
Bugles  and  drums  in  the  darkness,  and 

shoutings  and  soundings  to  arms, 
Ever  the  labour  of  fifty  that  had  to  be 

done  by  five. 
Ever  the  marvel  among  us  that  one  should 

be  left  alive. 
Ever  the   day  with  its  traitorous   death 

from  the  loopholes  around, 
Ever  the  night  with  its  coffinless  corpse 

to  be  laid  in  the  ground, 
Heat  like  the  mouth  of  a  hell,  or  a  deluge 

of  cataract  skies, 
Stench  of  old  offal  decaying,  and  infinite 

torment  of  flies, 
Thoughts  of  the  breezes  of  May  blowing 

over  an  English  field. 
Cholera,  scurvy,  and    fever,   the  wound 

that  ivoulJ  not  be  heal'd, 
Lopping  away  of  the  limb  by  the  pitiful- 
pitiless  knife,  — 
Torture  and  trouble  in  vain,  —  for  it  never 

could  save  us  a  life. 
Valour  of  delicate  women  who  tended  the 

hospital  bed, 
Horror  of  women  in  travail  among  the 

dying  and  dead, 
Grief    for    our   perishing    children,    and 

never  a  moment  for  grief, 
Toil    and    ineftable    weariness,    faltering 

hopes  of  relief, 
Havelock  baffled,  or  beaten,  or  butcher'd 

for  all  that  we  knew  — 


S/7^  J  OHM  OLDCASTLE,   LORD    COB  HAM. 


5" 


Then  day  and  night,  day  and  night,  com- 
ing down  on  the  still-shatter'd 
walls 

Millions  of  musket-bullets,  and  thousands 
of  cannon-balls  — 

But  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 

VII. 

Hark  cannonade,  fusillade  !  is  it  true  what 

was  told  Ijy  the  scout, 
Outram  and  Havelock  breaking  their  way 

through  the  fell  mutineers? 
Surely  the  pibroch  of  Europe  is  ringing 

again  in  our  ears  ! 
All  on  a  sudden  the  garrison  utter  a  jubi- 
lant shout, 
Havelock's  glorious  Highlanders  answer 

with  conquering  cheers. 
Sick  from  the  hospital  echo  them,  women 

and  children  come  out, 
Blessing   the  wholesome  white    faces  of 

Havelock's  good  fusileers, 
Kissing   the  war-harden'd    hand  of  the 

Highlander  wet  with  their  tears! 
Dance  to  the  pibroch  I  —  saved  I   we  are 

saved  !  —  is  it  you?  is  it  you? 
Saved  by  the  valour  of  Havelock,  saved 

by  the  blessing  of  Heaven  ! 
*  Hold  it  for  fifteen  days  !  '  we  have  held 

it  for  eighty-seven  ! 
xVnd  ever  aloft  on  the  palace  roof  the  old 

banner  of  England  blew. 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,   LORD 
COBHAM. 

(in  wales.) 

Mv  friend   should  meet  me  somewhere 

hereabout 
To  take  me  to  that  hiding  in  the  hills. 

I  have  broke  their  cage,  no  gilded  one, 

I  trow  — 
I  read  no  more  the  prisoner's  mute  wail 
Scribbled    or    carved    upon    the    pitiless 

stone; 
I  find  hard  rocks,  hard  life,  hard  cheer, 

or  none, 
For  I  am  emptier  than  a  friar's  brains; 
But  God  is  with  me  in  this  wilderness. 


These  wet  black  passes  and  foam-churn- 
ing chasms  — 

And  God's  free  air,  and  hope  of  better 
things. 

I  would  I  knew  their  speech;   not  now 

to  glean. 
Not  now  —  I  hope  to  do  it  —  some  scat- 

ter'd  ears. 
Some  ears  for  Christ  in  this  wild  field  of 

Wales  — 
But,    bread,    merely    for    bread.      This 

tongue  that  wagg'd 
They  said  with  such  heretical  arrogance 
Against  the  proud  archbishop  Arundel  — 
So  much  God's  cause  was  fluent  in  it  — 

is  here 
But  as  a  Latin  Bible  to  the  crowd; 
'  Bara  ! '  —  what   use?      The    Shepherd, 

when  I  speak. 
Veiling  a  sudden  eyelid  with  his  hard 
'  Dim    Saesneg '  passes,  wroth  at  things 

of  old  — 
No  fault  of  mine.     Had  he  God's  word 

in  Welsh 
He  might  be  kindlier  :  happily  come  the 

day ! 

Not  least  art  thou,  thou  little  Bethle- 
hem 
In  Judah,  for  in  thee  the  Lord  was  born; 
Nor  thou  in  Britain,  little  Lutterworth, 
Least,  for  in   thee    the  word  was   born 
again. 

Heaven-sweet      Evangel,      ever-living 

word, 
W'ho  whilome    spakest  to  the  South   in 

Greek 
About  the  soft  Mediterranean  shores. 
And  then  in  Latin  to  the  Latin  crowd, 
As  good  need  was  —  thou  hast  come  to 

talk  our  isle. 
Hereafter  thou,  fulfilling  Pentecost, 
Must  learn  to  use  the  tongues  of  all  the 

world. 
Yet  art  thou  thine  own  witness  that  thou 

bringest 
Not  peace,  a  sword,  a  fire. 

What  did  he  say, 
My    frighted    Wiclif-preacher   whom    I 

crost 
In  flying  hither?  that  one  night  a  crowd 


512 


SIR  JOHN   OLDCASTLE,   LORD    COB  HAM. 


Throng'd  the  waste  field  about  the  city 

gates : 
The  king  was  on  them  suddenly  with  a 

host. 
Why  ■  there  ?    they    came    to   hear    their 

preacher.     Then 
Some    cried  on  Cobham,  on    the    good 

Lord  Cobham; 
Ay,  for  they  love  me !    but  the  king  — 

nor  voice 
Nor  finger  raised  against  him  —  took  and 

hang'd, 
Took,  hang'd  and  burnt  —  how  many  — 

thirty-nine  — 
Call'd  it  rebellion  —  hang'd,  poor  friends, 

as  rebels 
And  burn'd  alive  as  heretics !    for  your 

Priest 
Labels  —  to   take    the   king   along  with 

him  — 
All   heresy,   treason:    but   to    call   men 

traitors 
May  make  men  traitors. 

Rose  of  Lancaster, 
Red  in  thy  birth,  redder  with  household 

war. 
Now   reddest    with   the    blood    of   holy 

men, 
Redder  to  be,  red  rose  of  Lancaster  — 
If  somewhere  in  the  North,  as  Rumour 

sang 
Fluttering  the  hawks  of  this  crown-lust- 
ing line  — 
By  firth  and  loch  thy  silver  sister  grow,i 
That  were  my  rose,  there  my  allegiance 

due. 
Self-starved,   they  say  —  nay,    murder'd, 

doubtless  dead. 
So  to  this  king  I  cleaved :  my  friend  was 

he, 
Once  my  fast  friend :  I  would  have  given 

my  life 
To  help  his  own  from  scathe,  a  thousand 

lives 
To  save  his  soul.     He  might  have  come 

to  learn 
Our  Wiclif's   learning:    but  the  worldly 

Priests 
Who  fear  the  king's  hard  common-sense 

should  find 
What  rotten  piles  uphold    their  mason- 
work, 

1  Richard  II. 


Urge    him    to    foreign  war.     O    had   he 

will'd 
I  might  have  stricken  a  lusty  stroke  for 

him. 
But   he  would   not;    far   liever   led   my 

friend 
Back  to  the  pure  and  universal  church, 
But  he  would  not :  whether  that  heirless 

flaw 
In  his  throne's   title   make  him  feel  so 

frail, 
He  leans  on  Antichrist;  or  that  his  mind, 
So  quick,  so  capable  in  soldiership. 
In  matters  of  the  faith,  alas  the  while  ! 
More  worth    than  all  the   kingdoms  of 

this  world. 
Runs  in  the  rut,  a  coward  to  the  Priest. 

Burnt  —  good   Sir   Roger   Acton,   my 

dear  friend ! 
Burnt  too,  my  faithful  preacher,  Beverley  ! 
Lord   give  thou  power  to  thy  two  wit- 
nesses ! 
Lest   the   false    faith   make   merry  over 

them  ! 
Two  —  nay,  but  thirty-nine  have  risen  and 

stand. 
Dark  with  the  smoke  of  human  sacrifice, 
Before  thy  light,  and  cry  continually  — 
Cry  —  against  whom  ? 

Him,  who  should  bear  the  sword 
Of  Justice  —  what !    the   kingly,   kindly 

boy; 
Who  took  the  world  so  easily  heretofore, 
My  boon  companion,  tavern-fellow  —  him 
Who  gibed  and  japed  —  in  many  a  merry 

tale 
That    shook    our   sides  —  at   Pardoners, 

Summoners, 
Friars,  absolution-sellers,  monkeries 
And  nunneries,  when  the  wild  hour  and 

the  wine 
Had  set  the  wits  aflame. 

Harry  of  Monmouth, 
Or  Amuratli  of  the  East? 

Better  to  sink 
Thy  fleurs-de-lys  in  slime  again,  and  fling 
Thy  royalty  back  into  the  riotous  fits 
Of  wine  and  harlotry  —  thy  shame,  and 

mine. 
Thy    comrade  —  than    to    persecute    the 

Lord, 
And  play  the  Saul  that  never  will  be  Paul. 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,   LORD    COB  HAM. 


513 


Burnt,   burnt !    and  while  this  mitred 

Arundel 
Dooms  our    unlicensed  preacher  to  the 

flame, 
The   mitre-sanction'd    harlot    draws   his 

clerks 
Into  the  suburb  —  their  hard  celibacy, 
Sworn    to    be   veriest    ice    of  pureness, 

molten 
Into  adulterous  living,  or  such  crimes 
As   holy    Paul  —  a   shame   to    speak    of 

them  — 
Among  the  heathen  — 

Sanctuary  granted 
To  bandit,  thief,  assassin  —  yea  to  him 
Who  hacks  his  mother's  throat  —  denied 

to  him. 
Who   finds   the    Saviour   in   his  mother 

tongue. 
The  Gospel,  the  Priest's  pearl,  flung  down 

to  swine  — 
The  swine,  lay-men,  lay-women,  who  will 

come, 
God  willing,  to  outlearn  the  filthy  friar. 
Ah  rather.  Lord,  than  that  thy  Gospel, 

meant 
To  course  and  range  thro'  all  the  world, 

should  be 
Tether'd   to   these    dead    pillars   of  the 

Church  — 
Rather  than  so,  if  thou  wilt  have  it  so. 
Burst  vein,  snap  sinew,  and  crack  heart, 

and  life 
Pass  in  the  fire  of  Babylon !     But  how 

long, 
O  Lord,  how  long ! 

My  friend  should  meet  me  here. 
Here  is  the  copse,  the  fountain  and  —  a 

Cross ! 
To  thee,  dead  wood,  I  bow  not  head  nor 

knees, 
Rather  tq  thee,  green  boscage,  work  of 

God, 
Black  holly,  and  white-flower'd  wayfar- 
ing-tree. 
Rather     to     thee,     thou     living    water, 

drawn 
By  this  good  Wiclif  mountain  down  from 

heaven. 
And     speaking    clearly    in    thy    native 

tongue  — 
No  Latin —  He  that  thirsteth,  come  and 

drink  ! 


Eh  !  how  I  anger'd  Arundel  asking  me 
To  worship  Holy  Cross !     I  spread  mine 

arms, 
God's  work,   I  said,  a  cross  of  flesh  and 

blood 
And   holier.      That   was   heresy.      (My 

good  friend 
By    this    time    should     be    with     me.) 

'  Images?' 
'  Bury  them  as  God's  truer  images 
Are  daily  buried.'    '  Heresy.  —  Penance  ? ' 

'  Fast, 
Hairshirt  and  scourge  —  nay,  let  a  man 

repent. 
Do  penance  in  his  heart,  God  hears  him.' 

'  Heresy  — 
Not  shriven,  not  saved?  '     '  What  profits 

an  ill  Priest 
Between  me  and  my  God?     I  would  not 

spurn 
Good  counsel  of  good  friends,  but  shrive 

myself 
No,  not  to  an  Apostle.'     '  Heresy.' 
(My  friend   is  long   in   coming.)     '  Pil- 
grimages? ' 
*  Drink,     bagpipes,     revelling,     devil's- 

dances,  vice. 
The  poor  man's  money  gone  to  fat  the 

friar. 
Who  reads  of  begging  saints  in  Script- 
ure ?  — '  Heresy '  — 
(Hath  he  been  here  —  not  found  me  — 

gone  again? 
Have  I  mislearnt  our  place  of  meeting?) 

'  Bread  — 
Bread  left  after  the  blessing?'  how  they 

stared. 
That    was    their    main    test-question  — 

glared  at  me  ! 
'  He  veil'd  Himself  in  flesh,  and  now  He 

veils 
His    flesh   in    bread,    body    and    bread 

together.' 
Then  rose  the  howl  of  all  the  cassock'd 

wolves, 
*No   bread,    no    bread.       God^s   body!' 

Archbishop,  Bishop, 
Priors,      Canons,      Friars,      bellringers, 

Parish-clerks  — 
'  No  bread,   no  bread  ! '  — '  Authority  of 

the  Church, 
Power  of  the  keys  !  '  —  Then  I,  God  help 

me,  I 


2L 


514 


COLUMBUS. 


So   mock'd,  so    spurn'd,   so    baiteil    two 
whole  days  — 

I  lost  myself  and  fell  from  evenness, 

And  rail'd  at    all    the   Popes,   that  ever 
since 

Sylvester    shed    the    venom    of    world- 
wealth 

Into  the  church,  had  only  prov'n  them- 
selves 

Poisoners,  murderers.     Well  —  God  par- 
don all  — 

Me,  them,  and  all  the  world  —  yea,  that 
proud  Priest, 

That  mock-meek  mouth  of   utter  Anti- 
christ, 

That   traitor  to  King   Richard   and   the 
truth, 

Who  rose  and  doom'd  me  to  the  fire. 

Amen ! 

Nay,  I  can  burn,  so  that  the  Lord  of  life 

Be  by  me  in  my  death. 

Those  three  !  the  fourth 

Was  like  the  Son  of  God !     Not  burnt 
were  they. 

On  them  the  smell  of  burning  had  not 
past. 

That  was  a  miracle  to  convert  the  king. 

These  Pharisees,  this  Caiaphas- Arundel 

What    miracle    could    turn?      He   here 
again. 

He  thwarting  their    traditions  of   Him- 
self, 

He  would  be  found  a  heretic  to  Himself, 

And  doom'd  to  burn  alive. 

So,  caught,  I  burn. 

Burn?  heathen  men  have  borne  as  much 
as  this. 

For  freedom,  or  the  sake  of  those  they 
loved, 

Or  some  less  cause,  some  cause  far  less 
than  mine; 

For    every    other    cause    is    less     than 
mine. 

The    moth   w'ill    singe    her   wings,    and 
singed  return. 

Her  love  of  light  quenching  her  fear  of 
pain  — 

How  now,  my  soul,  we  do  not  heed  the 
fire? 

Faint-hearted?     tut !  —  faint-stoniach'd  ! 
faint  as  I  am, 

God  willing,  I  will  l)uru  for  Him. 

Who  comes? 


A     thousand    marks    are    set     upon    my 

head. 
Friend  ?  —  foe  perhaps  —  a    tussle  for  it 

then! 
Nay,  but  my  friend.     Thou  art  so   well 

disguised, 
I   knew  thee   not.     Hast    thou   brought 

bread  with  thee? 
I  have  not  broken  bread  for  fifty  hours. 
None?     I    am   damn'd    already   by   the 

Priest 
For  holding  there  was  bread  where  bread 

was  none  — 
No  bread.     My  friends  await  me  yonder? 

Yes. 
Lead  on  then.      Up  the  mountain?     Is 

it  far? 
Not  far.     Climb  first  and  reach  me  down 

thy  hand. 
I  am  not  like  to  die  for  lack  of  bread 
For  I  must  live  to  testify  by  fire.^ 


COLUMBUS. 

Chains,  my  good   lord :    in  your  raised 

brows  I  read 
Some  wonder  at  our  chamber  ornaments. 
We  brought  this  iron  from  our  isles  of 

gold. 

Does  the  king  know  you  deign  to  visit 

him 
Whom  once  he  rose  from  off  his  throne 

to  greet 
Before  his  people,  like  his  brother  king? 
I  saw  your  face  that  morning  in  the  crowd. 

At  Barcelona  —  tho'  you  were  not  then 
So    bearded.      Yes.      The    city    deck'd 

herself 
To  meet  me,  roar'd  my  name;   the  king, 

the  queen 
Bade  me  be  seated,  speak,  and  tell  them 

all 
The  story   of  my  voyage,   and   while    I 

spoke 
The  crowd's  roar  fell  as  at  the  '  Peace, 

be  still !  ' 
And  when  I  ceased  to  speak,  the  king, 

the  queen, 

^  He  was  burnt  on  Christmas  Day,  1417. 


COLUMBUS. 


515 


Sank  from  their  thrones,  and  melted  into 

tears, 
And  knelt,  and  lifted  hand  and  heart  and 

voice 
In  praise  to  God  who  led  me  thro'  the 

waste. 
And  then  the  great  '  Laudamus  '  rose  to 

heaven. 

Chains  for  the  Admiral  of  the  Ocean  I 

chains 
For  him  who  gave  a  new  heaven,  a  new 

earth. 
As  holy  John  had  prophesied  of  me. 
Gave  glory  and  more  empire  to  the  kings 
Of  Spain  than  all  their  battles !    chains 

for  him 
Who  push'd  his  prows  into   the   setting 

sun, 
And   made    West    East,    and    sail'd   the 

Dragon's  mouth, 
And    came    upon   the   Mountain   of  the 

World, 
And  saw  the  rivers  roll  from  Paradise  ! 

Chains  !  we  are  Admirals  of  the  Ocean, 

we, 
We  and  our  sons  for  ever.     Ferdinand 
Hath   sign'd  it  and   our   Holy  Catholic 

queen  — 
Of  the  Ocean  —  of  the  Indies  —  Admirals 

we  — 
Our  title,  which  we  never  mean  to  yield, 
Our  guerdon  not  alone  for  what  we  did. 
But  our  amends  for' all  w^e  might   have 

done  — 
The  vast  occasion  of  our  stronger  life  — 
Eighteen  long  years  of  waste,  seven  in 

your  Spain, 
Lost,  showing  courts  and  kings  a  truth 

the  babe 
Will  suck  in  with  his  milk  hereafter  — 

earth 
A  sphere. 

Were  j<7?^  at  Salamanca?     No. 
We    fronted   there    the    learning    of    all 

Spain, 
All  their  cosmogonies,  their  astronomies : 
Guess-w^ork  they  guess'd  it,  but  the  golden 

guess 
Is  morning-star  to  the  full  round  of  truth. 
No  guess-work  I  I  was  certain  of  my  goal; 


Some  thought  it  heresy,  but  that  would 

not  hold. 
King  David  call'd  the  heavens  a  hide,  a 

tent 
Spread  over  earth,  and  so  this  earth  was 

flat: 
Some  cited  old  Lactantius :   could  it  be 
That    trees    grew    downward,    rain    fell 

upward,  men 
Walk'd  like  the  fly  on  ceilings?  and  be- 
sides. 
The    great    Augustine   wrote    that    none 

could  breathe 
Within  the  zone  of  heat;   so  might  there 

be 
Two    Adams,    two    mankinds,   and    that 

was  clean 
Against  God's  word :  thus  was  I  beaten 

back, 
And  chiefly  to  my  sorrow  by  the  Church, 
And  thought  to  turn  my  face  from  Spain, 

appeal 
Once  more  to  France  or  England;   but 

our  Queen 
Recall'd  me,  for  at  last  their  Highnesses 
Were  half-assured  this  earth  might  be  a 

sphere. 

All  glory  to  the  all-blessed  Trinity, 
All  glory  to  the  mother  of  our  Lord, 
And  Holy  Church,  from  whom  I  never 

swerved 
Not  even  by  one  hair's-breadth  of  heresy, 
I  have  accomplish'd  what  I  came  to  do. 

Not  yet  —  not  all  —  last  night  a  dream 

-  I  sail'd 
On  my  first  voyage,  harass'd  by  the  frights 
Of  my  first  crew,  their  curses  and  their 

groans. 
The  great  flame-banner  borne  by  Tene- 

riffe, 
The  compass,  like  an  old  friend  false  at 

last 
In  our  most  need,  appall'd  them,  and  the 

wind 
Still  westward,  and  the  weedy  seas  —  at 

length 
The  landbird,  and  the  branch  with  berries 

on  it. 
The  carven  staff" — and  last  the  light,  the 

light 
On  Guanahani !  but  I  changed  the  name; 


516 


COLUMBUS. 


San  Salvador  I  call'd  it;  and  the  light 
Grew  as  I  gazed,  and  brought  out  a  broad 

sky 
Of  dawning  over  —  not  those  alien  palms, 
The    marvel    of    that    fair    new    nature 

—  not 

That  Indian  isle,  but  our  most  ancient 

East 
Moriah  with  Jerusalem;   and  I  saw 
The  glory  of  the  Lord  flash  up,  and  beat 
Thro'  all  the  homely  town  from  jasper, 

sapphire, 
Chalcedony,  emerald,  sardonyx,  sardius, 
Chrysolite,  beryl,  topaz,  chrysoprase, 
Jacynth,  and  amethyst  —  and  those  twelve 

gates. 
Pearl  —  and  I  woke,  and  thought  —  death 

—  I  shall  die  — 

I  am  written  in  the  Lamb's  own  Book  of 

Life 
To  walk  within  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
Sunless  and  moonless,  utter  light  —  but 

no  ! 
The  Lord  had  sent  this  bright,  strange 

dream  to  me 
To  mind  me  of  the  secret  vow  I  made 
When  Spain  was  waging  war  against  the 

Moor  — 
I  strove   myself  with  Spain  against  the 

Moor. 
There  came  two  voices  from  the  Sepul- 
chre, 
Two   friars  crying  that  if  Spain  should 

oust 
The  Moslem  from  her  limit,  he,  the  fierce 
Soldan  of  Egypt,  Nvould  break  down  and 

raze 
The  blessed  tomb  of  Christ;  whereon  I 

vow'd 
That,    if    our    Princes   harken'd   to   my 

prayer. 
Whatever  wealth  I  brought  from  that  new 

world 
Should,  in  this  old,  be  consecrate  to  lead 
A  new  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 
And  free  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall. 

Gold?     I   had    brought    your    Princes 

gold  enough 
If  left  alone  !     Being  but  a  Genovese, 
I  am  handled  worse  than  had  I  been  a 

Moor, 
And  breach'd  the  belting  wall  of  Cambalu, 


And  given  the  Great  Khan's  palaces  to 

the  Moor, 
Or  clutch'd  the  sacred  crown  of  Prester 

John, 
And   cast  it    to    the    Moor :    but   had  I 

brought 
From  Solomon's  now-recover'd  Ophir  all 
The  gold  that  Solomon's  navies  carried 

home, 
Would  that  have  gilded  me?    Blue  blood 

of  Spain, 
Tho'  quartering  your  own  royal  arms  of 

Spain, 
I  have  not :  blue  blood  and  black  blood 

of  Spain, 
The  noble  and  the  convict  of  Castile, 
Howl'd    me    from    Hispaniola;    for  you 

know 
The  flies  at  home,  that  ever  swarm  about 
And  cloud  the  highest  heads,  and  mur- 
mur down 
Truth  in  the  distance  —  these  outbuzz'd 

me  so 
That  even  our  prudent  king,  our  right- 
eous queen  — 
I  pray'd  them  being  so  calumniated 
They  would  commission   one  of  weight 

and  worth 
To  judge  between  my  slander'd  self  and 

me  — 
Fonseca  my  main  enemy  at  their  court, 
They  sent  me  out  his  tool,  Bovadilla,  one 
As  ignorant  and  impolitic  as  a  beast  — 
Blockish  irreverence,  brainless  greed  — 

who  sack'd 
My   dwelling,   seized    upon   my   papers, 

loosed 
My  captives,  fed  the  rebels  of  the  crown, 
Sold  the  crown-farms  for  all  but  nothing, 

gave 
All  but    free  leave   for  all  to  work  the 

mines. 
Drove  me  and  my  good  brothers  home 

in  chains. 
And  gathering  ruthless  gold  —  a  single 

piece 
Weigh'd  nigh  four  thousand  Castillanos 

—  so 
They  tell  me  —  weigh'd  him  down  into 

the  abysm  — 
The  hurricane  of  the  latitude  on  him  fell. 
The  seas  of  our  discovering  over-roll 
Him  and  his  gold;    the  frailer  caravel, 


COLUMBUS. 


517 


With  what  was  mine,  came   happily   to 

the  shore. 
There  was  a  ghmmering  of  God's  hand. 

And  God 
Hath  more  than  ghmmer'd  on  me.     O 

my  lord, 
I  swear  to  you  I  heard  his  voice  between 
The  thunders  in  the  black  Veragua  nights, 
'  O  soul  of  little  faith,  slow  to  believe  I 
Have    I  not  been  about  thee  from  thy 

birth? 
Given  thee  the  keys  of  the  great  Ocean- 
sea? 
Set   thee  in  light  till   time  shall  be  no 

more? 
Is  it  I  who  have  deceived  thee  or  the 

world  ? 
Endure  1  thou  hast  done  so  well  for  men, 

that  men 
Cry  out  against  thee  :   was  it  otherwise 
With  mine  own  Son  ?  ' 

And  more  than  once  in  days 
Of  doubt    and    cloud    and  storm,  when 

drowning  hope 
Sank  all  but  out  of  sight,  I   heard  his 

voice, 
'  Be  not  cast  down.     I  lead  thee  by  the 

hand. 
Fear  not.'      And  I  shall  hear  his  voice 

again  — 
I  know  that  he  has  led  me  all  my  life, 
I  am  not  yet  too  old  to  work  his  will  — 
His  voice  again. 

Still  for  all  that,  my  lord, 
I  lying  here  bedridden  and  alone, 
Cast  off,  put   by,  scouted  by  court  and 

king  — 
The  first  discoverer  starves  —  his  follow- 
ers, all 
Flower  into  fortune —  our  world's  way  — 

and  I, 
Without  a  roof  that  I  can  call  mine  own, 
With  scarce  a  coin  to  buy  a  meal  withal. 
And  seeing  what  a  door  for  scoundrel  scum 
I  open'd  to  the  West,  thro'  which  the  lust, 
Villany,  violence,  avarice,  of  your  Spain 
Pour'd  in  on  all  those  happy  naked  isles  — 
Their  kindly  native  princes  slain  or  slaved, 
Their  wives  and  children  Spanish  concu- 
bines, 


Their  innocent  hospitalities  quench'd  in 

blood. 
Some  dead  of  hunger,  some  beneath  the 

scourge, 
Some  over-labour'd,  some  by  their  own 

hands,  — 
Yea,  the   dear  mothers,  crazing  Nature, 

kill 
Their  babies  at  the    breast    for  hate  of 

Spain  — 
Ah  God,  the  harmless  people  whom  we 

found 
In  Hispaniola's  island-Paradise ! 
Who    took    us   for   the  very  Gods  from 

Heaven, 
And  we  have  sent  them  very  fiends  from 

Hell; 
And  I  myself,  myself  not  blameless,  I 
Could  sometimes  wish  I  had  never  led 

the  way. 

Only  the  ghost  of  our  great  Catholic 
Queen 

Smiles  on  me,  saying,  '  Be  thou  com- 
forted ! 

This  creedless  people  will  be  brought  to 
Christ 

And  own  the  holy  governance  of  Rome.' 

But  who  could  dream  that  we,  who  bore 

the  Cross 
Thither,  were  excommunicated  there, 
For  curbing  crimes  that  scandalised  the 

Cross, 
By  him,  the  Catalonian  Minorite, 
Rome's  Vicar  in  our  Indies?  who  believe 
These    hard   memorials    of  our  truth   to 

Spain 
Clung  closer  to  us  for  a  longer  term 
Than  any  friend  of  ours  at  Court?  and  yet 
Pardon  —  too  harsh,  unjust.    I  am  rack'd 

with  pains. 

You  see  that  I  have  hung  them  by  my 
bed, 
And  I  will  have  them  buried  in  my  grave. 

Sir,  in  that  flight  of  ages  which  are 
God's 

Own  voice  to  justify  the  dead,  —  per- 
chance 

Spain  once  the  most  chivalric  race  on 
earth, 


5i8 


THE    VOYAGE    OF  MAELDUNE. 


Spain  then  the  mightiest,  wealthiest  reahn 

on  earth, 
vSo  made  by  me,  may  seek  to  unbury  me, 
To   lay  me   in  some    shrine    of  this    old 

Spain, 
Or  in  that  vaster  Spain  I  leave  to  Spain. 
Then  some  one  standing  by  my  grave  will 

say, 
*  Behold     the     bones     of     Christopher 

Colon '  — 
'  Ay,  but  the  chains,  what  do  they  mean 

—  the  chains  ?  '  — 
I  sorrow  for  that  kindly  child  of  Spain 
Who   then  will  have   to  answer,  '  These 

same  chains 
Bound  these  same  bones  back  thro'  the 

Atlantic  sea, 
Which  he  unchain'd  for  all  the  world  to 

come.' 

O  Queen  of  Heaven  who  seest  the  souls 

in  Hell 
And  purgatory,  I  suffer  all  as  much 
As  they  do  —  for  the  moment.     Stay,  my 

son 
Is  here  anon  :  my  son  will  speak  for  me 
Ablier  than  I  can  in  these  spasms  that 

grind 
Bone  against  bone.     You  will  not.     One 

last  word. 

You  move  about  the  Court,  I  pray  vou 

tell 
King  Ferdinand,  who  plays  with  me,  that 

one 
Whose  life  has  been  no  play  with  him  and 

his 
Hidalgos  —  shipwrecks,  famines,   fevers, 

fights. 
Mutinies,    treacheries — wink'd    at,    and 

condoned  — 
That  I  am  loyal  to  him  till  the  death, 
And    ready  —  tho'    our     Holy    Catholic 

Queen, 
Who  fain  had  pledged  her  jewels  on  my 

first  voyage. 
Whose    hope    was    mine    to    spread   the 

Catholic  faith, 
Who  wept  with  me  when   I  return'd   in 

chains. 
Who  sits  beside  the  blessed  V^irgin  now, 
To  \\  horn  1  send  my  prayer  by  night  and 

day  •— 


She  is  gone  —  but  you  will  tell  the  King, 

that  I, 
Rack'd  as  I  am  with  gout,  and  wrench'd 

with  pains 
Gain'd  in  the  service  of  His  Highness,  yet 
Am  ready  to  sail  forth  on  one  last  voyage. 
And  readier,  if  the  King  would  hear,  to 

lead 
One  last  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 
And    save    the    Holy    Sepulchre    from 

thrall. 

Going?     I  am  old  and  slighted  :  you 

have  dared 
Somewhat  perhaps  in  coming?  my  poor 

thanks ! 
I  am  but  an  alien  and  a  Genovese. 


THE  VOYAGE   OF  MAELDUNE. 

(founded    on    an    IRISH    LEGEND. 
A.D.    700.) 

I. 

I  WAS   the   chief  of  the   race  —  he  had 

stricken  my  father  dead  — 
But    I    gather'd  my  fellows  together,   I 

swore  I  would  strike  off  his  head. 
Each  of  them  look'd  like  a  king,  and  was 

noble  in  birth  as  in  worth. 
And  each  of  them  boasted  he  sprang  from 

the  oldest  race  upon  earth. 
Each  was  as  brave   in  the  fight  as  the 

bravest  hero  of  song. 
And  each  of  them  liefer  had  died  than 

have  done  one  another  a  wrong. 
He  lived  on  an  isle   in  the  ocean  —  we 

sail'd  on  a  Friday  morn  — 
He    that   had   slain    my  father    the  day 

before  I  was  born. 


And  we  came  to  the  isle  in  the  ocean, 
and  there  on  the  shore  was  he. 

But  a  sudden  blast  blew  us  out  and  away 
thro'  a  boundless  sea. 

III. 

And  we  lame  to  the  Silent  Isle  that  we 
never  had  touch'd  at  before. 

Where  a  silent  ocean  always  broke  on  a 
silent  shore, 


THE    VOYAGE    OF  MAELDUNE. 


519 


And  the  brooks  glitter'd  on  in  the  Hght 

without  sound,  and  the  long  water- 
falls 
Pour'din  a  thunderless  plunge  to  the  base 

of  the  mountain  walls, 
And  the  poplar  and  cypress  unshaken  by 

storm  flourish'd  up  beyond  sight. 
And  the  pine  shot  aloft  from  the  crag  to 

an  unbelievable  height, 
And  high  in  the  heaven  above  it  there 

flicker'd  a  songless  lark, 
And  the  cock  couldn't  crow,  and  the  bull 

couldn't  low,  and  the  dog  couldn't 

bark. 
And  round  it  we  went,  and  thro'  it,  but 

never  a  murmur,  a  breath  — 
It  was  all  of  it  fair  as  life,  it  was  all  of  it 

quiet  as  death. 
And    we   hated    the   beautiful    Isle,   for 

whenever  we  strove  to  speak 
Our  voices  were  thinner  and  fainter  than 

any  flittermouse-shriek; 
And  the  men  that  were  mighty  of  tongue 

and  could  raise  such  a  battle-cry 
That  a  hundred  who  heard  it  would  rush 

on  a  thousand  lances  and  die  — 
O  they  to  be  dumb'd  by  the  charm  I  — so 

fluster'd  with  anger  were  they 
They  almost  fell  on  each  other;   but  after 

we  sail'd  away. 


IV. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Shouting,  we 

landed,  a  score  of  wild  birds 
Cried   from   the    topmost    summit   with 

human  voices  and  words; 
Once  in  an  hour  they  cried,  and  whenever 

their  voices  peal'd 
The  steer  fell  down  at  the  plow  and  the 

harvest  died  from  the  field, 
And  the  men  dropt  dead  in  the  valleys 

and  half  of  the  cattle  went  lame, 
And  the  roof  sank  in  on  the  hearth,  and 

the  dwelling  broke  into  flame; 
And  the  shouting  of  these  wild  birds  ran 

into  the  hearts  of  my  crew, 
Till  they  shouted  along  with  the  shouting 

and  seized  one  another  and  slew; 
But  I  drew  them  the  one  from  the  other; 

I  saw  that  we  could  not  stay, 
And  we  left  the  dead  to  the  birds  and  we 

sail'd  with  our  wounded  away. 


And  we  came   to   the    Isle   of  Flowers : 

their  breath  met  us  out  on  the  seas. 
For  the  Spring  and  the  middle  Summer 

sat  each  on  the  lap  of  the  breeze; 
And  the  red  passion-flower  to  the  cliffs, 

and  the  dark-blue  clematis,  clung. 
And  starr'd  with  a  myriad  blossom  the 

long  convolvulus  hung; 
And  the  topmost  spire  of  the  mountain 

was  lilies  in  lieu  of  snow, 
And  the  lilies  like  glaciers  winded  down, 

running  out  below 
Thro'  the  fire  of  the  tulip  and  poppy,  the 

blaze  of  gorse,  and  the  blush 
Of  millions  of  roses  that  sprang  without 

leaf  or  a  thorn  from  the  bush; 
And  the  whole   isle-side   flashing   down 

from  the  peak  without  ever  a  tree 
Swept  like  a  torrent  of  gems  from  the  sky 

to  the  blue  of  the  sea; 
And  we  roU'd  upon  capes  of  crocus  and 

vaunted  our  kith  and  our  kin, 
And  we  wallow'd  in  beds  of  lilies,  and 

chanted  the  triumph  of  Finn, 
Till  each  like  a  golden  image  was  pollen'd 

from  head  to  feet 
And  each  was  as  dry  as  a  cricket,  with 

thirst  in  the  middle-day  heat. 
Blossom  and    blossom,   and   promise    of 

blossom,  but  never  a  fruit ! 
And  we  hated  the  Flowering  Isle,  as  we 

hated  the  isle  that  w'as  mute. 
And  we  tore  up  the  flowers  by  the  million 

and  flung  them  in  bight  and  bay, 
And  we  left   but   a  naked  rock,  and  in 

anger  we  sail'd  away. 


VI. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fruits :   all 

round  from  the  cliffs  and  the  capes. 
Purple    or    amber,    dangled    a    hundred 

fathom  of  grapes. 
And  the  warm  melon  lay  like  a  little  sun 

on  the  tawny  sand. 
And  the  fig  ran  up  from  the  beach  and 

rioted  over  the  land. 
And  the  mountain  arose  like  a  jewell'd 

throne  thro'  the  fragrant  air. 
Glowing  with  all-colour'd  plums  and  with 

golden  masses  of  pear, 


520 


THE    VOYAGE    OF  MAELDUNE. 


And  the  crimson  and  scarlet  of  berries 

tliat  flamed  upon  bine  and  vine, 
But    in    every  berry   and    fruit  was    tlie 

poisonous  pleasure  of  wine; 
And  the  peak  of  the  mountain  was  apples, 

the  hugest  that  ever  were  seen. 
And  they  prest,  as  they  grew,  on  each 

other,  with  hardly  a  leaflet  between. 
And    all   of    them    redder    than    rosiest 

health  or  than  utterest  shame. 
And  setting,  when  Even  descended,  the 

very  sunset  aflame; 
And  we  stay'd  three  days,  and  we  gorged 

and  we  madden'd,  till  every  one 

drew 
His  sword  on  his  fellow  to  slay  him,  and 

ever  they  struck  and  they  slew; 
And  myself,  I  had  eaten  but  sparely,  and 

fought  till  I  sunder'd  the  fray. 
Then  I  bade  them  remember  my  father's 

death,  and  we  sail'd  away. 

VII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fire  :  we  were 

lured  by  the  light  from  afar, 
For  the  peak  sent  up  one  league  of  fire 

to  the  Northern  Star; 
Lured   by  the  glare  and  the  blare,  but 

scarcely  could  stand  upright. 
For  the  whole  isle  shudder'd  and  shook 

like  a  man  in  a  mortal  affright; 
We  were  giddy  besides  with  the  fruits  we 

had  gorged,  and  so  crazed  that  at 

last 
There  were  some   leap'd  into  the    fire; 

and  away  we  sail'd,  and  we  past 
Over  that  undersea  isle,  where  the  water 

is  clearer  than  air  : 
Down  we  look'd :    what  a  garden !     O 

bliss,  what  a  Paradise  there  ! 
Towers  of  a  happier  time,  low  down  in  a 

rainbow  deep 
Silent  palaces,  quiet  fields  of  eternal  sleep  ! 
And  three  of  the  gentlest  and  best  of  my 

people,  whate'er  I  could  say. 
Plunged  head  down  in  the  sea,  and  the 

Paradise  trembled  away. 

VIII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Bounteous  Isle,  where 
the  heavens  lean  low  on  the  land, 

And  ever  at  dawn  from  the  cloud  glitter'd 
o'er  us  a  sunbright  hand, 


Then  it  open'd  and  dropt  at  the  side  of 

each  man,  as  he  rose  from  his  rest. 
Bread  enough  for  his  need  till  the  labour- 
less  day  dipt  under  the  West; 
And  we  wander'd  about  it  and  thro'  it. 

O  never  was  time  so  good  ! 
And  we  sang  of  the  triumphs  of  Finn, 

and  the  boast  of  our  ancient  blood, 
And  we  gazed  at  the  wandering  wave  as 

we  sat  by  the  gurgle  of  springs, 
And  we  chanted  the  songs  of  the  Bards 

and  the  glories  of  fairy  kings; 
But  at  length  we  began  to  be  weary,  to 

sigh,  and  to  stretch  and  yawn, 
Till  we  hated  the  Bounteous  Isle  and  the 

sunbright  hand  of  the  dawn. 
For  there  was  not  an  enemy  near,  but  the 

whole  green  Isle  was  our  own, 
And  we  took  to  playing  at  ball,  and  we 

took  to  throwing  the  stone. 
And  we  took  to  playing  at   battle,  but 

that  was  a  perilous  play. 
For  the  passion  of  battle  was  in  us,  we 

slew  and  we  sail'd  away. 

IX. 

And  we  past  to  the  Isle  of  Witches  and 

heard  their  musical  cry  — 
'  Come    to    us,  O    come,    come '    in   the 

stormy  red  of  a  sky 
Dashing  the  fires  and   the    shadows    of 

dawn  on  the  beautiful  shapes. 
For  a  wild  witch  naked  as  heaven  stood 

on  each  of  the  loftiest  capes, 
And  a  hundred  ranged  on  the  rock  like 

white  sea-birds  in  a  row, 
And  a  hundred  gambolPd  and  pranced 

on  the  wrecks  in  the  sand  below, 
And  a  hundred  splash'd  from  the  ledges, 

and  bosom'd  the  burst  of  the  spray, 
But  I  knew  we  should  fall  on  each  other, 

and  hastily  sail'd  away. 

X. 

And  we  came  in  an  evil  time  to  the  Isle 

of  the  Double  Towers, 
One  was  of  smooth-cut  stone,  one  carved 

all  over  with  flowers, 
But  an  earthquake  always  moved  in  the 

hollows  under  the  dells. 
And    they  shock'd    on    each    other    and 

butted  each  other  with    clashing 

of  bells. 


DE  PRO  FUND  IS. 


521 


And  the  daws  flew  out  of  the  Towers  and 

jangled  and  wrangled  in  vain, 
And  the  clash  and  boom  of  the  bells  rang 

into  the  heart  and  the  brain, 
Till  the  passion  of  battle  was  on  us,  and 

all  took  sides  with  the  Towers, 
There  were  some  for  the  clean-cut  stone, 

there  were  more    for   the  carven 

flowers. 
And  the  wrathful  thunder  of  God  peal'd 

over  us  all  the  day. 
For  the  one  half  slew  the  other,  and  after 

we  sail'd  away. 


XI. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  a  Saint  who 

had   sail'd  with    St.    Brendan   of 

yore, 
He  had  lived  ever  since  on  the  Isle  and 

his  winters  were  fifteen  score. 
Arid   his   voice  was  low  as   from    other 

worlds,  and  his  eyes  were  sweet. 
And  his  white  hair  sank  to  his  heels  and 

his  white  beard  fell  to  his  feet, 
And  he  spake  to  me,  '  O  Maeldune,  let 

be  this  purpose  of  thine  ! 
Remember  the  words  of  the  Lord  when 

he  tqld  us  "  Vengeance  is  mine  !  " 
His  fathers  have  slain  thy  fathers  in  war 

or  in  single  strife. 
Thy  fathers  have  slain  his  fathers,  each 

taken  a  life  for  a  life, 
Thy  father  had  slain  his  father,  how  long 

shall  the  murder  last? 
Go  back  to  the  Isle  of  Finn  and  suffer 

the  Past  to  be  Past.' 
And  we  kiss'd  the  fringe  of  his  beard  and 

we  pray'd  as  we  heard  him  pray, 
And  the  Holy  man  he  assoil'd  us,  and 

sadly  we  sail'd  away. 


XII. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  we  were  blown 

from,  and  there  on  the  shore  was 

he. 
The  man  that   had  slain  my  father.     I 

saw  him  and  let  him  be. 
O  weary  was  I  of  the  travel,  the  trouble, 

the  strife  and  the  sin, 
When  I  landed  again,  with  a  tithe  of  my 

men,  on  the  Isle  of  Finn. 


DE  PROFUNDIS 


THE  TWO    GREETINGS. 


Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep. 
Where  all  that  was  to  be,  in  all  that  was, 
Whirl'd  for  a  million  a^ons  thro'  the  vast 
Waste    dawn    of    multitudinous-eddying 

light  — 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,   out  of   the 

deep. 
Thro'  all  this  changing  world  of  change- 
less law. 
And  every  phase  of  ever-heightening  life. 
And  nine  long  months  of  antenatal  gloom. 
With  this  last  moon,  this  crescent  —  her 

dark  orb 
Touch'd  with  earth's  light  —  thou  comest, 

darling  boy; 
Our  own;   a  babe  in  lineament  and  limb 
Perfect,  and  prophet  of  the  perfect  man ; 
Whose  face  and  form  are  hers  and  mine 

in  one, 
Indissolubly  married  like  our  love; 
Live,  and  be  happy  in  thyself,  and  serve 
This  mortal  race  thy  kin  so  well,  that  men 
May  bless  thee  as  we  bless  thee,  O  young 

life 
Breaking  with  laughter  from  the  dark; 

and  may 
The  fated  channel  where  thy  motion  lives 
Be   prosperously  shaped,  and   sway  thy 

course 
Along  the  years  of  haste    and   random 

youth 
Unshatter'd;   then  full-current  thro'  full 

man; 
And  last  in  kindly  curves,  with  gentlest 

fall. 
By  quiet  fields,  a  slowly-dying  power. 
To  that  last  deep  where  we  and  thou  are 

still. 

II. 

I. 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep. 
From  that  great  deep,  before  our  world 

begins, 


522       PREFATORY  SONNET— TO    THE   REV.    IV.  H.  BROOKFIELD. 


Whereon  the  Spirit  of  God  moves  as  he 

will  — 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep, 
From  that  true  world  within  the  world 

we  see, 
Whereof  our  world  is  but  the  bounding 

shore  — 
Out    of    the    deep.    Spirit,    out    of    the 

deep. 
With    this  ninth  moon,  that    sends   the 

hidden  sun 
Down  yon  dark  sea,  thou  comest,  darling 

boy. 

II. 

For  in  the  world,  which  is  not  ours,  They 

said 
'  Let    us   make    man '    and    that    which 

should  be  man, 
From  that  one  light  no  man   can   look 

upon, 
Drew  to  this  shore  lit  by  the  suns  and 

moons 
And    all    the    shadows.      O    dear    Spirit 

half-lost 
In  thine   own  shadow  and    this    fleshly 

sign 
That  thou  art  thou  —  who  wailest  being 

born 
And  banish'd  into  mystery,  and  the  pain 
Of  this  divisible-indivisible  world 
Among  the  numerable-innumerable 
Sun,   sun,    and    sun,    thro'    finite-infinite 

space 
In  finite-infinite  Time  —  our  mortal  veil 
And  shatter'd  phantom  of   that   infinite 

One, 
Who  made  thee  unconceivably  Thyself 
Out  of  His  whole  World-self  and  all  in 

all  — 
Live  thou !  and   of  the  grain  and  husk, 

the  grape 
And  ivyberry,  choose ;   and  still  depart 
From  death  to  death  thro'  life  and  life, 

and  find 
Nearer     and     ever     nearer    Him,   who 

wrought 
Not  Matter,  nor  the  finite-infinite, 
P)Ut    this    main-miracle,    that    thou    art 

thou. 
With  power  on  thine  own  act  and  on  tlie 

world. 


THE   HUMAN    CRY. 
I. 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name — Halleluiah  ! — 

Infinite  Ideality ! 

Immeasurable  Reality ! 

Infinite  Personality ! 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name  —  Halleluiah  I 

II. 

We  feel  we  are  nothing  —  for  all  is  Thou 

and  in  Thee; 
We  feel  we  are  something  —  that  also  has 

come  from  Thee ; 
We    know  we  are   nothing  —  but  Thou 

wilt  help  us  to  be. 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name  —  Halleluiah  ! 

PREFATORY  SONNET 

TO   THE   'NINETEENTH    CENTURY.' 

Those  that  of  late  had  fleeted  far  and 

fast 
To  touch  all  shores,  now  leaving  to  the 

skill 
Of  others  their  old  craft  seaworthy  still. 
Have  charter'd  this;   where,  mindful  of 

the  past. 
Our  true  co-mates   regather   round   the 

mast; 
Of  diverse  tongue,  but  with  a  common  will 
Here,  in  this  roaring  moon  of  daffodil 
And  crocus,  to  put  forth  and  brave  the 

blast; 
For  some,  descending  from  the  sacred 

peak 
Of  hoar  high-templed  Faith,  have  leagued 

again 
Their  lot  with   ours  to   rove  the  world 

about ; 
And  some  are  wilder  comrades,  sworn  to 

seek' 
If  any  golden  harbour  be  for  men 
In   seas  of  Death   and  sunless  gulfs  of 

Doubt. 

TO  THE  REV.  W.  H.  BROOKFIELD. 

Brooks,  for  they  call'd  you  so  that  knew 

you  best. 
Old  Brooks,  who  loved  so  well  to  mouth 

my  rhymes, 


MOXTENE GRO  —  BA  TTLE    OF  BR UNANB URH. 


523 


How  oft  we  two  have  heard  St.  Mary's 

chimes  I 
How   oft   the   Cantab   supper,  host   and 

guest, 
Would  echo  helpless  laughter  to  your  jest ! 
How  oft  with  him  we  paced  that  walk  of 

limes. 
Him,  the  lost  hght  of  those  dawn-golden 

times, 
Who  loved  you  well !   Now  both  are  gone 

to  rest. 
A'ou  man  of  humorous-melancholy  mark. 
Dead  of  some  inward  agony  —  is  it  so? 
Our  kindlier,  trustier  Jaques,  past  away  1 
I  cannot  laud  this  life,  it  looks  so  dark  : 
SK-tas  ovap —  dream  of  a  shadow,  go  — 
God  bless  you.     I  shall  join  you  in  a  day. 

MONTENEGRO. 

Thev  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle  sails. 
They  kept  their  faith,  their  freedom,  on 

the  height. 
Chaste,  frugal,  savage,  arm'd  by  day  and 

night 
Against  the  Turk ;  whose  inroad  nowhere 

scales 
Their  headlong  passes,  but  his  footstep 

fails. 
And  red  with   blood  the  Crescent  reels 

from  fight 
Before  their  dauntless  hundreds,  in  prone 

flight 
By  thousands  down  the  crags  and  thro' 

the  vales. 
O  smallest  among  peoples  1  rough  rock- 
throne 


Of  Freedom  !  warriors  beating  back  the 
swarm 

Of  Turkish  Islam  for  five  hundred  years, 

Great  Tsernogora  1  never  since  thine 
own 

Black  ridges  drew  the  cloud  and  brake 
the  storm 

Has  breathed  a  race  of  mightier  moun- 
taineers. 


TO   VICTOR   HUGO. 

Victor  in  Drama,  Victor  in  Romance, 
Cloud-weaver  of  phantasmal  hopes  and 

fears, 
French  of  the  French,  and  Lord  of  hu- 
man tears; 
Child-lover;   Bard  whose  fame-lit  laurels 

glance 
Darkening  the  wreaths  of  all  that  would 

advance, 
Beyond  our  strait,  their  claim   to  be  thy 

peers; 
Weird   Titan   by   thy   winter   weight  of 

years 
As     yet     unbroken.     Stormy    voice    of 

France  I 
Who    dost   not   love    our   England  —  so 

they  say; 
I  know  not  —  England,  France,  all  man 

to  be 
Will  make  one  people  ere  man's  race  be 

run : 
And  I,  desiring  that  diviner  day, 
Vield     thee     full    thanks    for    thy    full 

courtesy 
To  younger  England  in  the  boy  my  son. 


TRANSLATIONS,    ETC. 


BATTLE  OF   BRUNANBURH. 

Constantinus,  King  of  the  Scots,  after  having 
sworn  allegiance  to  Athelstan,  allied  himself  with 
the  Danes  of  Ireland  under  Anlaf,  and  invading 
England,  was  defeated  by  Athelstan  and  his 
brother  Edmund  with  great  slaughter  at  Brunan- 
burh  in  the  year  937. 


1  Athelstan  King, 
Lord  among  Earls, 


Bracelet-bestower  and 
Baron  of  Barons, 
He  with  his  brother, 
Edmund  Atheling, 
Gaining  a  lifelong 
Glory  in  battle. 
Slew  with  the  sword-edge 
There  by  Brunanburh, 

1  I  have  more  or  less  availed  myself  of  my 
son's  prose  translation  of  this  poem  in  the  C071- 
tetnporary  Rez'iezv  (November  1876). 


524 


BATTLE    OF  BRUNANBURH. 


Brake  the  shield -wall, 
Hew'd  the  lindenwood,! 
Hack'd  the  battleshield, 
Sons  of  Edward  with  hammer'd  brands. 

II. 

Theirs  was  a  greatness 
Got  from  their  Grandsires  — 
Theirs  that  so  often  in 
Strife  with  their  enemies 
Struck  for  their  hoards  and  their  hearths 
and  their  homes. 

III. 

Bow'd  the  spoiler, 

Bent  the  Scotsman, 

Fell  the  shipcrews 

Doom'd  to  the  death. 
All  the  field  with  blood  of  the  fighters 

Flow'd,  from  when  first  the  great 

Sun-star  of  morningtide, 

Lamp  of  the  Lord  God 

Lord  everlasting, 
Glode  over  earth  till  the  glorious  creature 

Sank  to  his  setting. 

IV. 

There  lay  many  a  man 
Marr'd  by  the  javelin, 
Men  of  the  Northland 
Shot  over  shield. 
There  was  the  Scotsman 
Weary  of  war. 


We  the  West-Saxons, 

Long  as  the  daylight 

Lasted,  in  companies 

Troubled  the  track  of  the  host  that  we 

hated, 

Grimly  with  swords  that  were  sharp  from 

the  grindstone, 
Fiercely  we  hack'd  at  the  flyers  before 
us. 

VI. 

Mighty  the  Mercian, 
Hard  was  his  hand-play, 
Sparing  not  any  of 
Those  that  with  Anlaf, 

1  Shields  of  lindenwood. 


Warriors  over  the 
Weltering  waters 
Borne  in  the  bark's-bosom, 
Drew  to  this  island  : 
Doom'd  to  the  death. 

VII. 

Five  young  kings  put  asleep  by  the  sword- 
stroke, 
Seven  strong  Earls  of  the  army  of  Anlaf 
Fell  on  the  war-field,  numberless  numbers, 
Shipmen  and  Scotsmen. 

VIII. 

Then  the  Norse  leader, 
Dire  was  his  need  of  it. 
Few  were  his  following. 
Fled  to  his  warship  : 

Fleeted  his  vessel  to  sea  with  the  king 
in  it, 

Saving  his  life  on  the  fallow  flood. 

IX. 

Also  the  crafty  one, 

Constantinus, 

Crept  to  his  North  again. 

Hoar-headed  hero ! 


Slender  warrant  had 

He  to  be  proud  of 

The  welcome  of  war-knives  — 

He  that  was  reft  of  his 

Folk  and  his  friends  that  had 

Fallen  in  conflict. 

Leaving  his  son  too 

Lost  in  the  carnage. 

Mangled  to  morsels, 

A  youngster  in  war  ! 

XI. 

Slender  reason  had 

He  to  be  glad  of 

The  clash  of  the  war-glaive  — • 

Traitor  and  trickster 

And  spurner  of  treaties  — 

He  nor  had  Anlaf 

With  armies  so  broken 

A  reason  for  bragging 

That  they  had  the  better 

In  perils  of  battle 


ACHILLES   OVER    THE    TRENCH. 


525 


On  places  of  slaughter  — 
The  struggle  of  standards, 
The  rush  of  the  javelins, 
The  crash  of  the  charges, ^ 
The  wielding  of  weapons  — 
The  play  that  they  play'd  with 
The  children  of  Edward. 

XII. 

Then  with  their  nail'd  prows 

Parted  the  Norsemen,  a 

Blood-redden'd  relic  of 

Javelins  over 

The  jarring  breaker,  the  deep- 
sea  billow. 

Shaping  their  way  toward  Dy- 
flen-  again. 

Shamed  in  their  souls. 

XIII. 

Also  the  brethren, 
King  and  Atheling, 
Each  in  his  glory, 
Went  to  his  own  in  his  own  West- Saxon- 
land, 

Glad  of  the  war. 

XIV. 

Many  a  carcase  they  left  to  be  carrion, 
Many  a  livid  one,  many  a  sallow-skin  — 
Left  for  the  white-tail'd  eagle  to  tear  it, 

and 
Left  for  the  horny-nibb'd  raven  to  rend 

it,  and 
Gave  to  the  garbaging  war-hawk  to  gorge 

it,  and 
That  gray  beast,  the  wolf  of  the  weald. 

XV. 

Never  had  huger 
Slaughter  of  heroes 
Slain  by  the  sword-edge  — 
Such  as  old  writers 
Have  writ  of  in  histories  — 
Hapt  in  this  isle,  since 
Up  from  the  East  hither 
Saxon  and  Angle  from 
Over  the  broad  billow 
Broke  into  Britain  with 
Haughty  war-workers  who 


1  Lit.  '  the  gathering  of  men.' 


Dublin. 


Harried  the  Welshman,  when 
Earls  that  were  lured  by  the 
Hunger  of  glory  gat 
Hold  of  the  land. 


ACHILLES    OVER   THE   TRENCH. 
ILIAD,  xviii,  202. 

So  saying,  light-foot  Iris  pass'd  away. 
Then  rose   Achilles   dear  to  Zeus;    and 

round 
The  warrior's  puissant  shoulders  Pallas 

flung 
Her  fringed  aegis,  and  around  his  head 
The  glorious  goddess  wreath'd  a  golden 

cloud. 
And  from  it  lighted  an  all-shining  flame. 
As  when   a  smoke  from  a  city  goes  to 

heaven 
Far  off  from  out  an  island  girt  by  foes, 
All    day  the    men    contend    in   grievous 

war 
From   their  own   city,  but   with    set   of 

sun 
Their  fires  flame   thickly,  and   aloft   the 

glare 
Flies  streaming,  if  perchance  the  neigh- 
bours round 
May  see,  and  sail  to  help  them  in   the 

war ; 
So  from  his  head  the  splendour  went  to 

heaven. 
From  wall  to  dyke  he  stept,  he   stood, 

nor  join'd 
The      Achaeans  —  honouring     his      wise 

mother's  word  — 
There  standing,  shouted,  and  Pallas  far 

away 
Call'd;   and  a  boundless  panic  shook  the 

foe. 
For  like  the  clear  voice  when  a  trumpet 

shrills, 
Blown   by  the  fierce  beleaguerers   of  a 

town, 
So  rang  the  clear  voice  of  yEakides; 
And  when  the  brazen  cry  of  ^Flakides 
Was  heard  among  the  Trojans,  all  their 

hearts 
Were  troubled,  and  the  fuU-maned. horses 

whirl'd 
The  chariots   backward,  knowing  griefs 

at  hand; 


526 


TO  PRINCESS  FREDERIC  A  —  TIRESIAS. 


And  sheer-astounded  were  the  chariot- 
eers 

To  see  the  dread,  unweariable  fire 

That  always  o'er  the  great  Peleion's 
head 

Burn'd,  for  the  bright-eyed  goddess  made 
it  burn. 

Thrice  from  the  dyke  he  sent  his  mighty 
shout, 

Thrice  backward  reel'd  the  Trojans  and 
alhes; 

And  there  and  then  twelve  of  their  noblest 
died 

Among  their  spears  and  chariots. 


TO   PRINCESS   FREDERICA   ON 
HER   MARRIAGE. 

O  YOU  that  were  eyes  and  light  to  the 
King  till  he  past  away 
From  the  darkness  of  life  — 
He  saw  not  his  daughter  —  he  blest  her  : 
the  blind  King  sees  you  to-day. 
He  blesses  the  wife. 


SIR   JOHN   FRANKLIN. 

ON    THE   CENOTAPH   IN    WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY. 

Not    here !    the    white    North    has    thy 
bones;   and  thou. 

Heroic  sailor-soul, 
Art  passing  on  thine  happier  voyage  now 

Toward  no  earthly  pole. 

TO  DANTE. 

(written   at    REQUEST   OF   THE 
FLORENTINES.) 

King,  that  hast  reign'd  six  hundred  years, 

and  grown 
In  power,  and  ever  growest,  since  thine 

own 
Fair  Florence  honouring  thy  nativity, 
Thy  Florence  now  the  crown  of  Italy, 
Hath  sought  the  tribute  of  a  verse  from 

me, 
I,  wearing  but  the  garland  of  a  day, 
Cast  at  thy  feet  one  flower   that  fades 

away. 


TIRESIAS 

AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


TO   E.   FITZGERALD. 

Old  FiTZ,  who  from  your  suburb  grange, 

Where  once  I  tarried  for  a  while. 
Glance  at  the  wheeling  Orb  of  change. 

And  greet  it  with  a  kindly  smile; 
Whom  yet  I  see  as  there  you  sit 

Beneath  your  sheltering  garden-tree, 
And  while  your  doves  about  you  flit, 

And  plant  on  shoulder,  hand  and  knee, 
Or  on  your  head  their  rosy  feet, 

As  if  they  knew  your  diet  spares 
Whatever  moved  in  that  full  sheet 

Let  down  to  Peter  at  his  prayers; 
Who  live  on  milk  and  meal  and  grass; 

And  once  for  ten  long  weeks  1  tried 
Your  table  of  Pythagoras, 

And  seem'd  at  first  '  a  thing  enskied  ' 
(As  Shakespeare  has  it)  airy-light 

To  float  above  the  ways  of  men. 
Then  fell  from  that  half-spiritual  height 

Chill'd,  till  I  tasted  flesh  again 


One  night  when  earth  was  winter-black. 

And  all  the  heavens  flash'd  in  frost; 
And  on  me,  half-asleep,  came  back 

That  wholesome  heat  the  blood  had  lost. 
And  set  me  climbing  icy  capes 

And  glaciers,  over  which  there  roll'd 
To  meet  me  long-arm'd  vines  with  grapes 

Of  Eshcol  hugeness;   for  the  cold 
Without,  and  warmth  within  me,  wrought 

To  mould  the  dream;  but  none  can  say 
That  Lenten  fare  makes  Lenten  thought, 

Who  reads  your  golden  Eastern  lay, 
Than  wliich  I  know  no  version  done 

In  English  more  divinely  well; 
A  planet  equal  to  the  sun 

Which  cast  it,  that  large  infidel 
Your  Omar;   and  your  Omar  drew 

Full-handed  plaudits  from  our  best 
In  modern  letters,  and  from  two, 

Old  friends  outvaluing  all  the  rest. 
Two  voices  heard  on  earth  no  more; 

But  we  old  friends  are  still  alive. 


TIRE  SI  AS. 


527 


And  T  am  nearing  seventy-four, 

\Vhile    you  have    touch'd   at  seventy- 
five, 
And  so  I  send  a  birthday  line 

Of  greeting;   and  my  son,  who  dipt 
In  some  forgotten  book  of  mine 

With  sallow  scraps  of  manuscript, 
And  dating  many  a  year  ago, 

Has  hit  on  this,  which  you  will  take 
jSIy  Fitz,  and  welcome,  as  I  know 

Less  for  its  own  than  for  the  sake 
Of  one  recalling  gracious  times, 

When,  in  our  younger  London  days, 
Vou  found  some  merit  in  my  rhymes, 

And  I  more  pleasure  in  your  praise. 

TIRESL\S. 

I  WISH  I  were  as  in  the  years  of  old. 
While  yet  the  blessed  daylight  made  itself 
Ruddy  thro'  both  the  roofs  of  sight,  and 

woke 
These  eyes,  now  dull,  but  then  so  keen 

to  seek 
The  meanings  ambush'd  under  all  they 

saw, 

The  flight  of  birds,  the  flame  of  sacrifice, 

What  omens  may  foreshadow  fate  to  man 

And  woman,  and  the  secret  of  the  Gods. 

My  son,  the  Gods,  despite  of  human 

prayer, 
Are  slower  to  forgive  than  human  kings. 
The  great  God,  Ares,  burns  in  anger  still 
Against  the  guiltless  heirs  of  him  from 

Tyre, 
Our    Cadmus,    out    of    whom    thou    art, 

who  found 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dirce,  smote,  and 

still'd 
Thro'    all    its    folds    the    multitudinous 

beast. 
The  dragon,  which  our  trembling  fathers 

call'd 
The  God's  own  son. 

A  tale,  that  told  to  me. 
When  but  thine  age,  by  age  as  winter- 
white 
As  mine  is  now,  amazed,  but  made  me 

yearn 
For  larger  glimpses  of  that  more   than 

man 
Which  rolls  the  heavens,  and  lifts,  and 

lays  the  deep, 


Yet  loves   and   hates  with   mortal   hates 

and  loves, 
And  moves   unseen  among  the  ways  of 

men. 
Then,  in  my  wanderings  all  the  lands 

that  lie 
Subjected  to  the  Heliconian  ridge 
Have  heard  this  footstep  fall,  altho'  my 

wont 
Was   more  to  scale   the    highest  of  the 

heights 
With  some  strange  hope  to  see  the  nearer 

God. 
One    naked  peak  —  the   sister   of  the 

sun 
Would    climb    from    out   the    dark,   and 

linger  there 
To  silver  all  the  valleys  with  her  shafts  — 
There  once,  but  long  ago,  five-fold  thy 

term 
Of  years,   I   lay;    the  winds  were   dead 

for  heat; 
The  noonday  crag  made  the  hand  burn; 

and  sick 
For  shadow  —  not  one  bush  was  near  — 

I  rose 
Following  a  torrent  till  its  myriad  falls 
Found    silence    in    the    hollows    under- 
neath. 
There  in  a  secret  olive-glade  I  saw- 
Pallas  Athene  climbing  from  the  bath 
In  anger;  yet  one  glittering  foot  disturb'd 
The   lucid   well;    one    snowy  knee   was 

prest 
Against  the  margin  flowers;   a  dreadful 

light 
Came  from  her  golden  hair,  her  golden 

helm 
And  all  her  golden  armour  on  the  grass. 
And  from  her  virgin  breast,  and  virgin 

eyes 
Remaining  fixt  on  mine,  till  mine  grew 

dark 
For  ever,  and  I  heard  a  voice  that  said 
'  Henceforth  be  blind,  for  thou  hast  seen 

too  much. 
And  speak  the  truth  that  no  man  may 

believe.' 
Son,  in  the  hidden  world  of  sight,  that 

lives 
Behind  this  darkness,  I  behold  her  still. 
Beyond  all  work  of  those  who  carve  the 

stone. 


528 


TIRESIAS. 


Beyond   all  dreams  of  Godlike  woman- 
hood, 
Ineffable    beauty,    out    of  whom,    at    a 

glance, 
And  as  it  were,  perforce,  upon  me  flash'd 
The  power  of  prophesying — but  to  me 
No  power  —  so  chain'd  and  coupled  with 

the  curse 
Of   blindness   and    their    unbelief,    who 

heard 
And  heard  not,  when  I  spake  of  famine, 

plague, 
Shrine-shattering  earthquake,  fire,  flood, 

thunderbolt, 
And  angers  of  the  Gods  for  evil  done 
And  expiation  lack'd  —  no  power  on  Fate, 
Theirs,    or    mine    own !     for    when    the 

crowd  would  roar 
For  blood,  for  war,  whose  issue  was  their 

doom. 
To  cast  wise  words  among  the  multitude 
Was  flinging  fruit  to  lions;    nor,  in  hours 
Of  civil  outbreak,  when  I  knew  the  twain 
Would  each   waste   each,  and   bring  on 

both  the  yoke 
Of  stronger  states,  was  mine  the  voice  to 

curb 
The  madness  of  our  cities  and  their  kings. 
Who  ever  turn'd  upon  his  heel  to  hear 
My  warning  that  the  tyranny  of  one 
Was  prelude  to  the  tyranny  of  all  ? 
My  counsel  that  the  tyranny  of  all 
Led  backward  to  the  tyranny  of  one  ? 
This   power  hath  work'd  no  good  to 

aught  that  lives. 
And  these  blind  hands  were  useless  in 

their  wars. 
O  therefore  that  the  unfulfill'd  desire. 
The  grief  for  ever  born  from  griefs  to  be. 
The  boundless  yearning  of  the  Prophet's 

heart  — 
Could  that  stand  forth,  and,  like  a  statue 

rear'd 
To   some   great   citizen,   win   all   praise 

from  all 
Who  past  it,  saying,  '  That  was  he  !  ' 

In  vain  ! 
Virtue  must  shape  itself  in  deed,  and  those 
Whom     weakness    or      necessity     have 

cramp'd 
Within  themselves,  immerging,  each,  his 

urn 
In  his  own  well,  draw  solace  as  he  may. 


Menoeceus,  thou  hast  eyes,  and  I  can 

hear 
Too  plainly  what  full  tides  of  onset  sap 
Our  seven  high  gates,  and  what  a  weight 

of  war 
Rides  on  those  ringing  axles !  jingle  of 

bits, 
Shouts,  arrows,  tramp  of  the  hornfooted 

horse 
That  grind  the  glebe  to  powder !     Stony 

showers 
Of  that  ear-stunning  hail  of  Ares  crash 
Along     the     sounding    walls.       Above, 

below. 
Shock  after  shock,  the  song-built  towers 

and  gates 
Reel,    bruised     and     butted    with     the 

shuddering 
War- thunder  of  iron   rams;     and   from 

within 
The  city  comes  a  murmur  void  of  joy, 
Lest   she   be   taken   captive  —  maidens, 

wives. 
And  mothers  with  their  babblers  of  the 

dawn, 
And  oldest  age  in  shadow  from  the  night, 
Falling  about  their  shrines  before  their 

Gods, 
And  wailing  '  Save  us.' 

And  they  wail  to  thee  ! 
These  eyeless  eyes,  that  cannot  see  thine 

own. 
See  this,  that  only  in  thy  virtue  lies 
The  saving  of  our  Thebes;    for,  yester- 
night. 
To  me,  the  great  God  Ares,  whose  one 

bliss 
Is  war,  and  human  sacrifice  —  himself 
Blood-red  from  battle,  spear  and  helmet 

tipt 
With  stormy  light  as  on  a  mast  at  sea, 
Stood    out    before    a    darkness,    crying 

'  Thebes, 
Thy  Thebes  shall  fall  and  perish,  for  I 

loathe 
The  seed  of  Cadmus  —  yet  if  one  of  these 

By  his  own  hand  —  if  one  of  these ' 

My  son. 
No    sound    is    breathed    so    potent    to 

coerce, 
And  to  conciliate,  as  their  names  who  dare 
For  tliat  sweet  mother  land  which  gave 

them  birth 


TIRE  SI  AS. 


529 


Nobly  to  do,  nobly  to  die.  Their  names, 
Graven  on  memorial  columns,  are  a  song 
Heard  in  the  future ;    few,  but  more  than 

wall 
And    rampart,    their    examples    reach    a 

hand 
P'ar  thro'  all  years,  and  everywhere  they 

meet 
And  kindle  generous  purpose,  and  the 

strength 
To  mould  it  into  action  pure  as  theirs. 
Fairer  thy  fate  than  mine,  if  life's  best 

end 
Be  to  end  well !  and  thou  refusing  this, 
Unvenerable  will  thy  memory  be 
While  men  shall  move  the  lips :  but  if 

thou  dare  — 
Thou,  one  of  these,  the  race  of  Cadmus 

—  then 
No  stone  is  fitted  in  yon  marble  girth 
Whose  echo  shall  not  tongue  thy  glorious 

doom, 
Nor  in  this  pavement  but  shall  ring  thy 

name 
To   every  hoof  that   clangs  it,  and   the 

springs 
Of  Dirce  laving  yonder  battle-plain, 
Heard  from  the  roofs  by  night,  will  mur- 
mur thee 
To  thine  own  Thebes,  while  Thebes  thro' 

thee  shall  stand 
Firm-based  with  all  her  Gods. 

The  Dragon's  cave 
Half-hid,   they  tell  me,  now  in   flowing 

vines  — 
Where  once   he   dwelt  and  whence  he 

roll'd  himself 
At   dead   of  night  —  thou  knowest,  and 

that  smooth  rock 
Before  it,  altar-fashion'd,  where  of  late 
The  woman-breasted  Sphinx,  with  wings 

drawn  back, 
Folded   her    lion   paws,    and   look'd   to 

Thebes. 
There   blanch  the   bones   of  whom   she 

slew,  and  these 
Mixt  with   her   own,   because  the  fierce 

beast  found 
A  wiser  than  herself,  and  dash'd  herself 
Dead   in    her   rage :  but    thou   art  wise 

enough, 
Tho'  young,  to  love  thy  wiser,  blunt  the 

curse 


Of   Pallas,   hear,  and    tho'   I    speak   the 

truth 
Believe  I  speak   it,  let  thine  own  hand 

strike 
Thy  youthful  pulses  into  rest  and  quench 
The    red    God's   anger,    fearing    not    to 

plunge 
Thy  torch  of  life   in  darkness,  rather  — 

thou 
Rejoicing  that  the  sun,  the  moon,   the 

stars 
Send  no  such  light  upon  the  ways  of  men 
As  one  great  deed. 

Thither,  my  son,  and  there 
Thou,  that  hast  never  known  the  embrace 

of  love. 
Offer  thy  maiden  life. 

This  useless  hand  ! 
I  felt  one  v/arm  tear  fall  upon  it.  Gone  ! 
He  will  achieve  his  greatness. 

But  for  me, 
I  would  that  I  were  gather'd  to  my  rest. 
And  mingled  with  the  famous  kings  of 

old. 
On  whom  about  their  ocean-islets  flash 
The  faces  of  the  Gods  —  the  wise  man's 

word, 
Here  trampled  by  the  populace  under- 
foot, 
There  crown'd  with  worship  —  and  these 

eyes  will  find 
The  men  I  knew,  and  watch  the  chariot 

whirl 
About  the  goal  again,  and  hunters  race 
The    shadowy    lion,    and    the    warrior- 

,  kings. 
In  height  and  prowess  more  than  human, 

strive 
Again  for  glory,  while  the  golden  lyre 
Is  ever  sounding  in  heroic  ears 
Heroic  hymns,  and  every  way  the  vales 
Wind,  clouded  with  the  grateful  incense- 
fume 
Of  those  who  mix  all  odour  to  the  Gods 
On  one  far  height  in  one  far-shining  fire. 


'  One  height  and  one  far-shining  fire,' 
And  while  I  fancied  that  my  friend 

For  this  brief  idyll  would  require 
A  less  diffuse  and  opulent  end. 

And  would  defend  his  judgment  well, 
If  I  should  deem  it  over  nice  — 


2  M 


530 


THE    WRECK. 


I  will  sit  at  your  feet,  I  will  hide  my  face, 
I  will  tell  you  all. 


He    that   they  gave   me    to,  Mother,   a 

heedless  and  innocent  bride  — 
I  never  have  wrong'd  his  heart,  I  have 

only  wounded  his  pride  — 
Spain  in  his  blood  and  the  Jew  —  dark- 
visaged,  stately  and  tall  — 
A    princelier-looking   man    never    stept 

thro'  a  Prince's  hall. 
And  who,  when  his  anger  was  kindled, 

would  venture  to  give  him  the  nay? 
And  a  man  men  fear  is  a  man  to  be  loved 

by  the  women  they  say. 
And  I  could  have  loved  him  too,  if  the 

blossom  can  dote  on  the  blight. 
Or  the  young  green  leaf  rejoice  in  the 

frost  that  sears  it  at  night; 
He  would  open  the  books  that  I  prized, 

and  toss  them  away  with  a  yawn, 
Repell'd   by  the  magnet  of  Art    to  the 

which  my  nature  w-as  drawn. 
The  word  of  the  Poet  by  whom  the  deeps 

of  the  world  are  stirr'd. 
The  music  that  robes  it  in  language  be- 
neath and  beyond  the  word  ! 
My  Shelley  would  fall  from  my  hands  when 

he  cast  a  contemptuous  glance 
From   where    he   was    poring   over    his 

Tables  of  Trade  and  Finance; 
My  hands,  when   I    heard    him  coming, 

would    drop    from    the  chords  or 

the  keys. 
But  ever  I  fail'd  to  please  him,  however 

I  strove  to  please  — 
All  day  long  far-off  in  the  cloud  of  the 

city,  and  there 
Lost,  head  and  heart,  in  the  chances  of 

dividend,  consol,  and  share  — 
And  at  home  if  I  sought  for  a  kindly  ca- 
ress, being  woman  and  weak, 
His  formal    kiss  fell  chill  as  a   flake  of 

snow  on  the  cheek: 
And  so,  when  I  bore  him  a  girl,  when  I 

held  it  aloft  in  my  joy, 
He  look'd  at  it  coldly,  and  said  to  me, 

'  Pity  it  isn't  a  boy.' 
The  one  thing  given  me,  to  love  and  to 

live  for,  glanced  at  in  scorn  ! 
The  child  that  1  felt  I  could  die  for  —  as 

if  she  were  basely  born  ! 


The  tolling  of  his  funeral  bell 

Broke  on  my  Pagan  Paradise, 
And  mixt  the  dream  of  classic  times 

And  all  the  phantoms  of  the  dream, 
With  present  grief,  and  made  the  rhymes. 

That  miss'd  his  living  welcome,  seem 
Like  would-be  guests  an  hour  too  late, 

Who  down  the  highway  moving  on 
With  easy  laughter  find  the  gate 

Is  bolted,  and  the  master  gone. 
Gone  into  darkness,  that  full  light 

Of  friendship  !  past,  in  sleep,  away 
By  night,  into  the  deeper  night ! 

The  deeper  night?     A  clearer  day 
Than  our  poor  twilight  dawn  on  earth  — 

If  night,  what  barren  toil  to  be  ! 
What  life,  so  maim'd  by  night,  were  worth 

Our  living  out?     Not  mine  to  me 
Remembering  all  the  golden  hours 

Now  silent,  and  so  many  dead. 
And  him  the  last;   and  laying  flowers. 

This  wreath,  above  his  honour'd  head, 
And  praying  that,  when  I  from  hence 

Shall  fade  with  him  into  the  unknown, 
My  close  of  earth's  experience 

May  prove  as  peaceful  as  his  own. 

THE   WRECK. 


Hide  me.  Mother !  my  Fathers  belong'd 

to  the  church  of  old, 
I  am  driven  by  storm  and  sin  and  death 

to  the  ancient  fold, 
I  cling  to  the  Catholic  Cross  once  more, 

to  the  Faith  that  saves. 
My  brain  is  full  of  the  crash  of  wrecks, 

and  the  roar  of  waves. 
My  life  itself  is  a  wreck,  I  have  sullied 

a  noble  name, 
I  am  flung  from  the  rushing  tide  of  the 

world  as  a  waif  of  shame, 
I  am  roused  by  the  wail  of  a  child,  and 

awake  to  a  livid  light. 
And    a    ghastlier     face    than    ever    has 

haunted  a  grave  by  night, 
I  would  hide  from  the  storm  without,  I 

would  flee  from  the  storm  within, 
I  would  make  my  life  one  prayer  for  a 

soul  that  died  in  his  sin, 
1  was  the  tempter.  Mother,  and  mine  was 

the  deeper  fall; 


THE    WRECK 


531 


I    had    lived    a   wild-flower    life,    I    was 

planted  now  in  a  tomb; 
The  daisy  will  shut  to  the  shadow,  I  closed 

my  heart  to  the  gloom; 
I  threw  myself  all  abroad  —  I  would  play 

my  part  with  the  young 
By  the  low  foot-lights  of  the  world  —  and 

I  caught  the  wreath  that  was  flung. 

III. 

Mother,    I    have    not  —  however    their 

tongues  may  have  babbled  of  me  — 
Sinn'd    thro'  an  animal  vileness,  for  all 

but  a  dwarf  was  he, 
And   all   but  a  hunchback    too;    and    I 

look'd  at  him,  first,  askance, 
With    pity  —  not    he  the   knight    for  an 

amorous  girl's  romance  ! 
Tho'  wealthy  enough  to  have  bask'd  in 

the  light  of  a  dowerless  smile, 
Having  lands  at  home  and  abroad  in  a 

rich  West-Indian  isle; 
But  I  came  on  him  once  at  a  ball,  the 

heart  of  a  listening  crowd - 
W^hy,  what  a  brow  was  there  I    he  was 

seated  —  speaking  aloud 
To  women,  the  flower  of  the  time,  and 

men  at  the  helm  of  state  — 
Flowing  with  easy  greatness  and  touch- 
ing on  all  things  great, 
Science,    philosophy,    song  —  till    I    felt 

myself  ready  to  weep 
For  I  knew  not  what,  when  I  heard  that 

voice,  —  as  mellow  and  deep 
As   a   psalm    by    a   mighty    master    and 

peal'd  from  an  organ,  —  roll 
Rising  and  falling  —  for,  Mother,  the  voice 

was  the  voice  of  the  soul; 
And  the  sun  of  the  soul  made  day  in  the 

dark  of  his  wonderful  eyes. 
Here  was  the  hand  that  would  help  me, 

would    heal  me  —  the  heart  that 

was  wise  ! 
And  he,  poor  man,  when  he  learnt  that 

I  hated  the  ring  I  wore. 
He  helpt  me  with  death,  and  he  heal'd 

me  with  sorrow  for  evermore. 

IV. 

For  I  broke  the  bond.  That  day  my 
nurse  had  brought  me  the  child. 

The  small  sweet  face  was  flush'd,  but  it 
coo'd  to  the  Mother  and  smiled. 


*  Anything  ailing,'  I  ask'd  her,  '  with 
baby?'     She  shook  her  head, 

And  the  Motherless  Mother  kiss'd  it,  and 
turn'd  in  her  haste  and  fled. 

V. 

Low  warm  winds  had  gently  breathed  us 

away  from  the  land  — 
Ten  long  sweet  summer  days  upon  deck, 

sitting  hand  in  hand  — 
When  he  clothed  a  naked  mind  with  the 

wisdom  and  wealth  of  his  own, 
And  I  bow'd  myself  down  as  a  slave  to 

his  intellectual  throne, 
When  he  coin'd  into  English  gold  some 

treasure  of  classical  song. 
When  he  flouted  a  statesman's  error,  or 

flamed  at  a  public  wrong. 
When  he  rose  as  it  were  on  the  wings  of 

an  eagle  beyond  me,  and  past 
Over  the  range  and  the  change  of  the 

world  from  the  first  to  the  last, 
When  he  spoke  of  his  tropical  home  in 

the  canes  by  the  purple  tide, 
And  the  high  star-crowns  of  his  palms 

on    the    deep-wooded    mountain- 
side. 
And  cliffs  all  robed  in  lianas  that  dropt 

to  the  brink  of  his  bay. 
And  trees  like  the  towers  of  a  minster, 

the  sons  of  a  winterless  day. 
'  Paradise  there  I '  so  he  said,  but  I  seem'd 

in  Paradise  then 
With  the  first  great  love  I  had  felt  for  the 

first  and  greatest  of  men; 
Ten  long  days  of  summer  and  sin  —  if  it 

must  be  so  — 
But  days  of  a  larger  light  than  I  ever 

again  shall  know  — 
Days  that  will  glimmer,  I  fear,  thro'  life 

to  my  latest  breath; 
'  No  frost  there,'  so  he  said,  '  as  in  truest 

Love  no  Death.' 

VI. 

Mother,  one  morning  a  bird  with  a  warble 

plaintively  sweet 
Perch'd  on   the   shrouds,   and    then    fell 

fluttering  down  at  my  feet; 
I  took  it,  he  made  it  a  cage,  we  fondled 

it,  Stephen  and  I, 
But  it  died,  and  I  thought  of  the  child 

for  a  moment,  I  scarce  know  why. 


532 


THE    WRECK. 


VII. 

But  if  sin  be  sin,  not  inherited  fate,  as 

many  will  say. 
My  sin  to  my  desolate  little  one  found 

me  at  sea  on  a  day. 
When  her  orphan  wail  came  borne  in  the 

shriek  of  a  growing  wind. 
And  a  voice  rang  out  in  the  thunders  of 

Ocean   and    Heaven  '  Thou   hast 

sinn'd.' 
And  down  in  the  cabin  were  we,  for  the 

towering  crest  of  the  tides 
Plunged  on  the  vessel    and    swept  in  a 

cataract  off  from  her  sides, 
And  ever  the  great  storm  grew  with  a 

howl  and  a  hoot  of  the  blast 
In  the  rigging,  voices  of  hell  —  then  came 

the  crash  of  the  mast. 
'The  wages  of  sin  is  death,'  and  there  I 

began  to  weep, 
'  I  am  the  Jonah,  the  crew  should  cast 

me  into  the  deep. 
For  ah  God,  what  a  heart  was  mine  to 

forsake  her  even  for  you.' 
'Never  the  heart  among  women,'  he  said, 

'more  tender  and  true.' 
'  The  heart !  not  a  mother's  heart,  when 

I  left  my  darling  alone.' 
'Comfort  yourself,   for  the  heart  of  the 

father  will  care  for  his  own.' 
'The  heart  of  the  father  will  spurn  her,' 

I  cried,  'for  the  sin  of  the  wife, 
The    cloud  of  the   mother's   shame  will 

enfold  her  and  darken  her  life.' 
Then  his  pale  face  twitch'd;    '  O  Stephen, 

I  love  you,  I  love  you,  and  yet '  — 
As  I  lean'd  away  from  his  arms  — '  would 

God,  we  had  never  met !  ' 
And  he  spoke  not  —  only  the  storm;   till 

after  a  little,  I  yearn'd 
For  his  voice  again,  and  he  call'd  to  me 

*  Kiss    me  ! '     and    there  —  as    I 

turn'd  — 
'The  heart,  the  heart!'    I  kiss'd  him,  I 

clung  to  the  sinking  form. 
And  the  storm  went    roaring   above  us, 

and  he  —  was  out  of  the  storm. 

VIII. 

And  then,  then,  Mother,  the  ship  stag- 
ger'd  under  a  thunderous  shock. 

That  shook  us  asunder,  as  if  she  had 
struck  and  crash'd  on  a  rock; 


For  a  huge  sea  smote  every  soul  from  the 

decks  of  The  Falcon  but  one; 
All  of   them,  all  but  the  man  that  was 

lash'd  to  the  helm  had  gone; 
And  I  fell  —  and  the  storm  and  the  days 

went  by,  but  I  knew  no  more  — 
Lost  myself — lay  like  the  dead  by  the 

dead  on  the  cabin  floor, 
Dead  to  the  death  beside  me,  and  lost  to 

the  loss  that  was  mine, 
With  a  dim  dream,  now  and  then,  of  a 

hand  giving  bread  and  wine, 
Till  I  woke  from  the  trance,  and  the  ship 

stood  still,  and  the  skies  were  blue, 
But  the   face  I  had  known,  O  Mother, 

was  not  the  face  that  I  knew. 

IX. 

The  strange  misfeaturing  mask  that  I  saw 

so  amazed  me,  that  I 
Stumbled  on  deck,  half  mad.     I  would 

fling  myself  over  and  die  ! 
But  one  —  he  was  waving  a  flag  —  the  one 

man  left  on  the  wreck  — 
'  Woman  '  —  he  graspt  at  my  arm  —  *  stay 

there'  —  I  crouch'd  upon  deck  — 
'  We  are  sinking,  and  yet  there's  hope : 

look  yonder,'  he  cried,  '  a  sail,' 
In  a  tone  so  rough    that    I    broke    into 

passionate  tears,  and  the  wail 
Of  a  beaten  babe,  till  I  saw  that  a  boat 

was  nearing  us  —  then 
All  on  a  sudden  I  thought,  I  shall  look 

on  the  child  again. 


They    lower'd   me    down    the    side,   and 

there  in  the  boat  I  lay 
With  sad  eyes  fixt  on  the  lost  sea-home, 

as  we  glided  away, 
And  I  sigh'd,  as  the  low  dark  hull  dipt 

under  the  smiling  main, 
'Had  I  stay'd  with  him,  I  had  now  — 

with  him  —  been  out  of  my  pain.' 

XI. 

They  took  us  aboard :  the  crew  were 
gentle,  the  captain  kind; 

But  /  was  the  lonely  slave  of  an  often- 
wandering  mind; 

For  whenever  a  rougher  gust  might 
tumble  a  stormier  wave. 


DESPAIR. 


533 


'  O  Stephen,'  I  nioan'd,  '  I  am  coming  to 
thee  in  thine  Ocean-grave.' 

And  again,  when  a  bahiiier  breeze  curl'd 
over  a  peacefuller  sea, 

I  found  myself  moaning  again  '  O  child, 
I  am  coming  to  thee.' 

XII. 

The  broad  white  brow  of  the  Isle  —  that 

bay  with  the  colour'd  sand  — 
Rich  was  the  rose  of  sunset  there,  as  we 

drew  to  the  land; 
All    so    quiet    the   ripple    would    hardly 

blanch  into  spray 
At  the  feet  of  the  cliff;   and  I  pray'd  — 

'  my    child  '  —  for    I    still    could 

pray  — 
'  May  her   life  be  as  blissfully  calm,  be 

never  gloom'd  by  the  curse 
Of  a  sin,  not  hers  ! ' 

Was  it  well  with  the  child? 

I  wrote  to  the  nurse 

Who  had  borne  my  flower  on  her  hireling 

heart;   and  an  answer  came 
Not  from  the  nurse  —  nor  yet  to  the  wife 

—  to  her  maiden  name  ! 
I  shook  as  I  opened  the  letter  —  I  knew 

that  hand  too  well  — 
And   from  it  a  scrap,  dipt   out  of   the 

'  deaths '  in  a  paper,  fell. 
'Ten  long  sweet  summer  days'  of  fever, 

and  want  of  care  ! 
And  gone  —  that  day  of  the  storm  —  O 

Mother,  she  came  to  me  there. 


DESPAIR. 

A  man  and  his  wife  having  lost  faith  in  a  God, 
and  hope  of  a  life  to  come,  and  being  utterly 
miserable  in  this,  resolve  to  end  themselves  by 
drowning.  .  The  woman  is  drowned,  but  the  man 
rescued  by  a  minister  of  the  sect  he  had  aban- 
doned. 

I. 

Is  it  you,  that  preach'd  in  the  chapel 
there  looking  over  the  sand? 

FoUow'd  us  too  that  night,  and  dogg'd 
us,  and  drew  me  to  land? 


What  did  I  feel    that    night?     You  are 
curious.     How  should  I  tell? 


Does    it  matter    so    much   what   I    felt? 

You    rescued   me  —  yet  —  was   it 

well 
That  you    came    unwish'd  for,  uncall'd, 

between  me  and  the  deep  and  my 

doom, 
Three  days  since,  three  more  dark  days 

of  the  Godless  gloom 
Of  a  life  without  sun,  without  health,  with- 
out hope,  without  any  delight 
In    anything  here    upon    earth?  but    ah 

God,  that  night,  tha,t  night 
When  the  rolling  eyes  of  the  lighthouse 

there  on  the  fatal  neck 
Of  land  running  out  into  rock  —  they  had 

savedmany  hundreds  from  wreck — 
Glared  on  our  way  toward  death,  I  re- 
member I  thought,  as  we  past, 
Does  it  matter   how  many  they  saved? 

we  are  all  of  us  wreck'd  at  last  — 
'  Do  you  fear?  '  and  there  came  thro'  the 

roar  of  the  breaker  a  whisper,  a 

breath, 
'Fear?    am    I    not   with    you?      I    am 

frighted  at  life  not  death.' 

III. 

And  the  suns  of  the  limitless  Universe 
sparkled  and  shone  in  the  sky. 

Flashing  with  fires  as  of  God,  but  we 
knew  that  their  light  was  a  lie  — 

Bright  as  with  deathless  hope  —  but, 
however  they  sparkled  and  shone. 

The  dark  little  worlds  running  round 
them  were  worlds  of  woe  like  our 
own  — 

No  soul  in  the  heaven  above,  no  soul  on 
the  earth  below, 

A  fiery  scroll  written  over  with  lamenta- 
tion and  woe. 

IV. 

See,  we  were  nursed  in  the  drear  night- 
fold  of  your  fatalist  creed. 

And  we  turn'd  to  the  growing  dawn,  we 
had  hoped  for  a  dawn  indeed. 

When  the  light  of  a  Sun  that  was  coming 
would  scatter  the  ghosts  of  the 
Past, 

And  the  cramping  creeds  that  had 
madden'd  the  peoples  would 
vanish  at  last, 


534 


DESPAIR. 


And  we  broke  away  from  the  Christ,  our 
human  brother  and  friend, 

For  He  spoke,  or  it  seem'd  that  He 
spoke,  of  a  Hell  without  help, 
without  end. 


Hoped  for  a  dawn  and  it  came,  but  the 

promise  had  faded  away; 
We  had  past  from  a  cheerless  night  to 

the  glare  of  a  drearier  day  ; 
He  is  only  a  cloud  and  a  smoke  who  was 

once  a  pillar  of  fire, 
The  guess  of  a  worm  in  the  dust  and  the 

shadow  of  its  desire  — 
Of  a  worm  as  it  writhes  in  a  world  of  the 

weak  trodden  down  by  the  strong. 
Of  a  dying  worm  in  a  world,  all  massacre, 

murder,  and  wrong. 

VI. 

O  we  poor  orphans  of  nothing  —  alone 

on  that  lonely  shore  — 
Born  of  the  brainless  Nature  who  knew 

not  that  which  she  bore  ! 
Trusting   no   longer    that  earthly  flower 

would  be  heavenly  fruit  — 
Come  from  the  brute,  poor  souls —  no  souls 

—  and  to  die  with  the  brute 

VII. 

Nay,  but  I  am  not  claiming  your  pity :  I 

know  you  of  old  — 
Small  pity  for  those  that  have  ranged  from 

the  narrow  warmth  of  your  fold, 
"Where  you  bawl'd  the  dark  side  of  your 

faith  and  a  God  of  eternal  rage, 
Till  you  flung  us  back  on  ourselves,  and 

the  human  heart,  and  the  Age. 

VIII. 

But  pity  —  the  Pagan  held  it  a  vice  —  was 

in  her  and  in  me, 
Helpless,  taking  the  place  of  the  pitying 

God  that  should  be  ! 
Pity  for  all  that  aches  in  the  grasp  of  an 

idiot  power. 
And  pity  for  our  own  selves  on  an  earth 

that  bore  not  a  flower; 
Pity  for  all  that  suffers  on  land  or  in  air 

or  the  deep, 
And  pity  for  our  own  selves  till  we  long'd 

for  eternal  sleep. 


IX. 

'  Lightly  step  over  the  sands  !  the  waters 

—  you  hear  them  call ! 
Life  with  its  anguish,  and  horrors,  and 

errors  —  away  with  it  all ! ' 
And  she  laid  her  hand  in  my  own  —  she 

was  always  loyal  and  sweet  — 
Till  the  points  of  the  foam  in  the  dusk 

came  playing  about  our  feet. 
There    was    a   strong  sea-current  would 

sweep  us  out  to  the  main. 
'  Ah  God '  tho'  I  felt  as  I  spoke  I  was 

taking  the  name  in  vain  — 
'  Ah  God  '  and  we  turn'd  to  each  other, 

we  kiss'd,  we  embraced,  she  and  I, 
Knowing  the  Love  we  were  used  to  be- 
lieve everlasting  would  die : 
We  had  read  their  know-nothing  books 

and  we  lean'd  to  the  darker  side  — 
Ah  God,  should  we  find  Him,  perhaps, 

perhaps,  if  we  died,  if  we  died; 
We  never  had  found  Him  on  earth,  this 

earth  is  a  fatherless  Hell  — 
'  Dear  Love,  for  ever  and  ever,  for  ever 

and  ever  farewell,' 
Never  a  cry  so   desolate   not   since    the 

world  began, 
Never  a  kiss  so  sad,  no,  not  since   the 

coming  of  man ! 


But  the  blind  wave  cast  me  ashore,  and 

you  saved  me,  a  valueless  life. 
Not   a  grain   of   gratitude   mine !     You 

have  parted  the  man  from  the  wife. 
I  am  left  alone  on  the  land,  she  is  all 

alone  in  the  sea; 
If  a  curse  meant  aught,  I  would   curse 

you  for  not  having  let  me  be. 


XI. 


Visions  of  youth  —  for  my  brain  was  drunk 

with  the  water,  it  seems; 
I  had  past  into   perfect   quiet  at  length 

out  of  pleasant  dreams. 
And  the  transient  trouble  of  drowning  — 

what  was  it  when   match'd  with 

the  pains 
Of  the  hellish  heat   of    a    wretched   life 

rusliing;  back  thro'  tlic  veins? 


DESPAIR. 


535 


XII. 

Why  should  I  live?  one  son  had  forged 

on  his  father  and  fled, 
And   if   I   believed  in   a  God,   I  would 

thank  him,  the  other  is  dead. 
And    there    was    a    baby-girl,    that    had 

never  look'd  on  the  light : 
Happiest  she^of  us  all,  for  she  past  from 

the  night  to  the  night. 

XIII. 

But  the  crime,  if  a  crime,  of  her  eldest- 
born,  her  glory,  her  boast. 

Struck  hard  at  the  tender  heart  of  the 
mother,  and  broke  it  almost; 

Tho',  glory  and  shame  dying  out  for  ever 
in  endless  time, 

Does  it  matter  so  much  whether  crown'd 
for  a  virtue,  or  hang'd  for  a  crime? 

XIV. 

And  ruin'd  by  him,  by  hitJi,  I  stood 
there,  naked,  amazed 

In  a  world  of  arrogant  opulence,  fear'd 
myself  turning  crazed, 

And  I  would  not  be  mock'd  in  a  mad- 
house !  and  she,  the  delicate  wife. 

With  a  grief  that  could  only  be  cured,  if 
cured,  by  the  surgeon's  knife,  — 

XV. 

Why  should  we  bear  with    an   hour   of 

torture,  a  moment  of  pain. 
If  every  man  die  for  ever,  if  all  his  griefs 

are  in  vain, 
And  the  homeless  planet  at  length  will 

be  wheel'd   thro'    the   silence    of 

space, 
Motherless  evermore  of  an  ever-vanishing 

race. 
When   the  worm  shall  have  writhed  its 

last,    and    its    last    brother-worm 

will  have  fled 
From  the  dead  fossil  skull  that  is  left  in 

the  rocks  of  an  earth  that  is  dead  ? 

XVI. 

Have  I  crazed  myself  over  their  horrible 
infidel  writings?     O  yes, 

For  these  are  the  new  dark  ages,  you  see, 
of  the  popular  press, 


When  the  bat  comes  out  of  his  cave,  and 

the  owls  are  whooping  at  noon, 
And  Doubt  is  the  lord  of  this  dunghill 

and    crows   to    the    sun    and    the 

moon, 
Till  the  Sun  and  the  Moon  of  our  science 

are  both  of  them  turn'd  into  blood, 
And  Hope  will  have  broken  her  heart, 

running  after  a  shadow  of  good; 
P'or    their    knowing    and   know-nothing 

books  are  scatter'd  from  hand  to 

hand  — 
We  have  knelt  in  your  know-all  chapel 

too  looking  over  the  sand. 

XVII. 

What !  I  should  call  on  that  Infinite  Love 
that  has  served  us  so  well? 

Infinite  cruelty  rather  that  made  everlast- 
ing Hell, 

Made  us,  foreknew  us,  foredoom'd  us,  and 
does  what  he  will  with  his  own; 

Better  our  dead  brute  mother  who  never 
has  heard  us  groan  ! 

XVIII. 

Hell?  if  the  souls  of  men  were  immortal, 

as  men  have  been  told. 
The  lecher  would  cleave  to  his  lusts,  and 

the  miser  would  yearn  for  his  gold. 
And   so   there  were   Hell  for  ever !   but 

were  there  a  God  as  you  say. 
His  Love  would  have  power  over  Hell 

till  it  utterly  vanish'd  away. 

XIX. 

Ah  yet  —  I  have  had  some  glimmer,  at 

times,  in  my  gloomiest  woe. 
Of  a  God  behind  all  —  after  all  —  the  great 

God  for  aught  that  I  know; 
But  the  God  of  love  and  of  Hell  together 

—  they  cannot  be  thought. 
If  there  be  such  a  God  may  the  Great 

God  curse  him  and  bring  him  to 

naught ! 

XX. 

Blasphemy!  whose  is  the  fault?  is  it 
mine?  for  why  would  you  save 

A  madman  to  vex  you  with  wretched 
words,  who  is  best  in  his  grave? 

Blasphemy !  ay,  why  not,  being  damn'd 
beyond  hope  of  grace? 


536 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 


0  would  I  were  yonder  with    her,  and 

away  from   your   faith    and    your 

face ! 
Blasphemy !     true !    I    have    scared    you 

pale  with  my  scandalous  talk, 
But  the  blasphemy  to  my  mind  lies  all  in 

the  way  that  you  walk. 

XXI. 

Hence!  she  is  gone!  can  I  stay?  can  I 

breathe  divorced  from  the  Past? 
You  needs  must  have  good  lynx-eyes  if  I 

do  not  escape  you  at  last. 
Our  orthodox  coroner  doubtless  will  find 

it  a  felo-de-se, 
And  the  stake  and  the  cross-road,  fool, 

if  you  will,  does  it  matter  to  me? 

THE  ANCIENT   SAGE. 

A  THOUSAND  summers  ere  the  time  of 

Christ 
From  out  his  ancient  city  came  a  Seer 
Whom  one  that  loved,  and  honour'd  him, 

and  yet 
Was  no  disciple,  richly  garb'd,  but  worn 
From  wasteful    living,  foUow'd  —  in   his 

hand 
A  scroll  of  verse  —  till  that  old  man  before 
A   cavern   whence    an   affluent  fountain 

pour'd 
From  darkness  into  daylight,  turn'd  and 

spoke. 

This  wealth  of  waters  might  but  seem  to 

draw 
From  yon  dark  cave,  but,  son,  the  source 

is  higher, 
Yon   summit  half-a-league   in  air  —  and 

higher. 
The  cloud  that  hides  it  —  higher  still,  the 

heavens 
Whereby  the    cloud  was   moulded,  and 

whereout 
The  cloud  descended.     P'orce  is  from  the 

heights. 

1  am  wearied  of  our  citv,  son,  and  go 
To   spend  my  one  last  vear  among  the 

hills. 
What  hast  thou  there?    Some  deathsong 

for  the  Ghouls 
To  make  their  banquet  relish?    let  me 

read. 


"  How  far  thro'  all  the  bloom  and  brake 

That  nightingale  is  heard  ! 
What  power  but  the  bird's  could  make 

This  music  in  the  bird? 
How  summer-bright  are  yonder  skies, 

And  earth  as  fair  in  hue  ! 
And  yet  what  sign  of  aught  that  lies 

Behind  the  green  and  blue? 
But  man  to-day  is  fancy's  fool 

As  man  hath  ever  been. 
The  nameless  Power,  or  Powers,  that  rule 

Were  never  heard  or  seen." 

If  thou  would'st  hear  the  Nameless,  and 

wilt  dive 
Into  the  Temple-cave  of  thine  own  self. 
There,  brooding  by  the  central  altar,  thou 
May'st  haply  learn  the  Nameless  hath  a 

voice. 
By  which  thou  wilt  abide,  if  thou   be 

wise, 
As  if  thou  knewest,  tho'  thou  canst  not 

know ; 
For  Knowledge  is  the  swallow  on   the 

lake 
That  sees  and  stirs  the  surface-shadow 

there 
But  never  yet  hath  dipt  into  the  abysm, 
The    Abysm   of    all    Abysms,    beneath, 

within 
The  blue  of  sky  and  sea,  the  green  of 

earth. 
And  in  the  million-millionth  of  a  gr  in 
Which  cleft  and  cleft  again  for  evermore, 
And  ever  vanishing,  never  vanishes. 
To  me,  my  son,  more  mystic  than  myself, 
Or  even  than  the  Nameless  is  to  me. 
And  when  thou  sendest  thy  free  soul 

thro'  heaven, 
Nor  understandest  bound  nor  boundless- 
ness. 
Thou  seest  the  Nameless  of  the  hundred 

names. 
And  if  the  Nameless  should  withdraw 

from  all 
Thy  frailty  counts  most  real,  all  thy  world 
Might  vanish  like  thy  shadow  in  the  dark. 

"  And   since  —  from  when    this    earth 
began  — 

The  Nameless  never  came 
Among  us,  never  spake  with  man, 

And  never  named  the  Name  "  — 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 


537 


Thou  canst  not  prove  the  Nameless,  O 

my  son, 
Nor  canst    thou   prove    the   world    thou 

movest  in, 
Thou  canst  not  prove  that  thou  art  body 

alone, 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art  spirit 

alone. 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art  both 

in  one  : 
Thou  canst  not  prove  thou  art  immor- 
tal, no 
Nor  yet  that  thou  art  mortal  —  nay,  my 

son, 
Thou  canst  not  prove  that  I,  who  speak 

with  thee. 
Am  not  thyself  in  converse  with  thyself. 
For    nothing    worthy    proving    can    be 

proven, 
Nor  yet  disproven :    wherefore  thou  be 

wise. 
Cleave  ever  to  the  sunnier  side  of  doubt, 
And  cling  to  "Faith  beyond  the  forms  of 

Faith  ! 
She    reels  not  in  the   storm  of  warring 

words. 
She  brightens  at  the  clash  of  '  Yes  '  and 

'No,' 
She  sees  the  Best  that  glimmers  thro'  the 

Worst, 
She  feels  the  Sun  is  hid  but  for  a  night, 
She  spies  the  summer  thro'   the  winter 

bud, 
She  tastes  the  fruit  before  the  blossom 

falls, 
She  hears  the  lark  within    the  songless 

egg, 
She  finds  the  fountain  where  they  wail'd 
*  Mirage  ' ! 

"  What  Power?  aught  akin  to  Mind, 

The  mind  in  me  and  you? 
Or  power  as  of  the  Gods  gone  blind 

Who  see  not  what  they  do?  " 

But  some  in  yonder  city  hold,  my  son. 
That    none    but    Gods   could   build   this 

house  of  ours, 
So  beautiful,  vast,  various,  so  beyond 
All  work   of  man,  yet,  like  all  work  of 

man, 
A  beauty  with  defect  — ■ —  till  That  which 

knows, 


And  is  not  known,  but  felt  thro'  what  we 

feel 
Within  ourselves  is  highest,  shall  descend 
On  this  half-deed,   and  shape  it  at  the 

last 
According  to  the  Highest  in  the  Highest. 

"  What  Power  but  the  Years  that  make 

And  break  the  vase  of  clay, 
And  stir  the  sleeping  earth,  and  wake 

The  bloom  that  fades  away? 
What  rulers  but  the  Days  and  Hours 

That  cancel  weal  with  woe, 
And  wind  the  front  of  youth  with  flowers, 

And  cap  our  age  with  snow?  " 

The  days  and  hours  are  ever  glancing 

by. 

And  seem  to  flicker  past  thro'   sun  and 

shade, 
Or  short,  or  long,  as  Pleasure  leads,  or 

Pain; 
But  with  the  Nameless  is  nor  Day  nor 

Hour; 
Tho'  we,  thin    minds,    who    creep   from 

thought  to  thought. 
Break    into  '  Thens  '   and  *  Whens '  the 

Eternal  Now : 
This     double     seeming    of    the     single 

world  !  — 
My  words   are   like  the  babblings  in  a 

dream 
Of  nightmare,  when  the  babblings  break 

the  dream. 
But  thou  be  wise  in  this  dream-world  of 

ours, 
Nor  take  thy  dial  for  thy  deity. 
But  make  the  passing  shadow  serve  thy 

will. 

"  The  years  that  made  the  stripling  wise 

Undo  their  work  again, 
And  leave  him,  blind  of  heart  and  eyes, 

The  last  and  least  of  men; 
Who  clings  to  earth,  and  once  would  dare 

Hell-heat  or  Arctic  cold. 
And  now  one  breath  of  cooler  air 

Would  loose  him  from  his  hold ; 
His  winter  chills  him  to  the  root, 

He  withers  marrow  and  mind; 
The  kernel  of  the  shrivell'd  fruit 

Is  jutting  thro'  the  rind; 
The  tiger  spasms  tear  his  chest, 


538 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 


The  palsy  wags  his  head; 
The  wife,  the  sons,  who  love  him  best 

Would  fain  that  he  were  dead; 
The     griefs    by    which    he     once    was 
wrung 

Were  never  worth  the  while  "  — 

Who  knows  ?  or  whether  this  earth-narrow 

life 
Be  yet  but  yolk,  and  forming  in  the  shell? 

"  The  shaft  of  scorn  that  once  had  stung 
But  wakes  a  dotard  smile." 

The  placid  gleam  of  sunset  after  storm  ! 

"  The  statesman's  brain  that  sway'd  the 
past 

Is  feebler  than  his  knees; 
The  passive  sailor  wrecks  at  last 

In  ever-silent  seas; 
The  warrior  hath  forgot  his  arms, 

The  Learned  all  his  lore; 
The  changing  market  frets  or  charms 

The  merchant's  hope  no  more; 
The  prophet's  beacon  burn'd  in  vain, 

And  now  is  lost  in  cloud ; 
The  plowman  passes,  bent  with  pain, 

To  mix  with  what  he  plow'd ; 
The  poet  whom  his  Age  would  quote 

As  heir  of  endless  fame  — 
He  knows  not  ev'n  the  book  he  wrote, 

Not  even  his  own  name. 
For  man  has  overlived  his  day, 

And,  darkening  in  the  light. 
Scarce  feels  the  senses  break  away 

To  mix  with  ancient  Night." 

The  shell  must  break  before  the  bird  can 

fly. 

"The  years  that  when  my  Youth  began 

Had  set  the  lily  and  rose 
By  all  my  ways  where'er  they  ran, 

Have  ended  mortal  foes; 
My  rose  of  love  for  ever  gone. 

My  lily  of  truth  and  trust  — 
They  made  her  lily  and  rose  in  one, 

And  changed  her  into  dust. 
C)  rosetree  planted  in  my  grief, 

And  growing,  on  her  tomb, 
Her  (lust  is  greening  in  your  leaf, 

Her  blood  is  in  your  bloom. 


O  slender  lily  waving  there, 
And  laughing  back  the  light. 

In  vain  you  tell  me  '  Earth  is  fair  ' 
When  all  is  dark  as  night." 

My  son,  the  world  is  dark  with  griefs  and 

graves, 
So  dark  that    men  cry  out   against  the 

Heavens. 
Who  knows  but  that  the  darkness  is  in 

man? 
The  doors  of  Night  may  be  the  gates  of 

Light; 
For  wert  thou  born  or  blind  or  deaf,  and 

then 
Suddenly  heal'd,  how  would'st  thou  glory 

in  all 
The    splendours   and   the  voices  of  the 

world  ! 
And  we,  the  poor  earth's  dying  race,  and 

yet 
No  phantoms,  watching  from  a  phantom 

shore 
Await  the  last  and  largest  sense  to  make 
The  phantom  walls  of  this  illusion  fade. 
And  show  us  that  the  world  is  wholly  fair. 

''  But  vain  the  tears  for  darken'd  years 

As  laughter  over  wine. 
And  vain  the  laughter  as  the  tears, 

O  brother,  mine  or  thine, 

"  For  all  that  laugh,  and  all  that  weep, 
And  all  that  breathe  are  one 

Slight  ripple  on  the  boundless  deep 
That  moves,  and  all  is  gone." 

But  that  one  ripple  on  the  boundless  deep 
Feels   that  the    deep  is  boundless,  and 

itself 
For  ever  changing  form,  but  evermore 
One  with  the  boundless  motion   of  the 

deep. 

**  Yet  wine  and  laughter  friends !  and  set 

The  lamps  alight,  and  call 
For  golden  music,  and  forget 

The  darkness  of  the  pall." 

If  utter  darkness  closed  the  dav,  my 


l)Ut  earth's  dark  forehead  llings  atliwart 
the  heavens 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 


539 


Her   shadow   crown'd    with  stars — and 

yonder  —  out 
To  northward  —  some  that  never  set,  but 

pass 
P>om  sight  and  night  to  lose  themselves 

in  day. 
I  hate  the  black  negation  of  the  bier, 
And  wish  the  dead,  as  happier  than  our- 
selves 
And    higher,    having  climb'd    one    step 

beyond 
Our  village  miseries,  might  be  borne  in 

white 
To    burial  or  to  burning,  hymn'd    from 

hence 
With    songs   in    praise    of    death,    and 

crown'd  with  flowers  I 

"  O  worms  and  maggots  of  to-day 
Without  their  hope  of  wings  !  " 

But   louder   than    thv  rhyme   the  silent 

Word 
Of  that  world-prophet  in  the  heart  of  man. 

'*  The'  some  have  gleams  or  so  they  say 
Of  more  than  mortal  things." 

To-day  ?  but  what  of  yesterday  ?  for  oft 
On  me,  when  boy,  there  came  what  then 

I  call'd, 
Who  knew  no  books  and  no  philosophies, 
In    mv  boy-phrase  *  The   Passion  of  the 

'  Past.' 
The  first  gray  streak  of  earliest  summer- 
dawn. 
The  last  long  stripe  of  waning  crimson 

gloom. 
As  if  the  late  and  early  were  but  one  — 
A  height,   a  broken  grange,  a  grove,  a 

flower 
Had  murmurs  '  Lost  and  gone  and  lost 

and  gone  I ' 
A  breath,  a  whisper  —  some  divine  fare- 
well- 
Desolate  sweetness — far  and  faraway  — 
What   had  he  loved,  what  had  he  lost, 

the  boy? 
I  know  not  and  I  speak  of  what  has  been. 
And  more,    my   son !    for    more   than 
once  when  I 
Sat  all  alone,  revolving  in  myself 
The  word  that  is  the  symbol  of  myself, 


The  mortal  limit  of  the  Self  was  loosed, 
And  past  into  the  Nameless,  as  a  cloud 
Melts  into  Heaven.     I  touch'd  my  limbs, 

the  limbs 
Were    strange    not    mine  —  and    yet    no 

shade  of  doubt, 
But  utter  clearness,  and  thro'  loss  of  Self 
The  gain  of  such  large  life  as  match'd 

with  ours 
Were   Sun  to  spark  —  unshadowable  in 

words. 
Themselves  but   shadows   of  a  shadow- 
world. 

"  And  idle  gleams  will  come  and  go. 
But  still  the  clouds  remain;  " 

The  clouds  themselves  are  children  of  the 
Sun. 

"And  Night  and  Shadow  rule  below 
When  only  Day  should  reign." 

And  Day  and  Night  are  children  of  the 

Sun, 
And  idle  gleams  to  thee  are  light  to  me. 
Some  sav,  the  Light  was  father  of  the 

Night, 
And  some,  the  Night  was  father  of  the 

Light, 
No   night   no  day  I  —  I  touch  thy  world 

again  — 
No  ill  no  good  I   such  counter-terms,  my 

son, 
Are  border-races,  holding,  each  its  own 
By  endless  war  :  but  night  enough  is  there 
In  yon  dark  city :  get   thee   back :   and 

since 
The  key  to  that  weird  casket,  which  for 

thee 
But    holds  a  skull,  is  neither  thine  nor 

mine. 
But  in  the  hand  of  what  is  more  than 

man. 
Or  in  man's  hand  when  man  is  more  than 

man, 
Let  be  thy  wail  and  help  thy  fellow  men. 
And  make  thy  gold  thy  vassal   not  thy 

king. 
And   fling   free   alms    into    the  .  beggar's 

bowl, 
And   send   the   day   into    the   darken'd 

heart ; 


540 


THE  FLIGHT. 


Nor  list  for  guerdon  in  the  voice  of  men, 

A  dying  echo  from  a  falling  wall ; 

Nor    care  —  for    Hunger    hath   the   Evil 
eye  — 

To  vex  the  noon  with  fiery  gems,  or  fold 

Thy  presence  in  the  silk  of  sumptuous 
looms; 

Nor  roll  thy  viands  on  a  luscious  tongue, 

Nor  drown  thyself  with  flies  in  honied 
wine; 

Nor  thou  be  rageful,  like  a  handled  bee, 

And  lose  thy  life  by  usage  of  thy  sting; 

Nor  harm   an  adder  thro'   the   lust    for 
harm. 

Nor  make  a  snail's  horn  shrink  for  wan- 
tonness; 

And   more — think    well!    Do-well  will 
follow  thought, 

And  in  the  fatal  sequence  of  this  world 

An  evil  thought  may  soil  thy  children's 
blood; 

But  curb  the  beast  would  cast  thee  in  the 
mire, 

And  leave  the  hot  swamp  of  voluptuous- 
ness 

A  cloud  between  the  Nameless  and  thy- 
self. 

And   lay   thine    uphill   shoulder   to    the 
wheel. 

And  climb  the  Mount  of  Blessing,  whence, 
if  thou 

Look  higher,    then — perchance  —  thou 
mayest  —  beyond 

A  hundred  ever-rising  mountain  lines. 

And  past  the  range  of  Night  and  Shadow 
—  see 

The   high-heaven   dawn   of  more    than 
mortal  day 

Strike  on  the  Mount  of  Vision ! 

So,  farewell. 

THE   FLIGHT. 


Are  you  sleeping?     have  you  forgotten? 

do  not  sleep,  my  sister  dear ! 
How  can  you  sleep?  the  morning  brings 

the  day  I  hate  and  fear; 
The  cock  has  crow'd   already  once,  he 

crows  before  his  time; 
Awake  !  the  creeping  glimmer  steals,  the 

hills  are  white  with  rime. 


II. 

Ah,  clasp  me  in    your  arms,  sister,  ah, 

fold  me  to  your  breast ! 
Ah,  let  me  weep  my  fill  once  more,  and 

cry  myself  to  rest ! 
To  rest?  to  rest  and  wake  no  more  were 

better  rest  for  me, 
Than  to  waken  every   morning  to  that 

face  I  loathe  to  see : 


III. 


I  envied  your  sweet  slumber,  all  night  so 

calm  you  lay. 
The  night  was  calm,  the  morn  is  calm, 

and  like  another  day; 
But  I  could  wish  yon  moaning  sea  would 

rise  and  burst  the  shore. 
And  such  a  whirlwind  blow  these  woods, 

as  never  blew  before. 


IV. 


For,  one    by  one,  the  stars  went  down 

across  the  gleaming  pane, 
And  project  after  project  rose,  and  all  of 

them  were  vain; 
The   blackthorn-blossom   fades  and  falls 

and  leaves  the  bitter  sloe, 
The  hope  I  catch  at  vanishes  and  youth 

is  turn'd  to  woe. 

V. 

Come,  speak   a  little  comfort !  all  night 

I  pray'd  with  tears, 
And  yet  no  comfort  came    to  me,  and 

now  the  morn  appears. 
When   he   will  tear  me  from  your  side, 

who  bought  me  for  his  slave : 
This  father  pays  his  debt  with  me,  and 

weds  me  to  my  grave. 

VI. 

What  father,  this  or  mine,  was  he,  who, 

on  that  summer  day 
When  I  had  fall'n  from  off  the  crag  we 

clamber' d  up  in  play, 
Found,  fear'd  me  dead,  and  groan'd,  and 

took  and  kiss'd  me,  and  again 
He  kiss'd  me;   and  I    loved  him  then; 

he  was  my  father  then. 


THE   FLIGHT. 


541 


VII. 

No  father   now,   the  tyrant  vassal  of  a 

tyrant  vice  ! 
The  Godless  Jephtha  vows  his  child  .  .  . 

to  one  cast  of  the  dice. 
These  ancient   woods,  this  Hall  at  last 

will  go  —  perhaps  have  gone, 
Except  his  own  meek  daughter  yield  her 

life,  heart,  soul  to  one  — 

VIII. 

To  one  who  knows  I  scorn  him,     O  the 

formal  mocking  bow, 
The  cruel  smile,  the  courtly  phrase  that 

masks  his  malice  now  — 
But  often  in  the  sidelong  eyes  a  gleam  of 

all  things  ill  — 
It   is   not    Love  but    Hate  that  weds  a 

bride  against  her  will; 

IX. 

Hate,  that  would   pluck   from  this  true 

breast  the  locket  that  I  wear, 
The  precious  crystal  into  which  I  braided 

Edwin's  hair  I 
The  love  that  keeps  this  heart  alive  beats 

on  it  night  and  day  — 
One  golden  curl,  his  golden  gift,  before 

he  past  away. 


He  left  us  weeping  in  the  woods;    his 

boat  was  on  the  sand; 
How   slowly  down    the    rocks  he  went, 

how  loth  to  quit  the  land  ! 
And  all  my  life  was  darken'd,  as  I  saw 

the  white  sail  run, 
And  darken,  up  that  lane  of  light  into 

the  setting  sun. 

XI. 

How  often  have  we  watch'd  the  sun  fade 

from  us  thro'  the  West, 
And  follow  Edwin  to  those   isles,  those 

islands  of  the  Blest ! 
Is  he  not  there?  would  I  were  there,  the 

friend,  the  bride,  the  wife, 
With    him,   where    summer    never    dies, 

with  Love,  the  Sun  of  life  ! 


XII. 


0  would  I  were  in  Edwin's  arms — once 

more  —  to  feel  his  breath 
Upon  my  cheek  —  on  Edwin's  ship,  with 

Edwin,  ev'n  in  death, 
Tho'  all  about  the  shuddering  wreck  the 

death-white  sea  should  rave. 
Or  if  lip  were  laid  to  lip  on  the  pillows 

of  the  wave. 

XIII. 

Shall  I  take  him  ?  I  kneel  with  hi77i  ?  I 

swear  and  swear  forsworn 
To  love  him  most,  whom  most  I  loathe, 

to  honour  whom  I  scorn? 
The  Fiend  would  yell,  the  grave  would 

yawn,  my  mother's   ghost  would 

rise  — 
To  lie,  to  lie  —  in  God's  own  house  —  the 

blackest  of  all  lies  ! 

XIV. 

Why  —  rather  than  that  hand  in  mine, 

tho'  every  pulse  would  freeze, 
I'd   sooner    fold  an  icy  corpse    dead    of 

some  foul  disease : 
Wed  him?     I  will  not  wed  him,  let  them 

spurn  me  from  the  doors, 
And  I  will  wander  till  I  die  about  the 

barren  moors. 

XV. 

The  dear,  mad  bride  who  stabb'd  her 
bridegroom  on  her  bridal  night  — 

If  mad,  then  I  am  mad,  but  sane,  if  she 
were  in  the  right. 

My  father's  madness  makes  me  mad  — 
but  words  are  only  words ! 

1  am  not  mad,  not  yet,  not  quite  —  There ! 

listen  how  the  birds 

XVI, 

Begin  to  warble  yonder  in  the  budding 

orchard  trees  ! 
The  lark  has  past  from  earth  to  Heaven 

upon  the  morning  breeze  ! 
How  gladly,  were  I  one  of  those,  how 

early  would  I  wake! 
And  yet  the  sorrow  that  I  bear  is  sorrow 

for  his  sake. 


542 


THE   FLIGHT. 


XVII. 

They   love    their   mates,   to  whom    they 

sing;  or  else  their  songs,  that  meet 
The    morning   with    such   music,   would 

never  be  so  sweet  I 
And  tho'  these  fathers  will  not  hear,  the 

blessed  Heavens  are  just. 
And    Love   is   fire,  and    burns    the   feet 

would  trample  it  to  dust. 

XVIII. 

A  door  was  open'd  in  the  house  —  who? 

who?  my  father  sleeps  ! 
A  stealthy  foot  upon  the  stair  !  he  —  some 

one  —  this  way  creeps  ! 
If  he?  yes,  he  .   .   .  lurks,  listens,  fears 

his  victim  may  have  fled  — 
He  !   where  is  some  sharp-pointed  thing? 

he  comes,  and  finds  me  dead. 

XIX. 

Not  he,  not  yet!  and  time  to  act  —  but 

how  my  temples  burn  ! 
And  idle  fancies  flutter  me,  I  know  not 

where  to  turn; 
Speak  to  me,  sister;    counsel   me;    this 

marriage  must  not  be. 
You  only  know  the  love  that  makes  the 

world  a  world  to  me  ! 


XX. 


•but 


Our  gentle  mother,  had  she  lived 

we  were  left  alone  : 
That  other  left  us  to  ourselves;   he  cared 

not  for  his  own; 
So  all  the  summer   long  we  roam'd  in 

these  wild  woods  of  ours, 
My  Edwin  loved   to    call   us  then  '  His 

two  wild  woodland  flowers.' 

XXI. 

Wild   flowers   blowing   side   by   side   in 

God's  free  light  and  air. 
Wild  flowers  of  the  secret  woods,  when 

Edwin  found  us  there. 
Wild  woods  in  which  we  roved  with  him, 

and  heard  his  passionate  vow, 
Wild  woods  in  which  we  rove  no  more, 

if  we  be  parted  now  ! 


XXII. 

You  will  not  leave  me  thus  in  grief  to 

wander  forth  forlorn; 
We    never    changed    a   bitter  word,  not 

once  since  we  were  born; 
Our  dying  mother  join'd  our  hands;   she 

knew  this  father  well ; 
She  bade  us  love,  like  souls  in  Heaven, 

and  now  I  fly  from  Hell, 

XXIII. 

And   you  with   me;    and  we  shall  light 

upon  some  lonely  shore, 
Some  lodge  within  the  waste  sea-dunes, 

and  hear  the  waters  roar. 
And  see  the  ships  from  out  the  West  go 

dipping  thro'  the  foam, 
And  sunshine  on  that  sail  at  last  which 

brings  our  Edwin  home. 

XXIV. 

But  look,  the  morning  grows  apace,  and 

lights  the  old  church-tower. 
And  lights  the  clock  !    the  hand  points 

five  —  O  me  —  it  strikes  the  hour — 
I  bide  no  more,  I  meet  my  fate,  whatever 

ills  betide  ! 
Arise,  my  own  true  sister,  come  forth  ! 

the  world  is  wide. 

XXV. 

And  yet  my  heart  is  ill  at  ease,  my  eyes 

are  dim  with  dew, 
I  seem  to  see  a  new-dug  grave  up  yonder 

by  the  yew ! 
If  we   should    never   more   return,   but 

wander  hand  in  hand 
With  breaking  hearts,  without  a  friend, 

and  in  a  distant  land ! 

XXVI. 

O  sweet,  they  tell  me  that  the  world  is 

hard,  and  harsh  of  mind, 
But  can  it  be  so  hard,  so  harsh,  as  those 

that  should  be  kind? 
That  matters  not :    let  come  what  will ; 

at  last  the  end  is  sure. 
And  every  heart  that  loves  with  truth  is 

equal  to  endure. 


TOMORROW. 


543 


TOMORROW. 


Her,  that  yer  Honour  was  spakin'  to? 

Whin,  yer  Honour  ?  last  year  — 
Standin'  here  by  the  bridge,  when   last 

yer  Honour  was  here? 
An'  yer  Honour  ye  gev  her  the  top  of  the 

mornin',  '  Tomorra,'  says  she. 
What    did    they   call    her,  yer   Honour? 

They  call'd  her  Molly  Magee. 
An'  yer  Honour's  the  thrue  ould  blood 

that  always  manes  to  be  kind, 
But    there's    rason    in    all    things,    yer 

Honour,    for    Molly   was    out    of 

her  mind. 

II. 

Shure,  an'  meself  remimbers  wan  night 

comin'  down  be  the  sthrame. 
An'  it  seems  to  me  now  like    a   bit    of 

yisther-day  in  a  dhrame  — 
Here  where  yer  Honour  seen  her  —  there 

was  but  a  slip  of  a  moon, 
But  I  hard  thim  —  ^loUy  Magee  wid  her 

bachelor,  Danny  O'Roon  — 
'You've    been    takin'  a    dlwop    o'    the 

crathur,'  an'  Danny  says,  '  Troth, 

an'  I  been 
Dhrinkin'  yer  health  wid  Shamus  O'Shea 

at  Katty's  shebeen;  ^ 
But  I  must  be  lavin'  ye  soon.'     '  Ochone 

are  ye  goin'  away  ?  ' 
'  Goin'  to  cut  the  Sassenach  whate,'  he 

says,  '  over  the  say  '  — 
'An'  whin  will  ye  meet  me  agin?'  an'  I 

hard  him,  '  Molly  asthore, 
I'll  meet  you  agin  tomorra,'  says  he,  '  be 

the  chapel-door.' 
'An'  whin  are   ye    goin'    to    lave    me?' 

'  O'  Monday  mornin','  says  he; 
'An'  shure  thin  ye'll  meet  me  tomorra?  ' 

'Tomorra,  tomorra,  Machree  I  ' 
Thin  Molly's  ould  mother,  yer  Honour, 

that  had  no  likin'  for  Dan, 
Call'd  from  her  cabin  an'  tould   her  to 

come  away  from  the  man, 
An'  Molly  Magee  kem  flyin'  acrass  me, 

as  light  as  a  lark, 
An'   Dan   stood  there  for  a  minute,  an' 

thin  wint  into  the  dark. 

1  Grog-shop. 


But  wirrah  I  the  storm  that  night  —  the 
tundher,  an'  rain  that  fell. 

An'  the  sthrames  runnin'  down  at  the 
back  o'  the  glin  'ud  'a  dhrownded 
Hell. 

III. 

But  airth  was  at  pace  nixt  mornin',  an' 

Hiven  in  its  glory  smiled, 
x\s  the  Holy  Mother  o'  Glory  that  smiles 

at  her  sleepin'  child  — 
Ethen  —  she  stept  an  the  chapel-green, 

an'  she  turn'd  herself  roun' 
Wid  a  diamond  dhrop    in    her    eye,  for 

Danny  was  not  to  be  foun'. 
An'  many's  the  time  that  I  watch'd  her 

at  mass  lettin'  down  the  tear, 
For  the  Divil    a   Danny  was   there,  yer 

Honour,  for  forty  year. 


IV. 


Och,  Molly  Magee,  wid  the  red  o'  the 

rose  an'  the  white  o'  the  May, 
An'  yer  hair  as  black  as  the  night,  an' 

yer  eyes  as  bright  as  the  day  I 
Achora,    yer   laste    little    whishper   was 

sweet  as  the  lilt  of  a  bird  I 
Acushla,  ye  set  me  heart  batin'  to  music 

wid  ivery  word ! 
An'  sorra  the  Queen  wid  her  sceptre  in 

sich  an  illigant  han'. 
An'  the  fall  of  yer  foot  in  the  dance  was 

as  light  as  snow  an  the  Ian', 
An'  the  sun  kem  out  of  a  cloud  whiniver 

ye  walkt  in  the  shtreet, 
An'  Shamus  O'Shea  was  yer  shadda,  an' 

laid  himself  undher  yer  feet, 
An'  I  loved  ye  meself  wid  a  heart  and  a 

half,  me  darlin',  and  he 
'Ud  'a  shot  his  own  sowl  dead  for  a  kiss 

of  ye,  Molly  Magee. 


But  shure  we  wor  betther  frinds  whin  I 

crack'd  his  skull  for  her  sake, 
An'   he  ped  me  back  wid  the  best  he 

could    give    at    ould    Donovan's 

wake  — 
For  the  boys  wor  about  her  agiri  whin 

Dan  didn't  come  to  the  fore, 
An'  Shamus  along  wid  the  rest,  but  she 

put  thim  all  to  the  door. 


544 


TOMORROW. 


An',  afther,  I  thried  her  meself  av  the 
bird  'ud  come  to  me  call, 

But  Molly,  begorrah,  'ud  listhen  to  naither 
at  all,  at  all. 

VI. 

An'  her  nabours  an'  frinds  'ud  consowl 

an'  condowl  wid    her,    airly    and 

late, 
'Your   Danny,'   they  says,  '  niver  crasst 

over  say  to  the  Sassenach  whate; 
He's  gone  to  the  States,  aroon,  an'  he's 

married  another  wife. 
An'  ye'U  niver  set  eyes  an  the  face  of  the 

thraithur  agin  in  life  ! 
An'  to  dhrame  of  a  married  man,  death 

alive,  is  a  mortial  sin.' 
But  Molly  says, '  I'd  his  hand-promise,  an' 

shure  he'll  meet  me  agin.' 

VII. 

An'  afther  her  paarints  had  inter'd  glory, 

an'  both  in  wan  day, 
She  began  to  spake  to  herself,  the  crathur, 

an'  whishper,  an'  say, 

*  Tomorra,  Tomorra  ! '    an'    Father    Mo- 

lowny  he  tuk  her  in  han', 

*  Molly,   you're    manin','    he    says,    '  me 

dear,  av  I  undherstan', 
That  ye'll  meet  your   paarints   agin  an' 

yer  Danny  O'Roon  afore  God 
Wid  his  blessed  Marthyrs  an'    Saints;  ' 

an'  she  gev  him  a  friendly  nod, 
'Tomorra,  Tomorra,'  she  says,  an'    she 

didn't  intind  to  desave. 
But  her  wits  wor  dead,  an'  her  hair  was 

as  white  as  the  snow  an  a  grave. 

VIII. 

Arrah  now,  here  last  month  they  wor 
diggin'  the  bog,  an'  they  foun' 

Dhrownded  in  black  bog-wather  a  corp 
lyin'  undher  groun'. 

IX. 

Yer  Honour's  own  agint,  he  says  to  me 

wanst,  at  Katty's  shebeen, 
'The    Divil    take    ail    the    black    Ian', 

for  a  blessin'   'ud  come  wid   the 

green ! ' 
An'  where  'ud  the  poor  man,  thin,  cut 

his  bit  o'  turf  for  the  fire? 


But  och  !  bad  scran  to  the  bogs  whin 
they  swallies  the  man  intire  ! 

An'  sorra  the  bog  that's  in  Hiven  wid  all 
the  light  an'  the  glow. 

An'  there's  hate  enough,  shure,  widout 
thim  in  the  Divil's  kitchen  below. 


X. 


Thim  ould  blind  nagers  in  Agypt,  I  hard 

his  Riverence  say, 
Could   keep  their  haithen  kings  in  the 

flesh  for  the  Jidgemint  day, 
An',  faix,  be  the  piper  o'  Moses,  they  kep' 

the  cat  an'  the  dog. 
But  it  'ud  'a  been  aisier  work   av  they 

lived  be  an  Irish  bog. 

XI. 

Hovv-an-iver   they   laid   this   body   they 

foun'  an  the  grass 
Be   the  chapel-door,  an'  the  people  'ud 

see  it  that  wint  in  to  mass  — 
But  a  frish  gineration  had  riz,  an'  most 

of  the  ould  was  few, 
An'  I  didn't  know  him  meself,  an'  none 

of  the  parish  knew. 

XII. 

But  Molly  kem  limpin'  up  wid  her  stick, 

she  was  lamed  av  a  knee. 
Thin  a  slip  of  a  gossoon  call'd,  '  Div  ye 

know  him,  Molly  Magee?' 
An'  she  stood  up  straight  as  the  Queen  of 

the  world  —  she  lifted  her  head  — 
'  He  said  he  would  meet  me  tomorra ! ' 

an'  dhropt  down  dead  an  the  dead. 

XIII. 

Och,    Molly,  we    thought,   machree,    ye 

would  start  back  agin  into  life. 
Whin  we  laid  yez,  aich  be  aich,  at  yer 

wake  like  husban'  an'  wife. 
Sorra  the  dhry  eye  thin  but  was  wet  for 

the  frinds  that  was  gone  ! 
Sorra    the    silent  throat  but  we  hard  it 

cryin'  '  Ochone  !  ' 
An'   Shamus  O'Shea    that    has  now  ten 

childer,  hansome  an'  tall, 
Him  an'  his  childer  wor  keenin'  as  if  he 

had  lost  thim  all. 


THE   SPINSTER'S  SWEET-ARTS. 


545 


XIV. 

Thin  his  Riverence  buried  thim  both  in 
wan  grave  be  the  dead  boor-tree, ^ 

The  young  man  Danny  O'Roon  wid  his 
ould  woman,  Molly  Magee. 

XV. 

May  all  the  flowers  o'  Jeroosilim  blossom 

an'  spring  from  the  grass, 
Imbrashin'    an'    kissin'    aich   other  —  as 

ye  did  —  over  yer  Crass  ! 
An'  the  lark  fly  out  o'  the  flowers  wid 

his  song  to  the  Sun  an'  the  Moon, 
An'    tell    thim    in    Hiven   about    Molly 

Magee  an'  her  Danny  O'Roon, 
Till  Holy  St.  Pether  gets  up  wid  his  kays 

an'  opens  the  gate  ! 
An'  shure,   be  the  Crass,  that's  betther 

nor  cuttin'  the  Sassenach  whate 
To  be  there  wid  the  Blessed  Mother,  an' 

Saints  an'  Marthyrs  galore. 
An'  singin'  yer  *  Aves '  an'  •  Fathers '  for 

iver  an'  ivermore. 

XVI. 

An'  now  that  I  tould  yer  Honour  what- 

iver  I  hard  an'  seen, 
Yer  Honour'ill  give  me  a  thrifle  to  dhrink 

yer  health  in  potheen. 


THE   SPINSTER'S   SWEET-ARTS. 


Milk  for  my  sweet-arts,  Bess  !  fur  it  mun 

be  the  time  about  now 
When    Molly  cooms  in   fro'  the  far-end 

close  wi'  her  paails  fro'  the  cow. 
Eh!  tha  be  new  to  the  plaace  —  thou'rt 

gaapin' —  doesn't  tha  see 
I  calls  'em  arter  the  fellers  es  once  was 

sweet  upo'  me? 


Naay  to  be  sewer  it  be  past  'er  time. 

What  maakes  'er  sa  laate? 
Goa  to  the  laane  at  the  back,  an'  loook 

thruf  Maddison's  gaate ! 


1  Elder-tree. 


III. 

Sweet-arts !  Molly  belike  may  'a  lighted 

to-night  upo'  one. 
Sweet-arts !    thanks  to   the  Lord  that   I 

niver  not  listen'd  to  noan  ! 
So  I  sits  i'  my  oan  armchair  wi'  my  oan 

kettle  theere  o'  the  hob, 
An'  Tommy   the    fust,    an'  Tommy    the 

second,  an'  Steevie  an'  Rob. 


Rob,  coom  oop  'ere  o'  my  knee.     Thou 

sees  that  i'  spite  o'  the  men 
I   'a  kep'  thruf   thick  an'  thin  my  two 

'oonderd  a-year  to  mysen; 
Yis  !  thaw  tha  call'd  me  es  pretty  es  ony 

lass  i'  the  Shere; 
An'  thou  be  es  pretty  a  Tabby,  but  Robby 

I  seed  thruf  ya  theere. 


Feyther  'ud  saay  I  wur  ugly  es  sin,  an'  I 

beant  not  vaain. 
But  I  niver  wur  downright  hugly,  thaw 

soom  'ud  'a  thowt  ma  plaain, 
An'  I  wasn't  sa  plaain  i'  pink  ribbons,  ye 

said  I  wur  pretty  i'  pinks. 
An'  1  liked  to  'ear  it  I  did,  but  I  beant 

sich  a  fool  as  ye  thinks; 
Ye  was  stroakin  ma  down  wi'  the   'air, 

as  I  be  a-stroakin  o'  you. 
But  whiniver  I  loooked  i'  the  glass  I  wur 

sewer  that  it  couldn't  be  true; 
Niver  wur  pretty,  not  I,  but  ye  knaw'd  it 

wur  pleasant  to  'ear, 
Thaw  it  warn't  not  me  es  wur  pretty,  but 

my  two  'oonderd  a-year. 

VI. 

D'ya  mind  the    murnin'    when   we    was 

a-walkin'  togither,  an'  stood 
By  the  claay'd-oop  pond,  that  the  foalk 

be  sa  scared  at,  i'  Gigglesby  wood, 
Wheer  the  poor  wench  drowndid  hersen, 

black  Sal,es  'ed  been  disgraaced? 
An'  I    feel'd    thy   arm    es   I    stood   wur 

a-creeapin   about  my  waaist; 
An'  me  es  wur  alius  afear'd  of  a  man's 

gittin'  ower  fond, 
I  sidled  awaay  an'  awaay  till  I  plumpt  foot 

fust  i'  the  pond; 


2N 


546 


THE   SPINSTER'S  SWEET-ARTS. 


And,  Robby,  I  niver  'a  liked  tha  sa  well, 

as  I  did  that  daily, 
Fur  tha  joonipt  in  thysen,  an'  tha  hoickt 

my  feet  wi'  a  flop  fro'  the  claay. 
Ay,  stick  oop  thy  back,  an'  set  oop  thy 

taail,  tha  may  gie  ma  a  kiss, 
Fur  I  walk'd  wi'  tha  all  the  way  hoam 

an'  wur  niver  sa  nigh  saayin'  Yis. 
But  wa  boath  was  i'  sich  a  clat  we  was 

shaamed  to  cross  GigglesbyGreean, 
Fur  a  cat  may  loook  at  a  king  thou  knaws 

but  the  cat  mun  be  clean. 
Sa  we  boath  on  us  kep  out  o'  sight  o'  the 

winders  o'  Gigglesby  Minn — ■ 
Naay,  but  the  claws  o'  tha  I   quiet !  they 

pricks  clean  thruf  to  the  skin  — 
An'  wa  boath  slinkt  'oam  by  the  brokken 

shed  i'  the  laane  at  the  back, 
Wheer  the  poodle  runn'd  at  tha  once,  an' 

thou  runn'd  oop  o'  the  thack; 
An'  tha  squeedg'd  my  'and  i'  the  shed, 

fur  theere  we  was  forced  to  'ide. 
Fur  I  seed  that  Steevie  wur  coomin',  and 

one  o'  the  Tommies  beside. 

VII. 

Theere  now,  what  art  'a  mewin  at,  Steevie  ? 

for  owt  I  can  tell  — 
Robby  wur  fust  to  be  sewer,  or  I  mowt 

'a  liked  tha  as  well. 

VIII. 

But,  Robby,  I  thowt  o'  tha  all  the  while 

I  wur  chaangin'  my  gown. 
An'  I  thowt  shall  I  chaange  my  staate? 

but,  O  Lord,  upo'  coomin' down  — 
My  bran-new  carpet  es  fresh  es  a  midder 

o'  flowers  i'  Maay  — 
Why  'edn't  tha  wiped  thy  shoes?  it  wur 

clatted  all  ower  wi'  claay. 
An'  I  could  'a  cried  ammost,  fur  I  seed 

that  it  couldn't  be, 
An'  Robby  I  gied  tha  a  raatin  that  sattled 

thy  coortin  o'  me. 
An'  Molly  an'  me  was  agreed,  as  we  was 

a-cleanin'  the  floor. 
That  a  man  be  a  durty  thing  an'  a  trouble 

an'  plague  wi'  indoor. 
But  I  rued  it  arter  a  bit,  fur  I  stuck  to 

tha  moor  na  the  rest. 
But  I  couldn't  'a  lived  wi'  a  man  an'  I 

knaws  it  be  all  fur  the  best. 


IX. 

Naay  —  let  ma  stroak    tha  down   till   I 

maakes  tha  es  smooth  es  silk, 
But  if  I  'ed  married  tha,  Robby,  thou'd 

not  'a  been  worth  thy  milk, 
Thou'd  niver  'a  cotch'd  ony  mice  but  'a 

left  me  the  work  to  do, 
And  'a  taaen  to  the  bottle  beside,  so  es 

all  that  I  'ears  be  true; 
But  I  loovs  tha  to  maake  thysen  'appy, 

an'  soa  purr  awaay,  my  dear. 
Thou  'ed  wellnigh  purr'd  ma  awaay  fro' 

my  oan  two  'oonderd  a-year. 


Swearin  agean,  you  Toms,  as  ye  used  to 

do  twelve  year  sin' ! 
Ye  niver  'card  Steevie  swear  'cep'  it  wur 

at  a  dog  coomin'  in, 
An'  boath  o'  ye  mun  be  fools  to  be  hallus 

a-shawin'  your  claws, 
Fur  I  niver  cared  nothink  for  neither  — 

an'  one  o'  ye  dead  ye  knaws ! 
Coom  give  hoaver  then,    weant   ye?     I 

warrant  ye  soom  fine  daiiy  — 
Theere,  lig  down  —  I   shall  hev  to  gie 

one  or  tother  awaay. 
Can't    ye  taiike  pattern  by  Steevie?   ye 

sha'n't  hev  a  drop  fro'  the  paiiil. 
Steevie  be  right  good  manners  bang  thruf 

to  the  tip  o'  the  taail. 

XI. 

Robby,  git  down   wi'tha,   wilt   tha?   let 

Steevie  coom  oop  o'  my  knee. 
Steevie,  my  lad,  thou  'ed  very  nigh  been 

the  Steevie  fur  me  ! 
Robby  wur  fust  to  be  sewer,  'e  wur  burn 

an'  bred  i'  the  'ouse, 
But  thou  be  es  'ansom  a  tabby  es  iver 

patted  a  mouse. 

XII. 

An'  I  beant  not  vaain,  but  I  knaws  I  'ed 

led  tha  a  quieter  life 
Nor  her  wi'  the  hepitaph  yonder !      *  A 

faaithful  an'  loovin'  wife  ! ' 
An'  'cos  o'  thy  farm  by  the  beck,  an'  thy 

windmill  oop  o'  the  croft, 
Tha  thowt  tha  would  marry  ma,  did  tha? 

but  that  wur  a  bit  ower  soft. 


THE   SPINSTER'S  SWEET-ARTS. 


547. 


Thaw  thou  was  es  soaber  es  daay,  wi'  a 
niced  red  faace,  an'  es  clean 

Es  a  shillin'  fresh  fro'  the  mint  wi'  a  bran- 
new  'ead  o'  the  Queean, 

An'  thy  farmin'  es  clean  es  thysen',  fur, 
Steevie,  tha  kep'  it  sa  neat 

That  I  niver  not  spied  sa  much  es  a 
poppy  along  wi'  the  wheat, 

An'  the  wool  of  a  thistle  a-flyin'  an' 
seeiidin'  tha  haated  to  see; 

'Twur  es  bad  es  a  battle-twig  ^  'ere  i'  my 
oan  blue  chaumber  to  me. 

Ay,  roob  thy  whiskers  agean  ma,  fur  I 
could  'a  taaen  to  tha  well, 

But  fur  thy  bairns,  poor  Steevie,  a 
bouncin'  boy  an'  a  gell. 

XIII. 

An'  thou  was  es  fond  o'  thy  bairns  es  I 

be  mysen  o'  my  cats, 
But  I    niver    not   wish'd    fur   childer,   I 

hevn't  naw  likin'  fur  brats; 
Pretty  anew  when  ya  dresses   'em   oop, 

an'  they  goas  fur  a  walk. 
Or  sits   wi'    their    'ands    afoor    'em,   an' 

doesn't  not  'inder  the  talk  ! 
But  their  bottles  o'  pap,  an'  their  mucky 

bibs,  an'  the  clats  an'  the  clouts, 
An'  their  mashin'  their  toys  to  pieaces  an' 

maakin'  ma  deaf  wi'  their  shouts. 
An'  hallus  a-joompin'  about  ma  as  if  they 

was  set  upo'  springs, 
An'  a-haxin'  ma  hawkard  questions,  an' 

saayin'  ondecent  things. 
An'  a-callin'  ma  '  hugly '  mayhap  to  my 

faace,  or  a-tearin'  my  gown  — 
Dear !    dear !    dear !     I   mun  part  them 

Tommies  —  Steevie  git  down. 

XIV. 

Ye  be  wuss  nor  the  men-tommies,  you. 

I  tell'd  ya,  na  moor  o'  that ! 
Tom,  lig  theere  o'  the  cushion,  an'  tother 

Tom  'ere  o'  the  mat. 

XV. 

Theere !  I  ha'  master'd  them !  Hed  I 
married  the  Tommies  —  O  Lord, 

To  loove  an'  obaay  the  Tommies !  I 
couldn't  'a  stuck  by  my  word. 

To  be  horder'd  about,  an'  waaked,  when 

Molly  'd  put  out  the  light, 

1  Earwig. 


By  a  man  coomin'  in  wi'  a  hiccup  at  ony 

hour  o'  the  night  I 
An'  the  taable  staain'd  wi'  'is  aale,  an'  the 

mud  o'  'is  boots  o'  the  stairs, 
An'    the   stink   o'   'is  pipe  i'   the   'ouse, 

an'    the    mark   o'   'is   'ead  o'   the 

chairs ! 
An'  noan  o'  my  four  sweet-arts  'ud  'a  let 

me  'a  hed  my  oiin  waay, 
Sa  1  likes  'em  best  wi'  taails  when  they 

'evn't  a  word  to  saay. 

XVI. 

An'   I   sits  i'  my  oan  little  parlour,  an' 

sarved  by  my  oan  little  lass, 
Wi'  my  oan  little  garden  outside,  an'  my 

oan  bed  o'  sparrow-grass. 
An'  my  oan  door-poorch  wi'  the  woodbine 

an'  jessmine  a-dressin'  it  greean, 
An'  my  oan  fine  Jackman  i'  purple   a- 

roabin'  the  'ouse  like  a  Queean. 

XVII. 

An'  the  little  gells  bobs  to  ma  hoffens  es 

I  be  abroad  i'  the  laanes, 
When  I  goas  fur  to  coomfut  the  poor  es 

be    down   wi'    their   haaches    an' 

their  paains : 
An'  a  haaf-pot  o'  jam,  or  a  mossel  o'  meat 

when  it  beant  too  dear, 
They  maakes  ma  a  graater  Laady  nor  'er 

i'  the  mansion  theer, 
Hes  'es  hallus  to  hax  of  a  man  how  much 

to  spare  or  to  spend; 
An'  a  spinster  I  be  an'  I  will  be,  if  soa 

please  God,  to  the  hend. 

XVIII. 

Mew  !  mew  !  —  Bess  wi'  the  milk  !  what 

ha  maade  our  Molly  sa  laate? 
It  should  'a  been  'ere  by  seven,  an'  theere 

—  it  be  strikin'  height  — 

'  Cushie  wur  craazed  fur  'er  cauf,'  well  —  I 

'eard  'er  a-maakin'  'er  moan, 
An'  I  thowt  to  mysen  '  thank  God  that  I 

hevn't  naw  cauf  o'  my  oan.' 
Theere ! 

Set  it  down ! 

Now  Robby ! 
You  Tommies  shall  waait  to-night 
Till  Robby  an'  Steevie  'es  'ed  their  lap 

—  an'  it  sarves  ye  right. 


548  LOCKSLEY  HALL 


LOCKSLEY   HALL 

SIXTY   YEARS   AFTER. 

Late,  my  grandson !  half  the  morning  have  I  paced  these  sandy  tracts, 
Watch'd  again  the  hollow  ridges  roaring  into  cataracts, 

Wander' d  back  to  living  boyhood  while  I  heard  the  curlews  call, 
I  myself  so  close  on  death,  and  death  itself  in  Locksley  Hall. 

So  —  your  happy  suit  was  blasted  —  she  the  faultless,  the  divine; 
And  you  liken  —  boyish  babble  —  this  boy-love  of  yours  with  mine. 

I  myself  have  often  babbled  doubtless  of  a  foolish  past; 

Babble,  babble;   our  old  England  may  go  down  in  babble  at  last. 

'Curse  him!  '  curse  your  fellow-victim?  call  him  dotard  in  your  rage? 
Eyes  that  lured  a  doting  boyhood  well  might  fool  a  dotard's  age. 

Jilted  for  a  wealthier  !  wealthier?  yet  perhaps  she  was  not  wise; 
I  remember  how  you  kiss'd  the  miniature  with  those  sweet  eyes. 

In  the  hall  there  hangs  a  painting  —  Amy's  arms  about  my  neck  — 
Happy  children  in  a  sunbeam  sitting  on  the  ribs  of  wreck. 

In  my  life  there  was  a  picture,  she  that  clasp'd  my  neck  had  flown; 
I  was  left  within  the  shadow  sitting  on  the  wreck  alone. 

Yours  has  been  a  slighter  ailment,  will  you  sicken  for  her  sake  ? 
Y'ou,  not  you  !  your  modern  amourist  is  of  easier,  earthlier  make. 

Amy  loved  me,  Amy  fail'd  me.  Amy  M'as  a  timid  child; 

But  your  Judith  —  but  your  worldling  —  she  had  never  driven  me  wild. 

She  that  holds  the  diamond  necklace  dearer  than  the  golden  ring. 
She  that  finds  a  winter  sunset  fairer  than  a  morn  of  Spring. 

She  that  in  her  heart  is  brooding  on  his  briefer  lease  of  life, 

While  she  vows  '  till  death  shall  part  us,'  she  the  would-be-widow  wife. 

She  the  worldling  born  of  worldlings  —  father,  mother  —  be  content, 
Ev'n  the  homely  farm  can  teach  us  there  is  something  in  descent. 

Yonder  in  that  chapel,  slowly  sinking  now  into  the  ground. 
Lies  the  warrior,  my  forefather,  with  his  feet  upon  the  hound. 

Cross'd !  for  once  he  sail'd  the  sea  to  crush  the  Moslem  in  his  pride; 
Dead  the  warrior,  dead  his  glory,  dead  the  cause  in  which  he  died. 

Yet  how  often  I  and  Amy  in  the  mouldering  aisle  have  stood. 
Gazing  for  one  pensive  moment  on  that  founder  of  our  blood. 


SIXTY    YEARS  AFTER.  549 

There  again  I  stood  to-day,  and  where  of  old  we  knelt  in  prayer, 

Close  beneath  the  casement  crimson  with  the  shield  of  Locksley  —  there, 

All  in  white  Itahan  marble,  looking  still  as  if  she  smiled, 

Lies  my  Amy  dead  in  child-birth,  dead  the  mother,  dead  the  child. 

Dead  —  and  sixty  years  ago,  and  dead  her  aged  husband  now  — 
I  this  old  white-headed  dreamer  stoopt  and  kiss'd  her  marble  brow. 

Gone  the  fires  of  youth,  the  follies,  furies,  curses,  passionate  tears, 

Gone  like  fires  and  floods  and  earthquakes  of  the  planet's  dawning  years. 

Fires  that  shook  me  once,  but  now  to  silent  ashes  fall'n  away. 
Cold  upon  the  dead  volcano  sleeps  the  gleam  of  dying  day. 

Gone  the  tyrant  of  my  youth,  and  mute  below  the  chancel  stones, 
All  his  virtues  —  I  forgive  them  —  black  in  white  above  his  bones. 

Gone  the  comrades  of  my  bivouac,  some  in  fight  against  the  foe, 
Some  thro'  age  and  slow  diseases,  gone  as  all  on  earth  will  go. 

Gone  with  whom  for  forty  years  my  life  in  golden  sequence  ran, 
She  with  all  the  charm  of  woman,  she  with  all  the  breadth  of  man, 

Strong  in  will  and  rich  in  wisdom,  Edith,  yet  so  lowly-sweet. 
Woman  to  her  inmost  heart,  and  woman  to  her  tender  feet, 

Very  woman  of  very  woman,  nurse  of  ailing  body  and  mind. 

She  that  Hnk'd  again  the  broken  chain  that  bound  me  to  my  kind. 

Here  to-day  was  Amy  with  me,  while  I  wander'd  down  the  coast, 
Near  us  Edith's  holy  shadow,  smiling  at  the  slighter  ghost. 

Gone  our  sailor  son  thy  father,  Leonard  early  lost  at  sea; 
Thou  alone,  my  boy,  of  Amy's  kin  and  mine  art  left  to  me. 

Gone  thy  tender-natured  mother,  wearying  to  be  left  alone, 
Pining  for  the  stronger  heart  that  once  had  beat  beside  her  own. 

Truth,  for  Truth  is  Truth,  he  worshipt,  being  true  as  he  was  brave ; 
Good,  for  Good  is  Good,  he  follow'd,  yet  he  look'd  beyond  the  grave, 

Wiser  there  than  you,  that  crowning  barren  Death  as  lord  of  all. 
Deem  this  over-tragic  drama's  closing  curtain  is  the  pall ! 

Beautiful  was  death  in  him,  who  saw  the  death,  but  kept  the  deck. 
Saving  women  and  their  babes,  and  sinking  with  the  sinking  wreck, 

Gone  for  ever  !     Ever?  no  —  for  since  our  dying  race  began, 
Ever,  ever,  and  for  ever  was  the  leading  light  of  man. 

Those  that  in  barbarian  burials  kill'd  the  slave  and  slew  the  wife 
Felt  within  themselves  the  sacred  passion  of  the  second  life. 


550 


LOCKS  LEY  HALL 


Indian  warriors  dream  of  ampler  hunting  grounds  beyond  the  night; 
Ev'n  the  black  Australian  dying  hopes  he  shall  return,  a  white. 

Truth  for  truth,  and  good  for  good  !     The  Good,  the  True,  the  Pure,  the  Just  — 
Take  the  charm  '  For  ever '  from  them,  and  they  crumble  into  dust. 

Gone  the  cry  of  '  Forward,  Forward,'  lost  within  a  growing  gloom; 
Lost,  or  only  heard  in  silence  from  the  silence  of  a  tomb. 

Half  the  marvels  of  my  morning,  triumphs  over  time  and  space, 
Staled  by  frequence,  shrunk  by  usage,  into  commonest  commonplace  I 

'  Forward'  rang  the  voices  then,  and  of  the  many  mine  was  one. 
Let  us  hush  this  cry  of '  Forward '  till  ten  thousand  years  have  gone. 

Far  among  the  vanish'd  races,  old  Assyrian  kings  would  flay 
Captives  whom  they  caught  in  battle  —  iron-hearted  victors  they. 

Ages  after,  while  in  Asia,  he  that  led  the  wild  Moguls, 

Timur  built  his  ghastly  tower  of  eighty  thousand  human  skulls, 

Then,  and  here  in  Edward's  time,  an  age  of  noblest  English  names. 
Christian  conquerors  took  and  flung  the  conquer'd  Christian  into  flames. 

Love  your  enemy,  bless  your  haters,  said  the  Greatest  of  the  great; 
Christian  love  among  the  Churches  look'd  the  twin  of  heathen  hate. 

From  the  golden  alms  of  Blessing  man  had  coin'd  himself  a  curse : 
Rome  of  Caesar,  Rome  of  Peter,  which  was  crueller?  which  was  worse? 

France  had  shown  a  light  to  all  men,  preach'd  a  Gospel,  all  men's  good; 
Celtic  Demos  rose  a  Demon,  shriek'd  and  slaked  the  light  with  blood. 

Hope  was  ever  on  her  mountain,  watching  till  the  day  begun  — 
Crown'd  with  sunlight  —  over  darkness  —  from  the  still  unrisen  sun. 

Have  we  grown  at  last  beyond  the  passions  of  the  primal  clan? 

'  Kill  your  enemy,  for  you  hate  him,'  still,  '  your  enemy '  was  a  man. 

Have  we  sunk  below  them?  peasants  maim  the  helpless  horse,  and  drive 
Innocent  cattle  under  thatch,  and  burn  the  kindlier  brutes  alive. 

Brutes,  the  brutes  are  not  your  wrongers  —  burnt  at  midnight,  found  at  morn, 
Twisted  hard  in  mortal  agony  with  their  offspring,  born-unborn, 

Clinging  to  the  silent  mother !     Are  we  devils?  are  we  men? 
Sweet  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  would  that  he  were  here  again. 

He  that  in  his  Catholic  wholeness  used  to  call  the  very  flowers 

Sisters,  brothers  —  and  the  beasts  —  whose  pains  are  hardly  less  than  ours! 

Chaos,  C'osmos!  Cosmos,  Chaos!  who  can  tell  how  all  will  end? 

Read  the  wide  world's  annals,  you,  and  take  their  wisdom  for  your  friend. 


SIXTY    YEARS  AFTER.  551 


Hope  the  best,  but  hold  the  Present  fatal  daughter  of  the  Past, 

Shape  your  heart  to  front  the  hour,  but  dream  not  that  the  hour  will  last. 

Ay,  if  dynamite  and  revolver  leave  your  courage  to  be  wise  : 

When  was  age  so  cramm'd  with  menace?  madness?  written,  spoken  lies? 

Envy  wears  the  mask  of  Love,  and,  laughing  sober  fact  to  scorn, 
Cries  to  Weakest  as  to  Strongest,  '  Ye  are  equals,  equal-born.' 

Equal-born?     O  yes,  if  yonder  hill  be  level  with  the  flat. 
Charm  us.  Orator,  till  the  Lion  look  no  larger  than  the  Cat, 

Till  the  Cat  thro'  that  mirage  of  overheated  language  loom 
Larger  than  the  Lion,  —  Demos  end  in  working  its  own  doom. 

Russia  bursts  our  Indian  barrier,  shall  we  fight  her?  shall  we  yield? 
Pause !  before  you  sound  the  trumpet,  hear  the  voices  from  the  field. 

Those  three  hundred  millions  under  one  Imperial  sceptre  now. 

Shall  we  hold  them?  shall  we  loose  them?  take  the  suffrage  of  the  plow. 

Nay,  but  these  would  feel  and  follow  Truth  if  only  you  and  you, 
Rivals  of  realm-ruining  party,  when  you  speak  were  wholly  true. 

Plowmen,  Shepherds,  have  I  found,  and  more  than  once,  and  still  could  find. 
Sons  of  God,  and  kings  of  men  in  utter  nobleness  of  mind, 

Truthful,  trustful,  looking  upward  to  the  practised  hustings-liar; 
So  the  Higher  wields  the  Lower,  while  the  Lower  is  the  Higher. 

Here  and  there  a  cotter's  babe  is  royal-born  by  right  divine; 
Here  and  there  my  lord  is  lower  than  his  oxen  or  his  swine. 

Chaos,  Cosmos!  Cosmos,  Chaos!  once  again  the  sickening  game; 
Freedom,  free  to  slay  herself,  and  dying  while  they  shout  her  name. 

Step  by  step  we  gain'd  a  freedom  known  to  Europe,  known  to  all; 
Step  by  step  we  rose  to  greatness,  —  thro'  the  tonguesters  we  may  fall. 

You  that  W'oo  the  Voices  —  tell  them  'old  experience  is  a  fool,' 
Teach  your  flatter'd  kings  that  only  those  who  cannot  read  can  rule. 

Pluck  the  mighty  from  their  seat,  but  set  no  meek  ones  in  their  place; 
Pillory  Wisdom  in  your  markets,  pelt  your  offal  at  her  face. 

Tumble  Nature  heel  o'er  head,  and,  yelling  with  the  yelling  street, 
Set  the  feet  above  the  brain  and  swear  the  brain  is  in  the  feet. 

Bring  the  old  dark  ages  back  without  the  faith,  without  the  hope, 

Break  the  State,  the  Church,  the  Throne,  and  roll  their  ruins  down  the  slope. 

Authors  —  essayist,  atheist,  novelist,  realist,  rhymester,  play  your  part, 
Paint  the  mortal  shame  of  nature  with  the  living  hues  of  Art. 


552 


LOCKSLEY  HALL 


Rip  your  brothers'  vices  open,  strip  your  own  foul  passions  bare; 

Down  with  Reticence,  down  with  Reverence — forward — naked — let  them  stare. 

Feed  the  budding  rose  of  boyhood  with  the  drainage  of  your  sewer; 
Send  the  drain  into  the  fountain,  lest  the  stream  should  issue  pure. 

Set  the  maiden  fancies  wallowing  in  the  troughs  of  Zolaism,  — 
Forward,  forward,  ay  and  backward,  downward  too  into  the  abysm. 

Do  your  best  to  charm  the  worst,  to  lower  the  rising  race  of  men; 
Have  we  risen  from  out  the  beast,  then  back  into  the  beast  again? 

Only  '  dust  to  dust '  for  me  that  sicken  at  your  lawless  din, 
Dust  in  wholesome  old-world  dust  before  the  newer  world  begin. 

Heated  am  I?  you  —  you  wonder  —  well,  it  scarce  becomes  mine  age  — 
Patience !  let  the  dying  actor  mouth  his  last  upon  the  stage. 

Cries  of  unprogressive  dotage  ere  the  dotard  fall  asleep? 
Noises  of  a  current  narrowing,  not  the  music  of  a  deep? 

Ay,  for  doubtless  I  am  old,  and  think  gray  thoughts,  for  I  am  gray : 
After  all  the  stormy  changes  shall  we  find  a  changeless  May? 

After  madness,  after  massacre,  Jacobinism  and  Jacquerie, 
Some  diviner  force  to  guide  us  thro'  the  days  I  shall  not  see? 

When  the  schemes  and  all  the  systems.  Kingdoms  and  Republics  fall, 
Something  kindlier,  higher,  holier  —  all  for  each  and  each  for  all? 

All  the  full-brain,  half-brain  races,  led  by  Justice,  Love,  and  Truth; 
All  the  millions  one  at  length  with  all  the  visions  of  my  youth? 

All  diseases  quench'd  by  Science,  no  man  halt  or  deaf  or  blind; 
Stronger  ever  born  of  weaker,  lustier  body,  larger  mind? 

Earth  at  last  a  warless  world,  a  single  race,  a  single  tongue  — 
I  have  seen  her  far  away  —  for  is  not  Earth  as  yet  so  young?  — 

Every  tiger  madness  muzzled,  every  serpent  passion  kill'd. 
Every  grim  ravine  a  garden,  every  blazing  desert  till'd, 

Robed  in  universal  harvest  up  to  either  pole  she  smiles, 
Universal  ocean  softly  washing  all  her  warless  Isles. 

Warless?  when  her  tens  are  thousands,  and  her  thousands  millions,  then  — 
All  her  harvest  all  too  narrow — who  can  fancy  warless  men? 

Warless?  war  will  die  out  late  then.     Will  it  ever?  late  or  soon? 
Can  it,  till  this  outworn  earth  be  dead  as  yon  dead  world  the  moon? 

Dead  the  new  astronomy  calls  her.  .  .  .     On  this  day  and  at  this  hour, 
In  this  gap  between  the  sandhills,  whence  you  see  the  Locksley  tower, 


SIXTY    YEARS  AFTER.  553 

Here  we  met,  our  latest  meeting — Amy  —  sixty  years  ago  — 
She  and  I  —  the  moon  was  falling  greenish  thro'  a  rosy  glow, 

Just  above  the  gateway  tower,  and  even  where  you  see  her  now  — 

Here  we  stood  and  claspt  each  other,  swore  the  seeming-deathless  vow.  .  .  . 

Dead,  but  how  her  living  glory  lights  the  hall,  the  dune,  the  grass! 
Yet  the  moonlight  is  the  sunlight,  and  the  Sun  himself  will  pass. 

Venus  near  her  !  smiling  downward  at  this  earthlier  earth  of  ours. 
Closer  on  the  Sun,  perhaps  a  world  of  never  fading  flowers. 

Hesper,  whom  the  poet  call'd  the  Bringer  home  of  all  good  things. 
All  good  things  may  move  in  Hesper,  perfect  peoples,  perfect  kings. 

Hesper  —  Venus  —  were  we  native  to  that  splendour  or  in  Mars, 
We  should  see  the  Globe  we  groan  in,  fairest  of  their  evening  stars. 

Could  we  dream  of  wars  and  carnage,  craft  and  madness,  lust  and  spite. 
Roaring  London,  raving  Paris,  in  that  point  of  peaceful  light? 

Might  we  not  in  glancing  heavenward  on  a  star  so  silver-fair. 

Yearn,  and  clasp  the  hands  and  murmur, '  Would  to  God  that  we  were  there'? 

Forward,  backward,  backward,  forward,  in  the  immeasurable  sea, 
Sway'd  by  vaster  ebbs  and  flows  than  can  be  known  to  you  or  me. 

All  the  suns  —  are  these  but  symbols  of  innumerable  man, 
Man  or  Mind  that  sees  a  shadow  of  the  planner  or  the  plan? 

Is  there  evil  but  on  earth?  or  pain  in  every  peopled  sphere? 
^Vell  be  grateful  for  the  sounding  watchword  '  Evolution '  here, 

Evolution  ever  climbing  after  some  ideal  good. 
And  Reversion  ever  dragging  Evolution  in  the  mud. 

What  are  men  that  He  should  heed  us?  cried  the  king  of  sacred  song; 
Insects  of  an  hour,  that  hourly  work  their  brother  insect  wrong, 

While  the  silent  Heavens  roll,  and  Suns  along  their  fiery  way, 
All  their  planets  whirling  round  them,  flash  a  million  miles  a  day. 

Many  an  ^on  moulded  earth  before  her  highest,  man,  was  born, 
Many  an  .^on  too  may  pass  when  earth  is  manless  and  forlorn. 

Earth  so  huge,  and  yet  so  bounded  —  pools  of  salt,  and  plots  of  land  — 
Shallow  skin  of  green  and  azure  —  chains  of  mountain,  grains  of  sand ! 

Only  That  which  made  us,  meant  us  to  be  mightier  by  and  by, 
Set  the  sphere  of  all  the  boundless  Heavens  within  the  human  eye, 

Sent  the  shadow  of  Himself,  the  boundless,  thro'  the  human  soul; 
Boundless  inward,  in  the  atom,  boundless  outward,  in  the  Whole. 


554  LOCKS  LEY  ILALL 


Here  is  Locksley  Hall,  my  grandson,  here  the  lion-guarded  gate. 
Not  to-night  in  Locksley  Hall  —  to-morrow  —  you,  you  come  so  late. 

Wreck'd —  your  train  —  or  all  but  wreck'd?  ashatter'd  wheel?  a  vicious  boy! 
Good,  this  forward,  you  that  preach  it,  is  it  well  to  wish  you  joy? 

Is  it  well  that  while  we  range  with  Science,  glorying  in  the  Time, 
City  children  soak  and  blacken  soul  and  sense  in  city  slime  ? 

There  among  the  glooming  alleys  Progress  halts  on  palsied  feet, 
Crime  and  hunger  cast  our  maidens  by  the  thousand  on  the  street. 

There  the  Master  scrimps  his  haggard  sempstress  of  her  daily  bread, 
There  a  single  sordid  attic  holds  the  living  and  the  dead. 

There  the  smouldering  fire  of  fever  creeps  across  the  rotted  floor, 
And  the  crowded  couch  of  incest  in  the  warrens  of  the  poor. 

Nay,  your  pardon,  cry  your  '  forward,'  yours  are  hope  and  youth,  but  I  — 
Eighty  winters  leave  the  dog  too  lame  to  follow  with  the  cry, 

Lame  and  old,  and  past  his  time,  and  passing  now  into  the  night; 
Yet  I  would  the  rising  race  were  half  as  eager  for  the  light. 

Light  the  fading  gleam  of  Even?  light  the  glimmer  of  the  dawn? 
Aged,  eyes  may  take  the  growing  glimmer  for  the  gleam  withdrawn. 

Far  away  beyond  her  myriad  coming  changes  earth  will  be 
Something  other  than  the  wildest  modern  guess  of  you  and  me. 

Earth  may  reach  her  earthly-worst,  or  if  she  gain  her  earthly-best, 
Would  she  find  her  human  offspring  this  ideal  man  at  rest? 

Forward  then,  but  still  remember  how  the  course  of  Time  will  swerve, 
Crook  and  turn  upon  itself  in  many  a  backward  streaming  curve. 

Not  the  Hall  to-night,  my  grandson !     Death  and  Silence  hold  their  own. 
Leave  the  Master  in  the  first  dark  hour  of  his  last  sleep  alone. 

Worthier  soul  was  he  than  I  am,  sound  and  honest,  rustic  Squire, 
Kindly  landlord,  boon  companion  —  youthful  jealousy  is  a  liar. 

Cast  the  poison  from  your  bosom,  oust  the  madness  from  your  brain. 
Let  the  trampled  serpent  show  you  that  you  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

Youthful  I  youth  and  age  are  scholars  yet  but  in  the  lower  school, 
Nor  is  he  the  wisest  man  who  never  proved  himself  a  fool. 

Yonder  lies  our  young  sea-village  —  Art  and  Grace  are  less  and  less : 
Science  grows  and  Beauty  dwindles —  roofs  of  slated  hideousness ! 

There  is  one  old  Hostel  left  us  where  they  swing  the  Locksley  shield. 
Till  the  peasant  cow  shall  butt  the  'Tjon  passant'  from  his  field. 


SIXTY   YEARS  AFTER.  555 

Poor  old  Heraldry,  poor  old  History,  poor  old  Poetry,  passing  hence, 
In  the  common  deluge  drowning  old  political  common-sense  ! 

Poor  old  voice  of  eighty  crying  after  voices  that  have  fled  I 
All  I  loved  are  vanish'd  voices,  all  my  steps  are  on  the  dead. 

All  the  world  is  ghost  to  me,  and  as  the  phantom  disappears. 
Forward  far  and  far  from  here  is  all  the  hope  of  eighty  years. 


In  this  Hostel  —  I  remember  —  I  repent  it  o'er  his  grave  — 

Like  a  clown  —  by  chance  he  met  me  —  I  refused  the  hand  he  gave. 

From  that  casement  where  the  trailer  mantles  all  the  mouldering  bricks  — 
I  was  then  in  early  boyhood,  Edith  but  a  child  of  six  — 

While  I  shelter'd  in  this  archway  from  a  day  of  driving  showers  — 
Peept  the  winsome  face  of  Edith  like  a  flower  among  the  flowers. 

Here  to-night !  the  Hall  to-morrow,  when  they  toll  the  Chapel  bell ! 
Shall  I  hear  in  one  dark  room  a  wailing,  *  I  have  loved  thee  well.' 

Then  a  peal  that  shakes  the  portal  —  one  has  come  to  claim  his  bride, 

Her  that  shrank,  and  put  me  from  her,  shriek'd,  and  started  from  my  side  — 

Silent  echoes  I     You,  my  Leonard,  use  and  not  abuse  your  day. 
Move  among  your  people,  know  them,  follow  him  who  led  the  way. 

Strove  for  sixty  widow'd  years  to  help  his  homelier  brother  men, 

Served  the  poor,  and  built  the  cottage,  raised  the  school,  and  drain'd  the  fen. 

Hears  he  now  the  Voice  that  wrong'd  him?  who  shall  swear  it  cannot  be? 
Earth  would  never  touch  her  worst,  were  one  in  fifty  such  as  he. 

Ere  she  gain  her  Heavenly-best,  a  God  must  mingle  with  the  game  : 
Nay,  there  may  be  those  about  us  whom  we  neither  see  nor  name. 

Felt  within  us  as  ourselves,  the  Powers  of  Good,  the  Powers  of  111, 
Strowing  balm,  or  shedding  poison  in  the  fountains  of  the  Will. 

Follow  you  the  Star  that  lights  a  desert  pathway,  yours  or  mine. 
Forward,  till  you  see  the  highest  Human  Nature  is  divine. 

Follow  Light,  and  do  the  Right  —  for  man  can  half-control  his  doom  — 
Till  you  find  the  deathless  Angel  seated  in  the  vacant  tomb. 

Forward,  let  the  stormy  moment  fly  and  mingle  with  the  Past. 

I  that  loathed,  have  come  to  love  him.     Love  will  conquer  at  the  last. 

Gone  at  eighty,  mine  own  age,  and  I  and  you  will  bear  the  pall ; 
Then  I  leave  thee  Lord  and  Master,  latest  Lord  of  Locksley  Hall, 


556    PROLOGUE— THE   CHARGE    OF  THE  HEAVY  BRIGADE. 


PROLOGUE 
TO  GENERAL  HAMLEY. 

Our  birches  yellowing  and  from  each 

The  light  leaf  falling  fast, 
While  squirrels  from  our  fiery  beech 

Were  bearing  off  the  mast, 
You  came,  and  look'd  and  loved  the  view 

Long-known  and  loved  by  me, 
Green  Sussex  fading  into  blue 

With  one  gray  glimpse  of  sea; 
And,  gazing  from  this  height  alone, 

We  spoke  of  what  had  been 
Most  marvellous  in  the  wars  your  own 

Crimean  eyes  had  seen ; 
And  now  —  like  old-world  inns  that  take 

Some  warrior  for  a  sign 
That  therewithin  a  guest  may  make 

True  cheer  with  honest  wine  — 
Because  you  heard  the  lines  I  read 

Nor  utter'd  word  of  blame, 
I  dare  without  your  leave  to  head 

These  rhymings  with  your  name, 
Who  know  you  but  as  one  of  those 

I  fain  would  meet  again. 
Yet  know  you,  as  your  England  knows 

That  you  and  all  your  men 
Were  soldiers  to  her  heart's  desire, 

When,  in  the  vanish'd  year, 
You  saw  the  league-long  rampart-fire 

Flare  from  Tel-el-Kebir 
Thro'  darkness,  and  the  foe  was  driven, 

And  Wolseley  overthrew 
Arabi,  and  the  stars  in  heaven 

Paled,  and  the  glory  grew. 

THE    CHARGE    OF    THE    HEAVY 
BRIGADE  AT  BALACLAVA. 

October  25,  1854. 


The  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hundred, 

the  Heavy  Brigade  ! 
Down  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  thousands 

of  Russians, 
Thousands   of   horsemen,    drew   to    the 

valley  —  and  stay'd; 
For  Scarlett  and  Scarlett's  three  hundred 

were  riding  by 
When  the  points  of  the  Russian  lances 

arose  in  the  sky; 


And   he  call'd  '  Left  wheel  into  line !  * 

and  they  wheel'd  and  obey'd. 
Then  he  look'd  at   the   host   that   had 

halted  he  knew  not  why. 
And  he  turn'd  half  round,  and  he  bade 

his  trumpeter  sound 
To  the  charge,  and  he  rode  on  ahead,  as 

he  waved  his  blade 
To  the  gallant  three  hundred  whose  glory 

•will  never  die  — 
'  Follow,'  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up 

the  hill. 
Follow' d  the  Heavy  Brigade. 


II. 


The   trumpet,   the    gallop,   the    charge, 

and  the  might  of  the  fight ! 
Thousands   of    horsemen   had    gather'd 

there  on  the  height. 
With  a  wing  push'd  out  to  the  left  and 

a  wing  to  the  right, 
And  who  shall  escape  if  they  close?  but 

he  dash'd  up  alone 
Thro'  the  great  gray  slope  of  men, 
Sway'd  his  sabre,  and  held  his  own 
Like  an  Englishman  there  and  then; 
All  in  a  moment  follow'd  with  force 
Three    that    were    next    in    their    fiery 

course. 
Wedged   themselves  in  between    horse 

and  horse, 
Fought  for  their  lives  in  the  narrow  gap 

they  had  made  — 
Four  amid  thousands!    and  up  the  hill, 

up  the  hill, 
Gallopt   the  gallant   three  hundred,  the 

Heavy  Brigade. 

III. 

Fell  like  a  cannonshot. 
Burst  like  a  thunderbolt, 
Crash'd  like  a  hurricane, 
Broke  thro'  the  mass  from  below. 
Drove  thro'  the  midst  of  the  foe, 
Plunged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro, 
Rode  flashing  blow  upon  blow, 
Brave  Inniskillens  and  Greys 
Whirling  their  sabres  in  circles  of  light ! 
And  some  of  us,  all  in  amaze. 
Who   were   held   for   a   while  from  the 
fight. 


THE    CHARGE    OF   THE  HEAVY  BRIGADE  — EPILOGUE. 


557 


And  were  only  standing  at  gaze, 
When  the  dark-muffled  Russian  crowd 
Folded  its  wings  from  the  left  and  the 

right, 
And  roll'd  them  around  like  a  cloud,  — 
O   mad  for   the    charge  and  the   battle 

were  we. 
When  our  own  good  redcoats  sank  from 

sight, 
Like  drops  of  blood  in  a  dark-gray  sea. 
And  we  turn'd  to  each  other,  whispering, 

all  dismay'd, 
'  Lost  are  the  gallant  three  hundred  of 

Scarlett's  Brigade ! ' 

IV. 

'  Lost  one  and  all '  were  the  words 
Mutter'd  in  our  dismay; 
But  they  rode  like  Victors  and  Lords 
Thro'  the  forest  of  lances  and  swords 
In  the  heart  of  the  Russian  hordes. 
They  rode,  or  they  stood  at  bay  — 
Struck  with  the  sword-hand  and  slew, 
Down  with  the  bridle-hand  drew 
The  foe  from  the  saddle  and  threw 
Underfoot  there  in  the  fray  — 
Ranged  like  a  storm  or  stood  like  a  rock 
In  the  wave  of  a  stormy  day ; 
Till  suddenly  shock  upon  shock 
Stagger'd  the  mass  from  without, 
Drove  it  in  wild  disarray, 
For  our  men  gallopt  up  with  a  cheer  and 

a  shout, 
And   the    foeman   surged,  and   waver'd, 

and  reel'd 
Up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  out 

of  the  field. 
And  over  the  brow  and  away. 


Glory  to  each  and  to  all,  and  the  charge 

that  they  made  ! 
Glory  to  all  the  three  hundred,  and  all 

the  Brigade  ! 


Note.  —  The  *  three  hundred'  of  the  'Heavy 
Brigade'  who  made  this  famous  charge  were  the 
Scots  Greys  and  the  2nd  squadron  of  Inniskil- 
lings,  the  remainder  of  the  '  Heavy  Brigade ' 
subsequently  dashing  up  to  their  support. 

The  'three'  were  Scarlett's  aide-de-camp, 
Elliot,  and  the  trumpeter  and  Shegog  the  orderly, 
who  had  been  close  behind  him. 


EPILOGUE. 
Irene. 

Not  this  way  will  you  set  your  name 
A  star  among  the  stars. 

Poet. 
What  way? 

Irene. 

You  praise  when  you  should  blame 
The  barbarism  of  wars. 
A  juster  epoch  has  begun. 

Poet, 

Yet  tho'  this  cheek  be  gray. 
And  that  bright  hair  the  modern  sun, 

Those  eyes  the  blue  to-day, 
You  wrong  me,  passionate  little  friend. 

I  would  that  wars  should  cease, 
I  would  the  globe  from  end  to  end 

iSIight  sow  and  reap  in  peace. 
And  some  new  Spirit  o'erbear  the  old, 

Or  Trade  refrain  the  Powers 
From  war  with  kindly  links  of  gold. 

Or  Love  with  wreaths  of  flowers. 
Slav,  Teuton,  Kelt,  I  count  them  all 

My  friends  and  brother  souls, 
With  all  the  peoples,  great  and  small, 

That  wheel  between  the  poles. 
But  since,  our  mortal  shadow,  111 

To  waste  this  earth  began  — 
Perchance  from  some  abuse  of  Will 

In  worlds  before  the  man 
Involving  ours  —  he  needs  must  fight 

To  make  true  peace  his  own. 
He  needs  must  combat  might  with  might. 

Or  Might  would  rule  alone; 
And  who  loves  War  for  War's  own  sake 

Is  fool,  or  crazed,  or  worse; 
But  let  the  patriot-soldier  take 

His  meed  of  fame  in  verse; 
Nay  —  tho'  that  realm  were  in  the  wrong 

For  which  her  warriors  bleed. 
It  still  were  right  to  crown  with  song 

The  warrior's  noble  deed  — 
A  crown  the  Singer  hopes  may  last, 

For  so  the  deed  endures; 
But  Song  will  vanish  in  the  Vast; 

And  that  large  phrase  of  yours 
'  A  Star  among  the  stars,'  my  dear, 

Is  girlish  talk  at  best; 
For  dare  we  dally  with  the  sphere 

As  he  did  half  in  jest, 


558 


TO  VIRGIL. 


Old  Horace?     '  I  will  strike,'  said  he, 

'  The  stars  with  head  sublime,' 
But  scarce  could  see,  as  now  we  see, 

The  man  in  Space  and  Time, 
So  drew  perchance  a  happier  lot 

Than  ours,  who  rhyme  to-day. 
The  fires  that  arch  this  dusky  dot  — 

Yon  myriad- worlded  way  — 
The  vast  sun-clusters'  gather'd  blaze. 

World-isles  in  lonely  skies, 
Whole  heavens  within  themselves,  amaze 

Our  brief  humanities; 
And  so  does  Earth ;   for  Homer's  fame, 

Tho'  carved  in  harder  stone  — 
The  falling  drop  will  make  his  name 

As  mortal  as  my  own. 


No! 


Irene. 
Poet. 


Let  it  live  then  —  ay,  till  when? 

Earth  passes,  all  is  lost 
In  what  they  prophesy,  our  wise  men. 

Sun-flame  or  sunless  frost. 
And  deed  and  song  alike  are  swept 

Away,  and  all  in  vain 
As  far  as  man  can  see,  except 

The  man  himself  remain; 
And  tho',  in  this  lean  age  forlorn, 

Too  many  a  voice  may  cry 
That  man  can  have  no  after-morn. 

Not  yet  of  these  am  I. 
The  man  remains,  and  whatsoe'er 

He  wrought  of  good  or  brave 
Will  mould  him  thro'  the  cycle-year 

That  dawns  behind  the  grave. 


And  here  the  Singer  for  his  Art 

Not  all  in  vain  may  plead 
'  The  song  that  nerves  a  nation's  heart, 

Is  in  itself  a  deed.' 

TO   VIRGIL. 

WRITfEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  THE 
MANTUANS  FOR  THE  NINETEENTH 
CENTENARY   OF   VIRGIL'S    DEATH. 

I. 

Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest 

Ilion's  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 


Ilion  falling,  Rome  arising, 

wars,  and  filial  faith,  and  Dido's 
pyre; 

II. 

Landscape-lover,  lord  of  language 

more  than  he  that  sang  the  Works 
and  Days, 
All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy 

flashing  out  from  many  a  golden 
phrase; 

III. 

Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  woodland, 
tilth  and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse 

and  herd; 
All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses 

often  flowering  in  a  lonely  word; 

IV. 

Poet  of  the  happy  Tityrus 

piping    underneath    his   beechen 
bowers; 
Poet  of  the  poet-satyr 

whom     the     laughing     shepherd 
bound  with  flowers; 

V. 

Chanter  of  the  Pollio,  glorying 

in  the  blissful  years  again  to  be, 

Summers  of  the  snakeless  meadow, 

unlaborious  earth  and  oarless  sea; 

VI. 

Thou  that  seest  Universal 

Nature      moved      by     Universal 
Mind; 
Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness 

at  the  doubtful  doom  of  human 
kind; 

VII. 

Light  among  the  vanish'd  ages; 

star  that  gildest  yet  this  phantom 
shore; 
Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows, 

kings  and  realms  that  pass  to  rise 
no  more; 

VIII. 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer, 

fallen      every      purple      Coesar's 
dome  — 


THE  DEAD  PROPHET. 


559 


Tho'  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm 

sound     for      ever     of     Imperial 
Rome  — 

IX. 

Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  hath  perish'd, 
and  the  Rome  of  freemen  holds 
her  place, 

I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island 

sunder'd  once  from  all  the  human 


race, 


X. 


I  salute  thee,  Mantovano, 

I   that  loved  thee  since  my  day 
began, 
Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure 

ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man. 

THE   DEAD    PROPHET. 

182-. 

I. 
Dead  ! 

And  the  Muses  cried  with  a  stormy  cry 
*  Send  them  no  more,  for  evermore. 

Let  the  people  die.' 

II. 
Dead! 

'  Is  it  he  then  brought  so  low?  ' 
And  a  careless  people  flock'd  from  the 
fields 
With  a  purse  to  pay  for  the  show. 

III. 

Dead,  who  had  served  his  time. 
Was  one  of  the  people's  kings, 

Had  labour'd  in  lifting  them  out  of  slime, 
And  showing  them  souls  have  wings  I 

IV. 

Dumb  on  the  winter  heath  he  lay. 

His  friends  had  stript  him  bare. 
And  roU'd  his  nakedness  everyway 

That  all  the  crowd  might  stare. 

V. 

A  storm-worn  signpost  not  to  be  read, 
And  a  tree  with  a  moulder'd  nest 

On  its  barkless  bones,  stood  stark  by  the 
dead; 
And  behind  him,  low  in  the  West, 


VI. 

With  shifting  ladders  of  shadow  and  light, 
And  blurr'd  in  colour  and  form, 

The  sun  hung  over  the  gates  of  Night, 
And  glared  at  a  coming  storm. 

VII. 

Then  glided  a  vulturous  Beldam  forth, 

That  on  dumb  death  had  thriven; 
They  call'd  her  '  Reverence  '  here  upon 

earth. 
And    '  The   Curse   of    the    Prophet '    in 

Heaven. 

VIII. 

She  knelt  — '  We  worship  him '  —  all  but 
wept  — 

'  So  great,  so  noble  was  he  I ' 
She  clear'd  her  sight,  she  arose,  she  swept 

The  dust  of  earth  from  her  knee. 

IX. 

'  Great  I  for   he   spoke    and   the   people 
heard. 
And  his  eloquence  caught  like  a  flame 
From  zone  to  zone  of  the  world,  till  his 
Word 
Had  won  him  a  noble  name. 

X. 

Noble  !  he  sung,  and  the  sweet  sound  ran 
Thro'  palace  and  cottage  door. 

For  he  touch'd  on  the  whole  sad  planet 
of  man, 
The  kings  and  the  rich  and  the  poor; 

XI. 

And  he  sung  not  alone  of  an  old  sun  set. 
But  a  sun  coming  up  in  his  youth  ! 

Great  and  noble  —  O  yes  —  but  yet  — 
For  man  is  a  lover  of  Truth, 

XII. 

And  bound  to  follow,  wherever  she  go 
Stark-naked,  and  up  or  down. 

Thro'   her   high   hill-passes   of  stainless 
snow, 
Or  the  foulest  sewer  of  the  town  — 


56o 


EARLY  SPRING. 


XIII. 

Noble  and  great  —  O  ay  —  but  then, 
Tho'  a  prophet  should  have  his  due, 

Was  henobher-fashion'd  than  other  men? 
Shall  we  see  to  it,  I  and  you? 

XIV. 

For  since  he  would  sit  on  a  Prophet's 
seat, 
As  a  lord  of  the  Human  soul. 
We  needs  must  scan  him  from  head  to 
feet 
Were  it  but  for  a  wart  or  a  mole  ? ' 

XV. 

His  wife  and  his  child  stood  by  him  in 
tears, 
But  she  —  she  push'd  them  aside. 
*  Tho'  a  name  may  last  for  a  thousand 
years, 
Yet  a  truth  is  a  truth,'  she  cried. 

XVI. 

And  she  that  had  haunted  his  pathway 
still. 
Had  often  truckled  and  cower'd 
When   he  rose  in   his  wrath,   and   had 
yielded  her  will 
To  the  master,  as  overpower'd, 

XVII. 

She  tumbled  his  helpless  corpse  about. 

'  Small  blemish  upon  the  skin  ! 
But  I  think  we  know  what  is  fair  without 

Is  often  as  foul  within.' 

XVIII. 

She  crouch'd,   she  tore  him  part   from 
part. 
And  out  of  his  body  she  drew 
The    red    *  Blood-eagle '  ^    of    liver    and 
heart; 
She  held  them  up  to  the  view; 

XIX. 

She  gabbled,  as  she  groped  in  the  dead. 
And  all  the  people  were  pleased; 

1  Old  Viking  term  for  lungs,  liver,  etc.,  when 
torn  by  the  conqueror  out  of  the  body  of  the 
conquered. 


*  See,  what  a  little  heart,'  she  said, 
'  And  the  liver  is  half-diseased ! ' 


XX. 


She  tore  the  Prophet  after  death, 
And  the  people  paid  her  well. 

Lightnings  flicker'd  along  the  heath; 
One  shriek'd  '  The  fires  of  Hell ! ' 


EARLY   SPRING. 


Once  more  the  Heavenly  Power 

Makes  all  things  new, 
And  domes  the  red-plow'd  hills 

With  loving  blue; 
The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 

The  throstles  too. 

II. 

Opens  a  door  in  Heaven; 

From  skies  of  glass 
A  Jacob's  ladder  falls 

On  greening  grass, 
And  o'er  the  mountain-walls 

Young  angels  pass. 

III. 

Before  them  fleets  the  shower, 

And  burst  the  buds. 
And  shine  the  level  lands. 

And  flash  the  floods; 
The  stars  are  from  their  hands 

Flung  thro'  the  woods, 

IV. 

The  woods  with  living  airs 

How  softly  fann'd. 
Light  airs  from  where  the  deep. 

All  down  the  sand. 
Is  breathing  in  his  sleep, 

Heard  by  the  land. 


O  follow,  leaping  blood. 

The  season's  lure ! 
O  heart,  look  down  and  up 

Serene,  secure, 
Warm  as  the  crocus  cup, 

Like  snowdrops,  pure ! 


PREFATORY  POEM  — HELEN'S    TOWER. 


561 


VI. 

Past,  Future  glimpse  and  fade 
Thro'  some  slight  spell, 

A  gleam  from  yonder  vale, 
Some  far  blue  fell, 

And  sympathies,  how  frail, 
In  sound  and  smell ! 

VII. 

Till  at  thy  chuckled  note, 

Thou  twinkling  bird, 
The  fairy  fancies  range, 

And,  lightly  stirr'd, 
Ring  little  bells  of  change 

From  word  to  word. 

VIII. 

For  now  the  Heavenly  Power 
Makes  all  things  new, 

And  thaws  the  cold,  and  fills 
The  flower  with  dew; 

The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 
The  poets  too. 


PREFATORY  POEM  TO  MY 
BROTHER'S  SONNETS. 

Midnight,  June  30,  1879. 


Midnight  —  in  no  midsummer  tune 
The  breakers  lash  the  shores  : 
The  cuckoo  of  a  joyless  June 
Is  calling  out  of  doors  : 

And  thou  hast  vanish'd  from  thine  own 
To  that  which  looks  like  rest. 
True  brother,  only  to  be  known 
By  those,  who  love  thee  best. 

II. 

Midnight  —  and  joyless  June  gone  by, 
And  from  the  deluged  park 
The  cuckoo  of  a  worse  July 
Is  calling  thro'  the  dark : 

But  thou  art  silent  underground, 
And  o'er  thee  streams  the  rain, 
True  poet,  surely  to  be  found 
When  Truth  is  found  again. 
20 


III. 

And,  now  to  these  unsummer'd  skies 
The  summer  bird  is  still. 
Far  off  a  phantom  cuckoo  cries 
From  out  a  phantom  hill; 

And  thro'  this  midnight  breaks  the  sun 
Of  sixty  years  away. 
The  light  of  days  when  life  begun. 
The  days  that  seem  to-day, 

When  all  my  griefs  were  shared  with  thee. 
As  all  my  hopes  were  thine  — 
As  all  thou  wert  was  one  with  me, 
May  all  thou  art  be  mine ! 


'FRATER   AVE  ATQUE  VALE.' 

Row  us  out   from   Desenzano,   to   your 

Sirmione  row ! 
So  they  row'd,  and  there  we  landed  — 

'  O  venusta  Sirmio  ! ' 
There  to  me  thro'  all  the  groves  of  olive 

in  the  summer  glow, 
There   beneath   the  Roman  ruin  where 

the  purple  flowers  grow, 
Came  that  '  Ave  atque  Vale '  of  the  Poet's 

hopeless  woe, 
Tenderest    of    Roman    poets    nineteen 

hundred  years  ago, 
'  Frater  Ave  atque  Vale,'  —  as  we  wan- 

der'd  to  and  fro, 
Gazing  at   the   Lydian   laughter  of  the 

Garda  Lake  below. 
Sweet    CatuUus's     all-but-island,     olive- 
silvery  Sirmio ! 


HELEN'S   TOWER.i 

Helen's  Tower,  here  I  stand. 
Dominant  over  sea  and  land. 
Son's  love  built  me,  and  I  hold 
Mother's  love  in  letter'd  gold. 
Love  is  in  and  out  of  time, 
I  am  mortal  stone  and  lime. 
Would  my  granite  girth  were  strong 
As  either  love,  to  last  as  long] 

1  Written  at   the  request   of  my  friend,  Lord 
Dufferin. 


562 


EPITAPHS— HANDS  ALL   ROUND. 


I  should  wear  my  crown  entire 
To  and  thro'  the  Doomsday  fire, 
And  be  found  of  angel  eyes 
In  earth's  recurring  Paradise. 


EPITAPH   ON   LORD    STRATFORD 
DE   REDCLIFFE. 

IN   WESTMINSTER   ABBEY. 

Thou  third  great  Canning,  stand  among 
our  best 
And  noblest,  now  thy  long  day's  work 
hath  ceased, 
Here  silent  in  our  Minster  of  the  West 
Who  wert  the  voice  of  England  in  the 
East. 

EPITAPH 
ON   GENERAL  GORDON. 

IN   THE   GORDON    BOYS'    NATIONAL 
MEMORIAL    HOME    NEAR    WOKING. 

Warrior    of    God,   man's    friend,   and 
tyrant's  foe, 
Now  somewhere  dead  far  in  the  waste 
Soudan, 
Thou   livest   in  all   hearts,    for  all    men 
know 
This  earth  has  never  borne  a  nobler 
man. 


EPITAPH   ON   CAXTON. 

IN    ST.   MARGARET'S,  WESTMINSTER. 

FIAT  LUX  (his  motto). 

Thy  prayer  was  *  Light  —  more  Light  — 

while  Time  shall  last !  ' 
Thou  sawest  a  glory  growing  on  the  night, 
But  not  the    shadows  which    that   light 

would  cast, 
Till  shadows  vanish  in  the  Light  of  Light. 

TO  THE   DUKE   OF   ARGYLL. 

O  Patriot  Statesman,  be  thou  wise  to 

know 
The  limits  of  resistance,  and  the  bounds 
Determining  concession;   still  be  bold 
Not  only  to  slight  praise  but  suffer  scorn; 


And  be  thy  heart  a  fortress  to  maintain 
The    day  against  the   moment,  and   the 

year 
Against    the    day;     thy    voice,    a    music 

heard 
Thro'  all  the  yells   and   counter-yells  of 

feud 
And   faction,  and    thy  will,  a    power  to 

make 
This  ever-changing  world  of  circumstance, 
In  changing,  chime  with  never-changing 

Law. 


HANDS   ALL   ROUND. 

First   pledge    our    Queen    this   solemn 
night. 
Then  drink  to  England,  every  guest; 
That  man's  the  best  Cosmopolite 

Who  loves  his  native  country  best. 
May  freedom's  oak  for  ever  live 

With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day; 
That  man's  the  true  Conservative 

Who  lops  the  moulder'd  branch  away. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  traitor's  hope  confound ! 
To  this  great  cause   of   Freedom  drink, 
my  friends. 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round. 

To  all  the  loyal  hearts  who  long 

To  keep  our  English  Empire  whole  ! 
To  all  our  noble  sons,  the  strong 

New  England  of  the  Southern  Pole  ! 
To  England  under  Indian  skies, 

To  those  dark  millions  of  her  realm ! 
To  Canada  whom  we  love  and  prize. 
Whatever  statesman  hold  the  helm. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  traitor's  hope  confound ! 
To    this   great    name  of  England  drink, 
my  friends, 
And  all  her  glorious  empire,  round  and 
round. 

To  all  our  statesmen  so  they  be 
True  leaders  of  the  land's  desire  ! 

To  both  our  Houses,  may  they  see 
Beyond  the  l^orough  and  the  shire  ! 

We  sail'd  wherever  ship  could  sail, 
We  founded  many  a  mighty  state; 


FREEDOM— TO   II.R.H.   PRINCESS  BEATRICE. 


56: 


Pray  God  our  greatness  may  not  fail 
Thro'  craven  fears  of  being  great. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  traitor's  hope  confound  ! 
To  this  great  cause  of   Freedom  drink, 
my  friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round. 


FREEDOM. 


O  THOU  so  fair  in  summers  gone, 
While  yet  thy  fresh  and  virgin  soul 

Inform'd  the  pillar'd  Parthenon, 
The  glittering  Capitol; 


II. 


So  fair  in  southern  sunshine  bathed, 
But  scarce  of  such  majestic  mien 

As  here  with  forehead  vapour-swathed 
In  meadows  ever  green; 

III. 

For    thou  —  when   Athens   reign'd    and 
Rome, 
Thy  glorious  eyes  were   dimm'd  with 
pain 
To  mark  in  many  a  freeman's  home 
The  slave,  the  scourge,  the  chain; 

IV. 

O  follower  of  the  Vision,  still 
In  motion  to  the  distant  gleam, 

Howe'er  blind  force  and  brainless  will 
May  jar  thy  golden  dream 

V. 

Of  Knowledge  fusing  class  with  class, 
Of  civic  Hate  no  more  to  be. 

Of  Love  to  leaven  all  the  mass, 
Till  every  Soul  be  free; 

VI. 

Who  yet,  like  Nature,  wouldst  not  mar 
By  changes  all  too  fierce  and  fast 

This  order  of  Her  Human  Star, 
This  heritage  of  the  past; 


VII. 


0  scorner  of  the  party  cry 

That  wanders  from  the  public  good, 
Thou — when  the  nations  rear  on  high 

Their  idol  smear'd  with  blood, 


VIII. 


And  when  they  roll  their  idol  down  — 
Of  saner  worship  sanely  proud; 

Thou  loather  of  the  lawless  crown 
As  of  the  lawless  crowd; 

IX. 

How  long  thine  ever-growing  mind 
Hath  still'd  the  blast  and  strown  the 
wave, 

Tho'  some  of  late  would  raise  a  wind 
To  sing  thee  to  thy  grave, 

X. 

Men  loud  against  all  forms  of  power  — 
Unfurnish'd    brows,    tempestuous 
tongues  — 

Expecting  all  things  in  an  hour  — 
Brass  mouths  and  iron  lungs  ! 


TO   H.R.H.    PRINCESS 
BEATRICE. 

Two  Suns  of  Love  make  day  of  human 

life, 
Which  else  with  all  its  pains,  and  griefs, 

and  deaths. 
Were  utter  darkness  —  one,  the  Sun  of 

dawn 
That  brightens  thro'  the  Mother's  tender 

eyes, 
And  warms  the  child's  awakening  world 

—  and  one 
The  later-rising  Sun  of  spousal  Love, 
Which  from  her  household  orbit  draws 

the  child 
To  move  in  other  spheres.     The  Mother 

weeps 
At  that  white  funeral  of  the  single  life, 
Her  maiden    daughter's   marriage;    and 

her  tears 
Are  half  of  pleasure,  half  of  pain  —  the 

child 
Is  happy  —  ev'n  in  leaving  her  !  but  Thou, 


564 


THE   FLEET. 


True  daughter,  whose  all-faithful,  filial  eyes 
Have    seen    the    loneliness    of    earthly 

thrones, 
Wilt   neither    quit  the   widow'd   Crown, 

nor  let 
This  later  light  of  Love  have  risen  in  vain, 
But  moving  thro'    the    Mother's    home, 

between 
The  two  that  love  thee,  lead  a  summer  life, 
Sway'd   by  each   Love,  and  swaying  to 

each  Love, 
Like   some    conjectured   planet   in   mid 

heaven 
Between  two  Suns,  and    drawing   down 

from  both 
The  light  and  genial  warmth  of  double  day. 

THE   FLEET.i 


You,  you,  z/you  shall  fail  to  understand 
What  England  is,  and  what  her  all-in-all. 

On  you  will  come  the  curse  of  all  the  land. 
Should  this  old  England  fall 
Which  Nelson  left  so  great. 

II- 

His  isle,  the  mightiest  Ocean-power  on 
earth. 
Our  own   fair   isle,  the  lord  of  every 
sea  — 

1  The  speaker  said  that  '  he  should  like  to 
be  assured  that  other  outlying  portions  of  the 
Empire,  the  Crown  colonies,  and  important  coal- 
ing stations  were  being  as  promptly  and  as 
thoroughly  fortified  as  the  various  capitals  of  the 
self-governing  colonies.  He  was  credibly  in- 
formed this  was  not  so.  It  was  impossible,  also, 
not  to  feel  some  degree  of  anxiety  about  the 
efficacy  of  present  provision  to  defend  and  pro- 
tect, by  means  of  swift  well-armed  cruisers,  the 
immense  mercantile  fleet  of  the  Empire.  A  third 
source  of  anxiety,  so  far  as  the  colonies  were 
concerned,  was  the  apparently  insufficient  provi- 
sion for  the  rapid  manufacture  of  armaments  and 
their  prompt  despatch  when  ordered  to  their 
colonial  destination.  Hence  the  necessity  for 
manufacturing  appliances  equal  to  the  require- 
ments, not  of  Great  Britain  alone,  but  of  the 
whole  Empire.  Hut  the  keystone  of  the  whole 
was  the  necessity  for  an  overwhelmingly  powerful 
fleet  and  efficient  defence  for  all  necessary  coaling 
stations.  This  was  as  essential  for  the  colonies 
as  for  Great  Britain.     It  was  the  one  condition 


Her  fuller  franchise — what  would  that 
be  worth  — 
Her  ancient  fame  of  Free  — 

Were  she  .  .  .  a  fallen  state? 

III. 

Her    dauntless   army   scatter'd,    and   so 
small. 
Her    island-myriads    fed    from    alien 
lands  — 
The  fleet  of  England  is  her  all-in-all; 
Her  fleet  is  in  your  hands, 

And  in  her  fleet  her  Fate. 

IV. 

You,  you,  that  have  the  ordering  of  her 
fleet. 
If  you  should  only  compass  her  disgrace. 
When   all    men   starve,   the  wild   mob's 
million  feet 
Will  kick  you  from  your  place, 

But  then  too  late,  too  late. 

OPENING  OF  THE  INDIAN  AND 
COLONIAL  EXHIBITION  BY  THE 
QUEEN. 

Written  at  the  Request  of  the  Prince 
of  Wales. 


Welcome,  welcome  with  one  voice  ! 
In  your  welfare  we  rejoice, 

for  the  continuance  of  the  Empire.  All  that 
Continental  Powers  did  with  respect  to  armies 
England  should  effect  with  her  navy.  It  was 
essentially  a  defensive  force,  and  could  be  moved 
rapidly  from  point  to  point,  but  it  should  be  equal 
to  all  that  was  expected  from  it.  It  was  to 
strengthen  the  fleet  that  colonists  would  first 
readily  tax  themselves,  because  they  realised  how 
essential  a  powerful  fleet  was  to  the  safety,  not 
only  of  that  e.xtensive  commerce  sailing  in  every 
sea,  but  ultimately  to  the  security  of  the  distant 
portions  of  the  Empire.  Who  could  estimate  the 
loss  involved  in  even  a  brief  period  of  disaster  to 
the  Imperial  Navy?  Any  amount  of  money 
timely  expended  in  preparation  would  be  quite 
insignificant  when  compared  with  the  possible 
calamity  he  had  referred  to.' — Extract  fron 
Sir  Graham  Berry's  Speech  at  the  Colonial 
Institute,  ()th  November  1886. 


TO   W.    C.    M ACRE  AD  Y. 


565 


Sons  and  brothers  that  have  sent, 
From  isle  and  cape  and  continent, 
Produce  of  your  field  and  flood, 
Mount  and  mine,  and  primal  wood; 
Works  of  subtle  brain  and  hand, 
And  splendours  of  the  morning  land 
Gifts  from  every  British  zone; 
Britons,  hold  your  own ! 


May  we  find,  as  ages  run, 
The  mother  featured  in  the  son; 
And  may  yours  for  ever  be 
That  old  strength  and  constancy 
Which  has  made  your  fathers  great 
In  our  ancient  island  Slate, 
And  wherever  her  flag  fly, 
Glorying  between  sea  and  sky, 
Makes  the  might  of  Britain  known; 
Britons,  hold  your  own  ! 

III. 

Britain  fought  her  sons  of  yore  — 
Britain  fail'd;   and  never  more, 
Careless  of  our  growing  kin. 
Shall  we  sin  our  fathers'  sin. 
Men  that  in  a  narrower  day  — 
Unprophetic  rulers  they  — 
Drove  from  out  the  mother's  nest 
That  young  eagle  of  the  West 
To  forage  for  herself  alone; 
Britons,  hold  your  own  ! 

IV. 

Sharers  of  our  glorious  past. 
Brothers,  must  we  part  at  last? 
Shall  we  not  thro'  good  and  ill 
Cleave  to  one  another  still? 
Britain's  myriad  voices  call, 
'  Sons,  be  welded  each  and  all. 
Into  one' imperial  whole. 
One  with  Britain,  heart  and  soul ! 
One  life,  one  flag,  one  fleet,  one  Throne  ! 
Britons,  hold  your  own  ! 


POETS    AND    THEIR   BIBLIOGRA- 
PHIES. 

Old  poets  foster'd  under  friendlier  skies, 
Old  Virgil  who  would  write  ten  lines, 
they  say, 


At  dawn,  and  lavish  all  the  golden  day 
To  make  them  wealthier  in  his  readers' 

eyes; 
And  you,  old  popular   Horace,  you  the 
wise 
Adviser  of  the  nine-years-ponder'd  lay 
And  you,  that  wear  a  wreath  of  sweeter 
bay, 
Catullus    whose     dead    songster    never 

dies; 
If,    glancing    downward    on    the    kindly 
sphere 
That    once  had  roll'd  you  round  and 

round  the  Sun, 
You    see    your   Art    still    shrined    in 
human  shelves. 
You  should  be  jubilant  that  3'ou  flourish'd 
here 
Before  the  Love  of  Letters,  overdone. 
Had  swampt  the  sacred  poets  with  them- 
selves. 


TO   W.   C.   ^lACREADY. 

1851. 

Farewell,  Macready,  since  to-night  we 

part; 
Full-handed   thunders    often   have   con- 
fess'd 
Thy  power,  well-used  to  move   the 
public  breast. 
We  thank  thee  with  our  voice,  and  from 

the  heart. 
Farewell,  Macready,  since  this  night  we 
part. 
Go,  take  thine  honours  home;   rank 

with  the  best, 
Garrick  and   statelier  Kemble,  and 
the  rest 
Who  made  a  nation  purer  through  their 

art. 
Thine  is  it  that  our  drama  did  not  die, 
Nor  flicker  down  to  brainless  panto- 
mime. 
And  those  gilt  gauds  men-children 
swarm  to  see. 
Farewell,  Macready;   moral,  grave,  sub- 
lime; 
Our  Shakespeare's  bland   and  universal 
eye 
Dwells    pleased,    through    twice    a 
hundred  years,  on  thee. 


OUEEN    MARY: 


A   DRAMA. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 
Queen  Mary. 

Philip,  King  of  Naples  and  Sicily,  afterivards  King  of  Spain. 
The  Princess  Elizabeth. 

Reginald  Pole,  Cardinal  and  Papal  Legate. 
Simon  Renard,  Spanish  Atnbassadoy. 
Le  Sieur  de  Noailles,  French  Ambassador. 
Thomas  Cranmer,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Sir  Nicholas  Heath,  Archbishop  of  York ;  Lord  Chancellor  after  Gardiner. 
Edward  Courtenay,  Earl  of  Devoti. 

Lord  William  Howard,  afterzvards  Lord  Ho-cvard,  and  Lord  High  Admiral. 
Lord  Williams  of  Thame.  Lord  Paget.  Lord  Petre. 

Stephen  Gardiner,  Bishop  of  Winchester  and  Lord  Chancellor. 
Edmund  Bonner.  Bishop  of  London.  Thomas  Thirlby,  Bishop  of  Ely. 


Sir  Thomas  Wyatt       / 


Listirrectionary  Leaders. 


attending  07t  Philip. 


Father  Bourne. 


Sir  Thomas  Stafford 

Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall.  Sir  Robert  Southwell. 

Sir  Henry  Bedingfield.  Sir  William  Cecil. 

Sir  Thomas  White,  Lord  iMayor  of  London. 

The  Duke  of  Alva 

The  Count  de  Feria 

Peter  Martyr.  Father  Cole 

Villa  Garcia.  Soto. 

Captain  Brett         \   Adherents  of  JVyatt. 

Anthony  Knyvett  ) 

Peters,  Gentleman  of  Lord  Howard. 

Roger,  Servant  to  Noailles.  William,  Servant  to  JVyatt. 

Steward  of  Household  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth. 

Old  Nokes  attd  Nokes. 

Marchioness  of  Kxeter,  Mother  of  Courtenay. 

Lady  Clarence  \ 

Lady  Magdalen  Dacres  -  Ladies  in  Waiting  to  the  Queen. 

Alice  ' 

Maid  of  Honour  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth. 


J^"^^  I   two  Country  Wives. 
Tib     ' 


hord<.  a7id  other  Attendants,  Members  of  the  Privy  Council,  Members  ^/ Parliament,  Two  Gentle- 
men, Aldermen,  Citizens,  Peasants,  Ushers,  Messengers,  Guards,  Pages,  Gospellers,  Marshal- 
men,  etc. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE   I.  —  Aldgate  richly 
decorated, 

Crowd.    Marshalmen. 

Marshalman.  Stand  back,  keep  a 
clear  lane !  When  will  her  Majesty 
pass,  sayst  thou?  why  now,  even  now; 
wherefore    (h-aw   back    your    heads    and 


your  horns  before  I  break  them,  and 
make  what  noise  you  will  with  your 
tongues,  so  it  be  not  treason.  Long  live 
Queen  Mary,  the  lawful  and  legitimate 
daughter  of  Harry  the  Eighth !  Shout, 
knaves ! 

Citizens.     Long  live  Queen  Mary  I 
First    Citizen.     That's    a    hard   word, 
legitimate;   what  does  it  mean? 

Second  Citizen.     It  means  a  bastard. 


ACT    I,  SCENE   I. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


5^7 


Third  Citizen.  Nay,  it  means  true- 
born. 

First  Citizen.  Why,  didn't  the  Par- 
liament make  her  a  bastard? 

Second  Citizeji.  No;  it  was  the  Lady 
Elizabeth. 

Third  Citizen.  That  was  after,  man; 
that  was  after. 

First  Citizen.  Then  which  is  the 
bastard? 

Second  Citizen.  Tro.th,  they  be  both 
bastards  by  Act  of  Parliament  and 
Council. 

Third  Citizen.  Ay,  the  Parliament 
can  make  every  true-born  man  of  us  a 
bastard.  Old  Nokes,  can't  it  make  thee 
a  bastard?  thou  shouldst  know,  for  thou 
art  as  white  as  three  Christmasses. 

Old  Nokes  {dreamily).  Who's  a-pass- 
ing?     King  Edward  or  King  Richard? 

Third  Citizen.     No,  old  Nokes. 

Old  Nokes.     It's  Harry  ! 

Third  Citizen.     It's  Queen  Mary. 

Old  Nokes.  The  blessed  Mary's  a- 
passing !  \_Falls  on.  his  knees. 

N'okes.  Let  father  alone,  my  masters  ! 
he's  past  your  questioning. 

Third  Citizen.  Answer  thou  for  him, 
then !  thou'rt  no  such  cockerel  thyself, 
for  thou  wast  born  i'  the  tail  end  of  old 
Harry  the  Seventh. 

Nokes.  Eh  !  that  was  afore  bastard- 
making  began.  I  was  born  true  man  at 
five  in  the  forenoon  i'  the  tail  of  old 
Harry,  and  so  they  can't  make  me  a 
bastard. 

Third  Citizen.  But  if  Parliament  can 
make  the  Queen  a  bastard,  why,  it  follows 
all  the  more  that  they  can  make  thee  one, 
who  art  fray'd  i'  the  knees,  and  out  at 
elbow,  and  bald  o'  the  back,  and  bursten 
at  the  toes,  and  down  at  heels. 

Nokes.  I  was  born  of  a  true  man  and 
a  ring'd  wife,  and  I  can't  argue  upon  it; 
but  I  and  my  old  woman  'ud  burn  upon 
it,  that  would  we. 

Marshalman.  What  are  you  cackling 
of  bastardy  under  the  Queen's  own  nose? 
I'll  have  you  flogg'd  and  burnt  too,  by 
the  Rood  I  will. 

First  Citizen.  He  swears  by  the 
Rood.     Whew! 

Second  Citizen.     Hark  !   the  trumpets. 


[  The   Procession  passes,  Mary  atid 

Elizabeth  riding  side  by  side,  and 

disappears  tinder  the  gate. 

Citizens.      Long    live    Queen    Mary ! 

down  with  all   traitors !     God    save    her 

Grace;  and  death  to  Northumberland! 

{^Exeunt. 

Manent  Two  Gentlemen. 

First  Gentleman.  By  God's  light  a 
noble  creature,  right  royal ! 

Second  Gentleman.  vShe  looks  comelier 
than  ordinary  to-day;  but  to  my  mind 
the  Lady  Elizabeth  is  the  more  noble  and 
royal. 

First  Gentleman.  I  mean  the  Lady 
Elizabeth.  Did  you  hear  (I  have  a 
daughter  in  her  service  who  reported  it) 
that  she  met  the  Queen  at  Wanstead  with 
five  hundred  horse,  and  the  Queen  (tho' 
some  say  they  be  much  divided)  took  her 
hand,  call'd  her  sweet  sister,  and  kiss'd 
not  her  alone,  but  all  the  ladies  of  her 
following. 

Second  Gentleman.  Ay,  that  was  in 
her  hour  of  joy ;  there  will  be  plenty  to 
sunder  and  unsister  them  again :  this 
Gardiner  for  one,  who  is  to  be  made 
Lord  Chancellor,  and  will  pounce  like  a 
wild  beast  out  of  his  cage  to  worry 
Cranmer. 

First  Gentleman.  And  furthermore, 
my  daughter  said  that  when  there  rose  a 
talk  of  the  late  rebellion,  she  spoke  even 
of  Northumberland  pitifully,  and  of  the 
good  Lady  Jane  as  a  poor  innocent  child 
who  had  but  obeyed  her  father;  and 
furthermore,  she  said  that  no  one  in  her 
time  should  be  burnt  for  heresy. 

Second  Gentleman.  Well,  sir,  I  look 
for  happy  times. 

First  Gentleman.  There  is  but  one 
thing  against  them.  I  know  not  if  you 
know. 

Second  Gentleman.  I  suppose  you 
touch  upon  the  rumour  that  Charles,  the 
master  of  the  world,  has  offer' d  her  his 
son  Philip,  the  Pope  and  the  Devil.  I 
trust  it  is  but  a  rumour. 

First  Gentleman.  She  is  going  now 
to  the  Tower  to  loose  the  prisoners  there, 
and  among  them  Courtenay,  to  be  made 
Earl  of  Devon,  of  royal  blood,  of  splendid 


568 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT  I. 


feature,  whom  the  council  and  all  her 
people  wish  her  to  marry.  May  it  be 
so,  for  we  are  many  of  us  Catholics,  but 
few  Papists,  and  the  Hot  Gospellers  will 
go  mad  upon  it. 

Second  Gentleman.  Was  she  not 
betroth'd  in  her  babyhood  to  the  Great 
Emperor  himself? 

First  Gentleman.     Ay,  but  he's  too  old. 

Second  Gentleman.  And  again  to  her 
cousin  Reginald  Pole,  now  Cardinal; 
but  I  hear  that  he  too  is  full  of  aches  and 
broken  before  his  day. 

First  Gentleman.  O,  the  Pope  could 
dispense  with  his  Cardinalate,  and  his 
achage,  and  his  breakage,  if  that  were  all : 
will  you  not  follow  the  procession? 

Second  Gentleman.  No;  I  have  seen 
enough  for  this  day. 

First  Gentleman.  Well,  I  shall  follow; 
if  I  can  get  near  enough  I  shall  judge 
with  my  own  eyes  whether  her  Grace  in- 
cline to  this  splendid  scion  of  Plantagenet. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 
A  Room  in  Lambeth  Palace. 

Cranmer.      To    Strasburg,    Antwerp, 

Frankfort,  Zurich,  Worms, 
Geneva,  Basle  —  our  Bishops  from  their 

sees 
Or    fled,   they   say,    or    flying  —  Poinet, 

Barlow, 
Bale,    Scory,    Coverdale;     besides    the 

Deans 
Of  Christchurch,   Durham,   Exeter,   and 

Wells  — 
Ailmer  and    BuUingham,  and    hundreds 

more ; 
So  they  report :   I  shall  be  left  alone. 
No  :  Hooper,  Ridley,  Latimer  will  not  fly. 

Enter  Peter  Martyr. 

Peter  Martyr.     Fly,  Cranmer !    were 
there  nothing  else,  your  name 
Stands    first   of    those    who    sign'd    the 

Letters  Patent 
That  gave  her  royal  crown  to  Lady  Jane. 
Cranmer.     Stand    first  it  may,  but  it 
was  written  last  : 
Those  that  are  now  her   Privy  Council, 
sign'd 


Before  me :    nay,  the   Judges   had   pro- 
nounced 
That  our  young  Edward  might  bequeath 

the  crown 
Of  England,  putting  by  his  father's  will. 
Yet  I  stood  out,  till  Edward  sent  for  me. 
The  wan  boy-king,  with  his  fast-fading 

eyes 
Fixt  hard  on  mine,  his  frail  transparent 

hand. 
Damp    with    the.  sweat    of   death,    and 

griping  mine, 
Whisper'd  me,  if  I  loved  him,  not  to  yield 
His  Church  of  England  to  the  Papal  wolf 
And    Mary;    then  I  could  no  more  —  I 

sign'd. 
Nay,  for  bare  shame  of  inconsistency, 
She  cannot  pass  her  traitor  council  by, 
To  make  me  headless. 

Peter  Martyr.    That  might  be  forgiven. 
I  tell  you,  fly,  my  Lord.     You  do  not  own 
The  bodily  presence  in  the  Eucharist, 
Their  wafer  and  perpetual  sacrifice  : 
Your  creed  will  be  your  death. 

Cranmer.  Step  after  step, 

Thro'  many  voices  crying  right  and  left, 
Have  I  climb'd    back    into   the   primal 

church, 
And  stand  within  the  porch,  and  Christ 

with  me  : 
My  flight  were  such  a  scandal  to  the  faith, 
The  downfall  of  so  many  simple  souls, 
I  dare  not  leave  my  post. 

Peter  A/artyr.  But  you  divorced 

Queen  Catharine  and  her  father;   hence, 

her  hate 
Will  burn  till  you  are  burn'd. 

Cranmer.  I  cannot  help  it. 

The  Canonists  and  Schoolmen  were  with 

me. 
'Thou  shalt  not  wed  thy  brother's  wife.' 

—  'Tis  written, 
'  They  shall    be   childless.'     True,  Mary 

was  born. 
But  France  would  not  accept  her  for  a 

bride 
As    being    born    from    incest;     and    this 

wrought 
Upon  the  king;   and  child  by  child,  you 

know, 
Were  momentary  sparkles  out  as  quick 
Almost  as  kindled;   and  he  brought  his 

doubts 


SCENE    III. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


569 


And  fears  to  me.     Peter,  I'll  swear  for 

him 
He  did  believe  the  bond  incestuous. 
But  wherefore  am   I    trenching    on    the 

time 
That  should  already  have  seen  your  steps 

a  mile 
From  me  and  Lambeth?    God   be  with 
you !     Go. 
Peter  Ma^-tyr.     Ah,  but  how  fierce  a 
letter  you  wrote  against 
Their   superstition  when    they  slander'd 

you 
For  setting  up  a  mass  at  Canterbury 
To  please  the  Queen. 

Craiimer.     It  was  a  wheedling  monk 
Set  up  the  mass. 

Peter  Martyr.     I    know  it,  my  good 
Lord. 
But  you  so  bubbled  over  with  hot  terms 
Of  Satan,  liars,  blasphemy.  Antichrist, 
She    never   will    forgive   you.     Fly,    my 
Lord,  fly! 
Cranmer.     I  wrote  it,  and  God  grant 

me  power  to  burn  I 
Peter  Martyr.     They  have  given  me  a 
safe  conduct :   for  all  that 
I  dare  not  stay.     I   fear,  I   fear,   I   see 

you. 
Dear  friend,  for  the  last  time;   farewell, 
and  fly. 
Cranmer.     Fly  and  farewell,  and  let 
me  die  the  death. 

\_Exit  Peter  Martyr. 

Enter  Old  Servant. 

0  kind  and  gentle  master,  the  Queen's 

Officers 
Are  here  in  force  to  take  you  to  the  Tower. 
Crawner.      Ay,  gentle    friend,  admit 
them.     I  will  go. 

1  thank  my  God  it  is  too  late  to  fly. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — St.  Paul's  Cross. 

Father  Bourne  in  the  pulpit.   A  crowd. 
Marchioness   of    Exeter,   Courte- 

NAY.  The  SlEUR  DE  NOAILLES  and 
his  7nan  Roger  in  front  of  the  stage. 
Hubbub. 

Noailles.      Hast   thou   let   fall    those 
papers  in  the  palace? 


Roger.     Ay,  sir. 

A^oailles.  '  There  will  be  no  peace  for 
Mary  till  Elizabeth  lose  her  head.' 

Roger.     Ay,  sir. 

Noailles.  And  the  other,  '  Long  live 
Elizabeth  the  Queen  ! ' 

Roger.     Ay,  sir;   she  needs  must  tread 
upon  them. 

Noailles.  Well. 

These  beastly  swine  make  such  a  grunting 

here, 
I  cannot  catch  what    Father  Bourne  is 
saying. 

Roger.  Quiet  a  moment,  my  masters; 
hear  what  the  shaveling  has  to  say  for 
himself. 

Crowd.     H  ush  —  h  ear  ! 

Bourne.  —  and  so  this  unhappy  land, 
long  divided  in  itself,  and  sever'd  from 
the  faith,  will  return  into  the  one  true 
fold,  seeing  that  our  gracious  Virgin 
Queen  hath 

Cro^ud.     No  pope  !  no  pope  ! 

Roger  {to  those  about  hiiji,  mimicking 
Bourne) .  —  hath  sent  for  the  holy  legate 
of  the  holy  father  the  Pope,  Cardinal 
Pole,  to  give  us  all  that  holy  absolution 
which 

First    Citizen.      Old    Bourne    to    the 
life! 

Second  Citizen.    Holy  absolution  !  holy 
Inquisition ! 

Third  Citizen.    Down  with  the  Papist  I 

\_Huhlmb. 

Bourne.  — and  now  that  your  good 
bishop,  Bonner,  who  hath  lain  so  long 
under  bonds  for  the  faith {^Hubbub. 

Noailles.     Friend  Roger,  steal  thou  in 
among  the  crowd. 
And  get  the  swine  to  shout  Elizabeth. 
Yon  gray  old  Gospeller,  sour  as  midwinter, 
Begin  with  him. 

Roger  {goes').  By  the  mass,  old  friend, 
we'll  have  no  pope  here  while  the  Lady 
Elizabeth  lives. 

Gospeller.  Art  thou  of  the  true  faith, 
fellow,  that  swearest  by  the  mass? 

Roger.  Ay,  that  am  I,  new  converted, 
but  the  old  leaven  sticks  to  my  tongue 
yet. 

First  Citizen.  He  says  right;  by  the 
mass  we'll  have  no  mass  here. 

Voices  of  the  croiud.    Peace  !  hear  him; 


570 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    I. 


let  his  own  words  damn  the  Papist.  From 
thine  own  mouth  I  judge  thee  —  tear  him 
down  ! 

Bourne.  — and  since  our  Gracious 
Queen,  let  me  call  her  our  second  Virgin 
Mary,  hath   begun  to  re-edify  the    true 

temple 

First  Citizeji.  Virgin  Mary  !  w^e'll  have 
no  virgins  here  —  we'll  have  the  Lady 
Elizabeth ! 

\_Swords  are  drawn,  a  knife  is  hurled 

and  sticks  in  the  pulpit.      The  mob 

throng  to  the  pulpit  stairs. 

Marchioness  of  Exeter.  Son  Courtenay, 

wilt  thou  see  the  holy  father 

Murdered  before  thy  face?  up,  son,  and 

save  him ! 
They  love  thee,  and  thou  canst  not  come 
to  harm. 
Courtenay   {in  the  pulpit^.      Shame, 
shame,  my  masters  !  are  you  Eng- 
lish-born, 
And  set  yourselves  by  hundreds  against 
one? 
Crowd.     A  Courtenay  !   a  Courtenay  ! 
\_A  train  of  Spanish  servants  crosses 
at  the  back  of  the  stage.   ■ 
Noailles.     These  birds  of  passage  come 
before  their  time : 
Stave  off  the  crowd  upon  the  Spaniard 
there. 
Roger.      My  masters,   yonder's   fatter 
game  for  you 
Than  this  old  gaping  gurgoyle  :  look  you 

there  — 
The  Prince  of  Spain  coming  to  wed  our 

Queen ! 
After  him,  boys !  and  pelt  him  from  the 
city. 
[  They   seize   stones   and  follow   the 
Spaniards.     Exeunt  on  the  other 
side   Marchioness   of   Exeter  and 
Attendants. 
Noailles  {to  Roger).     Stand  from  me. 
If  Elizabeth  lose  her  head  — 
That  makes  for  France. 
And  if  her  people,  anger'd  thereupon, 
Arise    against    her    and    dethrone    the 

Queen  — 
That  makes  for  France. 
And  if  I  lireed  confusion  anyway — ■ 
That  makes  for  France. 

Good'day,  my  Lord  of  Devon; 


A  bold  heart  yours  to  beard  that  raging 
mob ! 
Courtenay.     My  mother  said.  Go  up; 
and  up  I  went. 
I  knew  they  would  not  do  me  any  wrong. 
For    I    am    mighty   popular  with    them, 
Noailles. 
N'oailles.     You  look'd  a  king. 
Courtenay.  Why  not?     I  am 

king's  blood. 
N'oailles.     And  in  the  whirl  of  change 

may  come  to  be  one. 
Courtenay.     Ah ! 
Noailles.       But    does    your    gracious 

Queen  entreat  you  kinglike? 
Courtenay.     'Fore    God,   I  think   she 

entreats  me  like  a  child. 
N'oailles.     You've  but  a  dull  life  in  this 
maiden  court, 
I  fear,  my  Lord? 

Courtenay.     A  life  of  nods  and  yawns. 
Noailles.     So   you  would    honour    my 
poor  house  to-night. 
We  might   enliven  you.     Divers  honest 

fellows, 
The  Duke  of  Suffolk    lately  freed  from 

prison. 
Sir  Peter  Carew  and  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt, 
Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  and  some  more  — 
we  play. 
Courtenay.     At  what? 
A^oailles.     The  Game  of  Chess. 
Courtenay.  The  Game  of  Chess  ! 

I   can  play  well,  and  I  shall    beat   you 
there. 
Noailles.    Ay,  but  we  play  with  Henry, 
King  of  France, 
And  certain  of  his  court. 
His  Highness  makes  his  moves  across  the 

Channel, 
We  answer  him  with  ours,  and  there  are 

messengers 
That  go  between  us. 

Courtenay.     Why,  such    a   game,  sir, 

were  whole  years  a  playing. 
iVoailles.     Nay;    not  so  long  I   trust. 
That  all  depends 
Upon    the    skill    and    swiftness    of   the 
players. 
Courtenay.     The  King  is  skilful  at  it? 
N^oailles.  Very,  my  Lord. 

Courtenay.     And  the  stakes  high? 
Noailles,     But  not  beyond  your  means. 


SCENE   IV. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


57^ 


Courtenay.      Well,    I'm    the    first    of 

players.     I  shall  win. 
Noailles.     With  our  advice  and  in  our 
company, 
And  so  you  well  attend  to  the  king's  moves, 
I  think  you  may. 

Cotirtettay.         When  do  you  meet? 
Noailles.  To-night. 

Courtenay  (^aside).     I  will  be  there; 
the  fellow's  at  his  tricks  — 
Deep  —  I  shall    fathom   him.     {Aloud.) 
Good  morning,  Noailles. 

\_Exit  Courtenay. 
Noailles.    Good-day,  my  Lord.  Strange 
game  of  chess  I   a  King 
That  with  her  own  pawns  plays  against  a 

Queen, 
Whose  play  is  all  to  find  herself  a  King. 
Ay;  but  this  fine  blue-blooded  Courtenay 

seems 
Too  princely  for   a   pawn.     Call    him   a 

Knight, 
That,  with  an  ass's,  not  a  horse's  head, 
Skips  every  way,  from  levity  or  from  fear. 
Well,  we  shall  use  him  somehow,  so  that 

Gardiner 
And  Simon  Renard  spy  not  out  our  game 
Too    early.     Roger,    thinkest    thou   that 

anyone 
Suspected  thee  to  be  my  man? 

Roger.  Not  one,  sir. 

Noailles.  No  !  the  disguise  was  perfect. 

Let's  away.  {^Exeunt. 

SCENE   IV. 

London.    A  Room  in  the  Palace, 
Elizabeth.     Enter  Courtenav. 

Courtenay.     So  yet  am  I, 
Unless  my  friends  and  mirrors  lie  to  me, 
A  goodlier-looking  fellow  than  this  Philip. 
Pah! 
The  Queen  is  ill  advised  :    shall   I  turn 

traitor? 
They've  almost  talked  me  into  it :   yet  the 

word 
Affrights  me  somewhat :   to  be  such  a  one 
As  Harry  Bolingbroke  hath  a  lure  in  it. 
Good  now,  my  Lady  Queen,  tho'  by  your 

age, 
And  by  your  looks  you  are  not  worth  the 

having, 


Vet  by  your  crown  you  are. 

{^Seeing  Elizabeth. 
The  Princess  there? 
If  I  tried  her  and  la  —  she's  amorous. 
Have  we  not  heard  of  her  in  Edward's 

time, 
Her  freaks  and  frolics  with  the  late  Lord 

Admiral? 
I  do  believe   she'd   yield.     I  should   be 

still 
A    party  in   the    state;    and    then,  who 
knows  — 
Elizabeth.     What  are  you  musing  on, 

my  Lord  of  Devon? 
Courtenay.     Has  not  the  Queen  — 
Elizabeth.  Done  what.  Sir? 

Cotirtenay.  —  made  you  follow 

The  Lady  Suffolk  and  the  Lady  Lennox  ? — 
Vou, 
The  heir  presumptive. 

Elizabeth.       Why   do   you    ask?    you 

know  it. 
Courtenay.     Vou  needs  must   bear  it 

hardly. 
Elizabeth.  No,  indeed  1 

I  am  utterly  submissive  to  the  Queen. 
Courtenay.     W^ell,  I  was  musing  upon 
that;    the  Queen 
Is  both  my  foe  and  yours :   we  should  be 
friends. 
Elizabeth.     My    Lord,    the    hatred    of 
another  to  us 
Is  no  true  bond  of  friendship. 

Courtenay.  Might  it  not 

Be  the  rough  preface  of  some  closer  bond  ? 

Elizabeth.     My    Lord,    you   late  were 

loosed  from  out  the  Tower, 

Where,  like  a  butterfly  in  a  chrysalis, 

Vou  spent  your  life;    that    broken,   out 

you  flutter 
Thro'    the    new   world,   go    zigzag,  now 

would  settle 
Upon  this  flower,  now  that;  but  all  things 

here 
At  court  are  known ;    you  have  solicited 
The  Queen,  and  been  rejected. 

Courtenay.  Flower,  she  ! 

Half  faded  !  but  you,  cousin,  are  fresh  and 

sweet 
As  the  first  flower  no  bee  has  ever  tried. 
Elizabeth.     Are  you  the  bee  to  try  me? 
why,  but  now 
T  called  vou  butterfly. 


572 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT  I. 


Courtenay.  You  did  me  wrong, 

I  love  not  to  be  called  a  butterfly : 
Why  do  you  call  me  butterfly? 

Elizabeth.     Why    do    you   go   so   gay 

then? 
Courtenay.     Velvet  and  gold. 
This  dress  was  made  me  as  the  Earl  of 

Devon 
To  take  my  seat  in;   looks  it  not  right 
royal ? 
Elizabeth.     So  royal  that  the    Queen 

forbade  you  wearing  it. 
Courtenay.     I  wear   it   then  to   spite 

her. 
Elizabeth.     My  Lord,  my  Lord; 
I   see   you   in   the   Tower  again.      Her 

Majesty 
Hears  you  affect  the    Prince  —  prelates 
kneel  to  you.  — 
Courtenay.     I   am  the   noblest  blood 
in  Europe,  Madam, 
A  Courtenay  of  Devon,  and  her  cousin. 
Elizabeth.      She  hears  you  make  your 
boast  that  after  all 
She  means  to  wed  you.     Folly,  my  good 
Lord. 
Courtenay.     How  folly  ?  a  great  party 
in  the  state 
Wills  me  to  wed  her. 

Elizabeth.  Failing  her,  my  Lord, 

Doth  not  as  great  a  party  in  the  state 
Will  you  to  wed  me? 

Courtenay.  Even  so,  fair  lady. 

Elizabeth.     You  know  to  flatter  ladies. 
Courtenay.  Nay,  I  meant 

True  matters  of  the  heart. 

Elizabeth.  My  heart,  my  Lord, 

Is  no  great  party  in  the  state  as  yet. 
Courtenay.     Great,  said  you?  nay,  you 
shall  be  great,     I  love  you, 
Lay  my  life  in  your  hands.     Can  you  be 
close? 
Elizabeth.     Can  you,  my  Lord? 
Courtenay.     Close  as  a  miser's  casket. 
Listen : 

The   King  of  France,  Noailles  the  Am- 
bassador, 
The  Duke  of  Suffolk  and  Sir  Peter  Carew, 
Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  I  myself,  some  others. 
Have  sworn  this  Spanish  marriage  shall 

not  be. 
If  Mary  will  not  hear  us  —  well  —  con- 
jecture — 


Were  I  in  Devon  with  my  wedded  bride, 
The  people  there  so  worship  me  —  Your 

ear; 
You  shall  be  Queen. 

Elizabeth.  You  speak  too  low, 

my  Lord; 
I  cannot  hear  you. 

Courtenay.  I'll  repeat  it. 

Elizabeth.  No ! 

Stand  further  off,  or  you  may  lose  your 
head. 
Courtenay.     I  have  a  head  to  lose  for 

your  sweet  sake. 
Elizabeth.     Have  you,  my  Lord?   Best 
keep  it  for  your  own. 
Nay,  pout  not,  cousin. 
Not  many  friends  are  mine,  except  indeed 
Among  the  many.     I  believe  you  mine; 
And  so  you  may  continue  mine,  farewell, 
And  that  at  once. 

Enter  MARY,  behind. 

Maty.    Whispering — leagued  together 
To  bar  me  from  my  Philip. 

Courtenay.  Pray — ^consider  — 

Elizabeth  {seeing  the  Queen).     Well, 

that's  a  noble  horse  of  yours,  my 

Lord. 

I  trust  that  he  will  carry  you  well  to-day, 

And  heal  your  headache. 

Courtenay.     You  are  wild;  what  head- 
ache? 
Heartache,  perchance;   not  headache. 
Elizabeth   {aside  to  Courtenay).     Are 
you  blind? 
[Courtenay  sees  the  Queen  a7id  exit. 
Exit  Mary. 

Enter  Lord  William  Howard. 

Howard.  Was  that  my  Lord  of  Devon  ? 

do  not  you 
Be    seen   in   corners   with   my  Lord    of 

Devon. 
He  hath   fallen  out  of  favour  with   the 

Queen. 
She   fears  the  Lords  may  side  with  you 

and  him 
Against    her    marriage;    therefore    is  he 

dangerous. 
And  if  this  Prince  of  fluff  and  feather 

come 
To  woo  you,  niece,  he  is  dangerous  every 

way. 


SCENE   IV. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


573 


Elizabeth.     Not  very    dangerous    that 

way,  my  good  uncle. 
Hoxvard.     But  your  own  state  is  full 

of  danger  here. 
The  disaffected,  heretics,  reformers, 
Look  to  you  as  the  one  to  crown, their 

ends. 
Mix  not  yourself  with  any  plot  I  pray 

_  you; 
Nay,  if  by  chance  you  hear  of  any  such, 
Speak  not  thereof — no,  not  to  your  best 

friend, 
Lest  you  should  be  confounded  with  it. 

Still  — 
Perinde  ac  cadaver  —  as  the  priest  says, 
You  know  your  Latin  —  quiet  as  a  dead 

body. 
What   was   my  Lord    of  Devon   telling 

you? 
Elizabeth.     Whether  he  told  me  any- 
thing or  not, 
I    follow    your   good    counsel,   gracious 

uncle. 
Quiet  as  a  dead  body. 

Hozvard.  You  do  right  well. 

I  do  not  care  to  know;   but  this  I  charge 

you. 
Tell     Courtenay    nothing.      The     Lord 

.Chancellor 
(I  count  it  as  a  kind  of  virtue  in  him. 
He  hath  not  many),  as  a  mastiff  dog 
May  love  a  puppy  cur  for  no  more  reason 
Than  that  the  twain  have  been  tied  up 

together, 
Thus  Gardiner  —  for  the  two  were  fellow- 
prisoners 
So  many  years  in  yon  accursed  Tower  — 
Hath  taken  to  this  Courtenay.      Look  to 

it,  niece, 
He  hath  no  fence  when  Gardiner  ques- 
tions him; 
All    oozes  out;   yet  him  —  because  they 

know  him 
The  last  White  Rose,  the  last  Plantagenet 
(Nay,  there  is  Cardinal  Pole,  too),  the 

people 
Claim  as  their  natural  leader  —  ay,  some 

say. 
That  you  shall  marry  him,  make  him  King 

belike. 
Elizabeth.     Do     they     say     so,    good 

uncle? 
Hoivard.         Ay,  good  niece  ! 


You  should  be  plain  and  open  with  me, 

niece. 
You  should  not  play  upon  me. 

Elizabeth.  No,  good  uncle. 

Enter  GARDINER. 

Gardiner.     The  Queen  would  see  your 

Grace  upon  the  moment. 
Elizabeth.     Why,  my  lord  Bishop? 
Gardiner.     I  think  she  means  to  coun- 
sel your  withdrawing 
To    Ashridge,    or    some    other    country 
house. 
Elizabeth.     Why,  my  lord  Bishop? 
Gardiner.     I  do  but  bring  the  message, 
know  no  more. 
Your  Grace  will  hear  her  reasons  from 
herself. 
Elizabeth.     'Tis  mine  own  wish  fulfiU'd 
before  the  word 
Was  spoken,  for  in  truth  I  had  meant  to 

crave 
Permission  of  her  Highness  to  retire 
To   Ashridge,    and   pursue    my    studies 
there. 
Gardiner.     Madam,  to  have  the  wish 
before  the  word 
Is  man's  good  Fairy  —  and  the  Queen  is 

yours. 
I  left  her  with  rich  jewels  in  her  hand, 
Whereof  'tis  like  enough  she  means  to 

make 
A  farewell  present  to  your  Grace. 

Elizabeth.  My  Lord, 

I  have  the  jewel  of  a  loyal  heart. 

Gardiner.     I   doubt    it  not.   Madam, 
most  loyal.       \_Bows  low  and  exit. 
Howard,  See, 

This  comes  of  parleying  with  my  Lord  of 

Devon. 
Well,  well,  you  must  obey;   and  I  myself 
Believe  it  will  be  better  for  your  welfare. 
Your  time  will  come. 

Elizabeth.     I  think  my  time  will  come. 
Uncle, 

I  am  of  sovereign  nature,  that  I  know, 
Not  to  be  quell'd;   and  I  have  felt  within 

me 
Stirrings  of  some  great  doom  when  God's 

just  hour 
Peals  —  but   this  fierce  old  Gardiner  — 

his  big  baldness, 
That  irritable  forelock  which  he  rubs, 


574 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    I. 


His  buzzard   beak    and    deep-incavern'd 

eyes 
Half  fright  me. 

Howard.     You've  a  bold  heart;   keep 

it  so. 
He  cannot  touch  you  save  that  you  turn 

traitor; 
And  so  take  heed  I  pray  you  —  you  are 

one 
Who  love  that  men  should   smile  upon 

you,  niece. 
They'd  smile  you  into  treason  —  some  of 

them. 
Elizabeth.     I  spy  the  rock  beneath  the 

smiling  sea. 
But  if   this    Philip,   the   proud    Catholic 

prince. 
And  this  bald  priest,  and  she  that  hates 

me,  seek 
In  that  lone  house,    to  practise  on  my 

hfe. 
By  poison,  fire,  shot,  stab  — 

Howard.  They  will  not,  niece. 

Mine  is  the   fleet  and  all  the  power  at 

sea  — 
Or  will  be  in  a  moment.       If  they  dared 
To  harm  you,  I  would  blow  this  Philip 

and  all 
Your    trouble    to    the    dogstar   and    the 

devil. 
Elizabeth.       To    the    Pleiads,    uncle; 

they  have  lost  a  sister. 
Howard.     But   why    say   that?    what 

have  you  done  to  lose  her? 
Come,  come,  I  will  go  with  you  to  the 

Queen.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE    V. 

A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Mary  with  Philip's  miniature.    Alice. 

Mary  {kissing  the  miniature').     Most 
goodly.  Kinglike  and  an  Emperor's 
son,  — 
A  king  to  be,  —  is  he  not  noble,  girl? 
Alice.      Goodly  enough,  your  Grace, 
and  yet,  methinks, 
I  have  seen  goodlier. 

Mary.  Ay;  some  waxen  doll 

Thy  baby  eyes  have  rested  on,  belike; 
All   red  and  white,  the  fashion  of  our 
land. 


But  my  good  mother  came  (God  rest  her 

soul) 
Of  Spain,  and  I  am  Spanish  in  myself, 
And  in  my  likings. 

Alice.  By  your  Grace's  leave 

Your,  royal   mother   came  of  Spain,  but 

took 
To    the    English  red    and  white.     Your 

royal  father 
(For  so  they  say)  was  all  pure  lily  and 

rose 
In  his  youth,  and  like  a  lady. 

Alary.  O  just  God  ! 

Sweet  mother,  you  had  time  and  cause 

enough 
To  sicken  of  his  lilies  and  his  roses. 
Cast    off,    betray'd,    defamed,    divorced, 

forlorn  I 
And  then  the  King  —  that    traitor  past 

forgiveness. 
The   false    archbishop   fawning  on  him, 

married 
The  mother  of  Elizabeth  —  a  heretic 
Ev'n   as  she  is;   but  God  hath  sent  me 

here 
To  take  such  order  with  all  heretics 
That  it  shall  be,  before  I  die,  as  tho' 
My  father  and  my  brother  had  not  lived. 
What   wast   thou   saying   of  this    Lady 

Jane, 
Now  in  the  Tower? 

Alice.      Why,  Madam,  she  was  passing 
Some  chapel  down  in  Essex,   and   with 

her 
Lady  Anne  Wharton,  and  the  Lady  Anne 
Bow'd  to  the  Pyx;   but  Lady  Jane  stood 

up 
Stiff  as  the  very  backbone  of  heresy. 
And  wherefore   bow  ye  not,  says  Lady 

Anne, 
To  him  w-ithin  there  who  made  Heaven 

and  Earth? 
I  cannot  and  I  dare  not  tell  your  Grace 
What  Lady  Jane  replied. 

Mary.  But  I  will  have  it. 

Alice.      She  said  —  pray   pardon  me, 

and  pity  her  — 
She    hath  harken'd    evil   counsel  —  ah  ! 

she  said. 
The  baker  made  him. 

Mary.  Monstrous  !  blasphemous  ! 

vShe  ought  to  burn.    Hence,  thou.    {Exit 

Alice.)     No  —  being  traitor 


I 


SCENE    V 


QUEEN  MARY. 


575 


Her  head  will  fall:   shall  it?  she  is  but 

a  child. 
We  do  not  kill  the  child  for  doing  that 
His  father  whipt  him  into  doing —  a  head 
So  full  of  grace  and  beauty  1  would  that 

mine 
Were  half  as  gracious  I     O  my  lord  to  be, 
My  love,  for  thy  sake  only. 
I  am  eleven  years  older  than  he  is. 
But  will  he  care  for  that? 
No,  by  the  holy  Virgin,  being  noble, 
But    love    me    only :     then    the    bastard 

sprout, 
]\Iy  sister,  is  far  fairer  than  myself. 
Will  he  be  drawn  to  her? 
No,  being  of  the  true  faith  with  myself. 
Paget  is  for  him  —  for  to  wed  with  Spain 
Would   treble     England  —  Gardiner     is 

against  him; 
The  Council,  people,  Parliament  against 

him; 
But  1  will  have  him  I     My   hard  father 

hated  me; 
My  brother  rather  hated  me  than  loved; 
My  sister    cowers  and  hates  me.     Holy 

Virgin, 
Plead  with   thy  blessed   Son;   grant  me 

my  prayer : 
Give  me  my  Philip;    and    we   two  will 

lead 
The  living  waters  of  the  Faith  again 
Back  thro'  their  widow'd  channel  here, 

and  watch 
The  parch'd  banks  rolling  incense,  as  of 

old. 
To  heaven,  and  kindled  with  the  palms 

of  Christ ! 

Ente7-  Usher. 

Who  waits,  sir? 

Usher.     Madam,  the  Lord  Chancellor. 

Alary;     Bid    him    come    in.      (^Enter 

Gardiner.)     Good  morning,  my 

good  Lord.  \^Exit  Usher. 

Gardiner.  That  every  morning  of  your 

ISIajesty 

May  be  m.ost  good,  is   every  morning's 

prayer 
Of  your    most    loyal    subject,    Stephen 
Gardiner. 
Mary.    Come  vou  to  tell  me  this,  mv 

Lord? 
Gardiner.     And  more. 


Your    people  have  begun  to  learn  your 

worth. 
Your  pious  wish  to  pay  King  Edward's 

debts. 
Your  lavish  household   curb'd,   and  the 

remission 
Of  half  that  subsidy  levied  on  the  people. 
Make   all  tongues  praise  and  all  hearts 

beat  for  you. 
I'd  have  you  yet  more  loved  :   the  realm 

is  poor. 
The  exchequer  at  neap-tide  :   we  might 

withdraw 
Part  of  our  garrison  at  Calais. 

Mary.  Calais  I 

Our  one  point  on  the  main,  the  gate  of 

France  I 
I  am  Queen  of  England  ;  take  mine  eyes, 

mine  heart, 
But  do  not  lose  me  Calais. 

Gardiner.  Do  not  fear  it. 

Of  that  hereafter.     I  say  your  Grace  is 

loved. 
That  I  may  keep  you  thus,  who  am  your 

friend 
And    ever    faithful    counsellor,    might    I 

speak  ? 
Alary.    I  can  forespeak  your  speaking. 

Would  I  marry 
Prince  Philip,  if  all  England  hate  him? 

That  is 
Your  question,  and  I  front  it  with  another  : 
Is  it  England,  or  a  party?      Now,  your 

answer. 
Gardiner.     My  answer  is,  I  wear  be- 
neath my  dress 
A  shirt  of  mail :    my  house    hath    been 

assaulted. 
And  when  I  walk  abroad,  the  populace, 
With  fingers  pointed  like  so  many  daggers. 
Stab    me    in    fancy,    hissing    Spain   and 

Philip; 
And  when   I   sleep,  a  hundred  men-at- 
arms 
Guard    my   poor    dreams   for    England. 

Men  would  murder  me. 
Because  they  think  me  favourer  of  this 

marriage. 
Ma?y.    And  that  were  hard  upon  you, 

my  Lord  Chancellor. 
Gardifter.     But    our    young    Earl    of 

Devon  — 
Alary.  Earl  of  Devon? 


576 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   I. 


I  freed  him  from  the  Tower,  placed  him 

at  Court; 
I  made  him  Earl  of  Devon,  and  —  the 

fool  — 
He   wrecks   his   health   and   wealth   on 

courtesans, 
And  rolls  himself  in  carrion  like  a  dog. 
Gardiner.    More  like  a  schoolboy  that 
hath  broken  bounds, 
Sickening  himself  with  sweets. 

Mary.  I  will  not  hear  of  him. 

Good,  then,  they  will  revolt :  but  I  am 

Tudor, 
And  shall  control  them. 

Gardiner.        I  will  help  you,  Madam, 
Even  to  the  utmost.     All  the  church  is 

grateful. 
You   have   ousted  the  mock  priest,  re- 

pulpited 
The   shepherd   of   St.  Peter,  raised   the 

rood  again, 
And  brought  us  back  the  mass.    I  am  all 

thanks 
To  God  and  to  your  Grace :  yet  I  know 

well, 
Your  people,  and  I  go  with  them  so  far. 
Will  brook  nor  Pope  nor  Spaniard  here 

to  play 
The    tyrant,    or    in    commonwealth    or 
church, 
Mary  {jshoiving  the  picture) .  Is  this  the 
face  of  one  who  plays  the  tyrant? 
Peruse  it;  is  it  not  goodly,  ay,  and  gentle? 
Gardiner.     Madam,  methinks  a  cold 
face  and  a  haughty. 
And  when  your  Highness  talks  of  Cour- 

tenay  — 
Ay,  true  —  a  goodly  one.      I  would  his 
life 
Were  half  as  goodly  {aside). 
Mary.  What  is  that  you  mutter? 

Gardiner.  O  Madam,  take  it  bluntly; 
marry  Philip, 
And  be  stepmother  of  a  score  of  sons  ! 
The  prince  is  known  in  Spain,  in  Flanders, 

ha! 
For  Philip  — 

Mary.  You  offend  us;  you  may  leave  us. 
You  see  thro'  warping  glasses. 

Gardiner.  If  your  Majesty  — 

Mary.    I  have  sworn  upon  the   body 
and  blood  of  Christ 
I'll  none  but  Philip. 


Gardiner.  Hath  your  Grace  so  sworn? 
Mary.     Ay,  Simon  Renard  knows  it. 
Gardiner.  News  to  me  ! 

It  then  remains  for  your  poor  Gardiner, 
So  you  still  care  to  trust  him  somewhat 

less 
Than    Simon    Renard,  to    compose    the 

event 
In  some  such  form  as  least   may  harm 
your  Grace. 
Mary.     I'll  have  the  scandal  sounded 
to  the  mud. 
I  know  it  a  scandal. 

Gardiner.  All  my  hope  is  now 

It  may  be  found  a  scandal. 

Mary.  You  offend  us. 

Gardiner  {aside).     These  princes  are 
like  children,  must  be  physick'd. 
The  bitter  in   the  sweet.       I  have  lost 

mine  office, 
It  may  be,  thro'  mine  honesty,  like  a  fool. 

\_Exit. 

Enter  Usher. 

Mary.     Who  waits? 

Usher.    The  Ambassador  from  France, 

your  Grace. 
Mary  {sits  doivn).     Bid  him  come  in. 
Good  morning,  Sir  de  Noailles. 

{^Exit  Usher. 
Noailles  {entering) .    A  happy  morning 

to  your  Majesty. 
Mary.     And  I  should  sometime  have 
a  happy  morning; 
I  have  had  none   yet.      What  says  the 
King  your  master? 
Noailles.      Madam,   my  master   hears 
with  much  alarm, 
That  you  may  marry  Philip,  Prince   of 

Spain  — 
Foreseeing,  with  whate'er  unwillingness. 
That  if  this  Philip  be  the  titular  king 
Of  England,  and  at  war  with  him,  your 

Grace 
And  kingdom  will  be  suck'd  into  the  war. 
Ay,  tho'  you  long  for  peace;   wherefore, 

my  master, 
If  but  to  prove  your  Majesty's  good  will. 
Would  fain  have  some  fresh  treaty  drawn 
between  you. 
Mary.    Why  some  fresh  treaty?  where- 
fore should  I  do  it? 
Sir,  if  we  marry,  we  shall  still  maintain 


SCENE   V. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


577 


All  former  treaties  with  his  Majesty. 
Our  royal  word  for  that !   and  your  good 

master, 
Pray  God  he  do  not  be  the  first  to  break 

them, 
Must  be  content  with  that;    and  so,  fare- 
well. 
Noailles  {going,  returns) .  I  would  your 

answer  had  been  other,  Madam, 
For  I  foresee  dark  days. 

Mary.  And  so  do  I,  sir; 

Your  master  works  against  me  in  the  dark. 
I  do  believe  he  holp  Northumberland 
Against  me. 

Noailles.      Nay,  pure    phantasy,  your 

Grace. 
Why  should  he  move  against  you? 

Mary.  Will  you  hear  why? 

Mary  of  Scotland,  —  for  I  have  not  own'd 
My  sister,  and  I  will  not,  —  after  me 
Is  heir  of  England;   and  my  royal  father. 
To  make  the  crown  of  Scotland  one  with 

ours, 
Had  mark'd  her  for  my  brother  Edward's 

bride; 
Ay,  but  your  king  stole  her  a  babe  from 

Scotland 
In  order  to  betroth  her  to  your  Dauphin. 
See  then  : 
Mary    of    Scotland,    married    to    your 

Dauphin, 
Would  make  our  England,  France; 
Mary    of   England,  joining   hands    with 

Spain, 
Would  be  too  strong  for  France. 
Yea,  were  there  issue  born  to  her,  Spain 

and  we, 
One  crown,  might  rule  the  world.    There 

lies  your  fear. 
That  is  your  drift.     You  play  at  hide  and 

seek. 
Show  me.  your  faces  ! 

Noailles.  Madam,  I  am  amazed  : 

French,    I   must    needs   wish    all    good 

things  for  France. 
That  must  be  pardon'd  me;   but  I  protest 
Your  Grace's  policy  hath  a  farther  flight 
Than  mine  into  the  future.     We  but  seek 
Some  settled  ground  for  peace  to  stand 

upon. 
Mary.     Well,  we  will  leave  all   this, 

sir,  to  our  council. 
Have  you  seen  Philip  ever? 

2P 


Noailles.  Only  once. 

Mary.     Is  this  like  Philip? 
iVoailles.  Ay,  but  nobler-looking. 

Mary.     Hath  he  the  large  ability  of 

the  Emperor? 
iVoailles.     No,  surely. 
Mary.     I  can  make  allowance  for  thee, 
Thou  speakest  of  the  enemy  of  thy  king. 
Noailles.     Make  no  allowance  for  the 
naked  truth. 
He  is  everyway  a  lesser  man  than  Charles; 
Stone-hard,  ice-cold  —  no  dash  of  daring 
in  him. 
Mary.     If  cold,  his  life  is  pure. 
Noailles.     Why  {sf?iiling),  no,  indeed. 
Mary.     Sayst  thou? 
Noailles.     A  very  wanton  life  indeed 

{smiling). 
Mary.     Your   audience  is  concluded, 
sir.  \_Exit  Noailles. 

You  cannot 
Learn  a  man's  nature  from  his  natural  foe. 

Enter  Usher. 

Who  waits? 

Usher.     The    Ambassador   of    Spain, 
your  Grace.  S^Exit. 

Enter  SiMON  Renard. 

Mary    {rising  to    meet  him).     Thou 

art  ever  welcome,  Simon  Renard. 

Hast  thou 
Brought    me    the    letter    which    thine 

Emperor  promised 
Long  since,  a  formal  offer  of  the  hand 
Of  Philip? 

Renard.     Nay,  your  Grace,  it  hath  not 

reach'd  me. 
I  know  not  wherefore  —  some  mischance 

of  flood. 
And  broken  bridge,  or  spavin'd  horse,  or 

wave 
And  wind  at  their  old  battle :    he  must 

have  written. 
Mary.     But   Philip   never   writes  me 

one  poor  word. 
Which  in  his  absence  had  been  all  my 

wealth. 
Strange  in  a  wooer  ! 

Renard.  Yet  I  know  the  Prince, 

So  your   king-parliament   suffer   him  to 

land. 
Yearns  to  set  foot  upon  your  island  shore. 


578 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    I. 


Mary.     God  change  the  pebble  which 

his  kingly  foot 
First  presses  into  some  more  costly  stone 
Than    ever    blinded   eye.     I'll  have  one 

mark  it 
And  bring  it  me.     I'll  have  it  burnish'd 

firelike; 
I'll  set  it  round  with  gold,  with   pearl, 

with  diamond. 
Let  the  great  angel  of  the  church  come 

with  him; 
Stand  on  the  deck  and  spread  his  wings 

for  sail ! 
God  lay  the  waves  and  strow  the  storms 

at  sea, 
And  here  at  land  among  the  people  I     O 

Renard, 
I  am  much  beset,  I  am  almost  in  despair. 
Paget   is    ours.     Gardiner    perchance    is 

ours; 
But  for  our  heretic  Parliament  — 

Renard.  O  Madam, 

You  fly  your    thoughts   like    kites.     My 

master,  Charles, 
Bade  you  go  softly  with  your  heretics  here, 
Until  your  throne  had  ceased  to  tremble. 

Then 
Spit  them   like   larks  for  aught  I  care. 

Besides, 
When  Henry  broke  the  carcase  of  your 

church 
To  pieces,  there  were  many  wolves  among 

you 
Who  dragg'd  the  scatter'd  limbs  into  their 

den. 
The  Pope  would    have  you  make  them 

render  these; 
So  would  your  cousin.  Cardinal  Pole;   ill 

counsel ! 
These  let  them  keep  at  present;   stir  not 

yet 
This   matter  of  the    Church   lands.     At 

his  coming 
Your  star  will  rise. 

Mary.  My  star  !  a  baleful  one. 

I  see  but  the  black  night,  and  hear  the 

wolf. 
What  star? 

Renard.      Your    star    will     be     your 

princely  son, 
Heir  of  this  England  and  the  Netherlands  ! 
And  if  your  wolf  the  while  should  howl 

for  more. 


We'll  dust  him  from  a  bag  of  Spanish  gold. 
I  do  believe,  I  have  dusted  some  already, 
That,  soon  or  late,  your  Parliament  is  ours. 
Mary.  Why  do  they  talk  so  foully  of 
your  Prince, 
Renard  ? 

Renard.     The  lot  of  Princes.     To  sit 
high 
Is  to  be  lied  about. 

Mary.  They  call  him  cold, 

Haughty,  ay,  worse. 

Renard.     Why,  doubtless,  Philip  shows 
Some  of  the  bearing  of  your  blue  blood  — 

still 
All  within  measure  —  nay,  it  well  becomes 
him. 
Mary.     Hath  he  the  large  ability  of 

his  father? 
Renard.     Nay,  some  believe    that  he 

will  go  beyond  him. 
Mary.     Is  this  like  him? 
Renard.      Ay,    somewhat;     but    your 
Philip 
Is  the  most  princelike  Prince  beneath  the 

sun. 
This  is  a  daub  to  Philip. 

Mary.  Ofa  pure  life? 

Renard.     As  an  angel  among  angels. 
Yea,  by  Heaven, 
The    text  —  Your    Highness    knows    it, 

'  Whosoever 
Looketh  after  a  woman,'  would  not  graze 
The  Prince  of  Spain.     You  are  happy  in 

him  there, 
Chaste  as  your  Grace  ! 

Mary.  I  am  happy  in  him  there. 

Renard.       And    would    be    altogether 
happy,  Madam, 
So  that  your   sister  were   but  look'd  to 

closer. 
You  have  sent  her  from  the  court,  but 

then  she  goes, 
I  warrant,  not  to  hear  the  nightingales, 
But  hatch  you  some  new  treason  in  the 
woods. 
Mary.     We  have  our  spies  abroad  to 
catch  her  tripping. 
And  then  if  caught,  to  the  Tower. 

Renard.  The  Tower  !  the  block  ! 

The  word  has  turn'd  your  Highness  pale; 

the  thing 
Was  no  such  scarecrow  in  your  father's 
time. 


SCENE   V 


QUEEN  MARY 


579 


I  have  heard,  the   tongue  yet    quiver'd 

■»vith  the  jest 
When  the  head  leapt  —  so  common  I      I 

do  think 
To  save  your  crown  that  it  must  come  to 

this. 
Mary.     No,  Renard;    it    must    never 

come  to  this. 
Renard.  Not  yet;  but  your  old  Traitors 

of  the  Tower  — 
Why,  when  you  put  Northumberland  to 

death. 
The    sentence    having   past    upon    them 

all, 
Spared  you  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  Guildford 

Dudley, 
Ev'n  that  young  girl  who  dared  to  wear 

your  crown? 
Mary.     Dared?  nay,  not  so  ;   the  child 

obey'd  her  father. 
Spite  of  her  tears  her  father  forced  it  on 

her. 
Renard.       Good    Madam,    when    the 

Roman  wish'd  to  reign, 
He  slew  not   him    alone  who  wore    the 

purple. 
But  his  assessor  in  the  throne,  perchance 
A  child  more  innocent  than  Lady  Jane. 
Majy.      I    am    English    Queen,    not 

Roman  Emperor. 
Renard.     Yet    too    much    mercy  is    a 

want  of  mercy, 
And  wastes  more  life.     Stamp    out   the 

fire,  or  this 
Will  smoulder  and  re-flame,  and  burn  the 

throne 
Where    you  should  sit  with    Philip :    he 

will  not  come 
Till  she  be  gone. 

Mary.       Indeed,  if  that  were  true  — 
For    Philip    comes,  one    hand    in   mine, 

and  one 
Steadying  the    tremulous   pillars  of  the 

Church  — 
But  no,  no,  no.     Farewell.     I  am  some- 
what faint 
With  our  long  talk.     Tho'  Queen,  I  am 

not  Queen 
Of  mine  own    heart,  which    every  now 

and  then 
Beats  me  half  dead  :  yet  stay,  this  golden 

chain  — 
Mv  father  on  a  birthday  gave  it  me. 


And  I  have  broken  with  my  father  —  take 
And  wear  it  as  memorial  of  a  morning 
Which  found  me  full  of  foolish  doubts, 

and  leaves  me 
As  hopeful. 

Renard  {aside).     Whew  —  the  folly  of 

all  follies 
Is  to  be  love-sick  for  a  shadow.    {Aloud.) 

Madam, 
This  chains  me  to  your  service,  not  with 

gold. 
But  dearest  links  of  love.     Farewell,  and 

trust  me, 
Philip  is  yours.  \_E:K-it. 

Mary.     Mine  —  but  not  yet  all  mine. 

Enter  Usher. 

Usher.     Your   Council   is  in    Session, 

please  your  Majesty. 
Mary.     Sir,  let  them  sit.     I  must  have 

time  to  breathe. 
No,  say  I  come.     {Exit  Usher.)     I  won 

by  boldness  once. 
The    Emperor   counsell'd    me    to    fly  to 

Flanders. 
I  would  not;   but  a  hundred  miles  I  rode, 
Sent    out   my  letters,    call'd    my  friends 

together. 
Struck  home  and  won. 
And  when  the  Council  would  not  crown 

me  —  thought 
To  bind  me  first    by  oaths  I  could  not 

keep. 
And  keep  with  Christ  and  conscience  — 

was  it  boldness 
Or  weakness  that  won   there?  when    I, 

their  Queen, 
Cast  myself  down  upon  my  knees  before 

them. 
And  those  hard  men  brake  into  woman- 
tears, 
Ev'n  Gardiner,  all  amazed,  and  in  that 

passion 
Gave  me  my  Crown. 

Enter  Alice. 

Girl;   hast  thou  ever  heard 
Slanders   against    Prince    Philip    in    our 
Court? 
Alice.    W^hat  slanders  ?    I,  your  Grace; 

no,  never. 
Mary.     Nothing? 
Alice.     Never,  your  Grace. 


58o 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    II. 


Mary.     See    that    you    neither    hear 

them  nor  repeat ! 
Alice    {aside) .      Good    Lord !     but    I 
have  heard  a  thousand  such. 
Ay,  and  repeated  them  as  often  —  mum! 
Why  comes  that  old    fox-Fleming  back 
again  ? 

En^er  Renard. 

Renard.     Madam,  I   scarce    had   left 
your  Grace's  presence 
Before  I  chanced  upon  the  messenger 
Who  brings  that  letter  which  we  waited 

for  — 
The  formal  offer  of  Prince  Philip's  hand. 
It  craves  an  instant  answer.  Ay  or  No. 
Mary.     An    instant    Ay   or   No !    the 
Council  sits. 
Give  it  me  quick. 

Alice    {stepping    before    her).      Your 

Highness  is  all  trembling. 
Alary.     Make  way. 

\^Exii  into  the  Council  Chamber. 
Alice.      O     Master     Renard,     Master 
Renard, 
If  you   have    falsely   painted    your    fine 

Prince; 
Praised,  where  you  should  have  blamed 

him,  I  pray  God 
No  woman  ever  love  you.  Master  Renard. 
It  breaks  my  heart  to  hear  her  moan  at 

night 
As  tho'  the  nightmare  never  left  her  bed. 
Renard.     My  pretty  maiden,  tell  me, 
did  you  ever 
Sigh  for  a  beard? 

Alice.        That's  not  a  pretty  question. 
Renard.     Not  prettily  put?     I  mean, 
my  pretty  maiden, 
A  pretty  man  for  such  a  pretty  maiden. 
Alice.     My  Lord  of  Devon  is  a  pretty 
man. 
I  hate  him.     Well,  but  if  I  have,  what 
then? 
Renard.     Then,    pretty    maiden,   you 
should  know  that  whether 
A  wind  be  warm  or  cold,  it  serves  to  fan 
A  kindled  fire. 

Alice.     According  to  the  song. 

His  friends  would  praise  him,  I  believed  'em, 
His  foes  would  blame  him,  and  I  scorn'd  'em, 

His  friends  —  as  Angels  I  received  'em, 
His  foes  —  the  Devil  had  suborn'd  'em. 


Renard.     Peace,  pretty  maiden. 
I    hear    them   stirring   in    the    Council 

Chamber. 
Lord    Paget's  '  Ay  '  is  sure  —  who  else  ? 

and  yet. 
They  are  all  too  much  at  odds  to  close 

at  once 
In  one  full-throated  No  !     Her  Highness 

comes. 

Enter  Mary. 

Alice.  How  deathly  pale  !  —  a  chair, 
your  Highness. 

\_Bringi?ig  one  to  the  Queen. 
Renard.     Madam, 
The  Council? 

Mary.       Ay !    My  Philip  is  all  mine. 
\_Sinks  into  chair,  half  fainting. 

ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.  —  Alington  Castle. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt.  I  do  not  hear 
from  Carew  or  the  Duke 

Of  Suffolk,  and  till  then  I  should  not 
move. 

The  Duke  hath  gone  to  Leicester;  Ca- 
rew stirs 

In  Devon  :  that  fine  porcelain  Courtenay, 

Save  that  he  fears  he  might  be  crack'd 
in  using 

(I  have  known  a  semi-madman  in  my 
time 

So  fancy-ridd'n),  should  be  in  Devon  too. 

Enter  William. 

News  abroad,  William? 

William.  None  so  new.  Sir  Thomas, 
and  none  so  old.  Sir  Thomas.  No  new 
news  that  Philip  comes  to  wed  Mary,  no 
old  news  that  all  men  hate  it.  Old  Sir 
Thomas  would  have  hated  it.  The  bells 
are  ringing  at  Maidstone.  Doesn't  your 
worship  hear? 

Wyatt.     Ay,  for  the  Saints  are  come 
to  reign  again. 
Most  like  it  is  a  Saint's-day.     There's  no 

call 
As  yet  for  me;   so  in  this  pause,  before 
The  mine  be  fired,  it  were  a  pious  work 
To  string  my  father's  sonnets,  left  about 
Like  loosely-scatter'd  jewels,  in  fair  order. 


SCENE   I, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


581 


And  head  them  with  a  lamer  rhyme  of 

mine, 
To  grace  his  memory. 

William.  Ay,  why  not.  Sir  Thomas? 
He  was  a  fine  courtier,  he;  Queen  Anne 
loved  him.  All  the  women  loved  him. 
I  loved  him,  I  was  in  Spain  with  him. 
I  couldn't  eat  in  Spain,  I  couldn't  sleep 
in  Spain,  I  hate  Spain,  Sir  Thomas. 
Wyatt.     But    thou   could'st    drink    in 

Spain  if  I  remember. 
William.     Sir  Thomas,  we  may  grant 
the    wine.      Old     Sir    Thomas     always 
granted  the  wine. 

Wyatt.  Hand  me  the  casket  with  my 
father's  sonnets. 

William.  Ay  —  sonnets  —  a  fine  court- 
ier of  the  old  Court,  old  Sir  Thomas; 

\^Exit. 
Wyatt.     Courtier  of  many  courts,  he 
loved  the  more 
His    own    gray   towers,    plain    life    and 

letter'd  peace, 
To  read  and  rhyme  in  solitary  fields. 
The  lark  above,  the  nightingale  below, 
And    answer   them    in    song.     The    sire 

begets 
Not  half  his  likeness  in  the  son.     I  fail 
Where  he  was  fullest:  yet  —  to  write  it 
down,  \^He  'vrites. 

Re-enter  William. 

William.  There  is  news,  there  is  news, 
and  no  call  for  sonnet-sorting  now,  nor 
for  sonnet-making  either,  but  ten  thou- 
sand men  on  Penenden  Heath  all  calling 
after  your  worship,  and  your  worship's 
name  heard  into  ^laidstone  market,  and 
your  worship  the  first  man  in  Kent  and 
Christendom,  for  the  Queen's  down, 
and  the  world's  up,  and  your  worship 
a-top  of'  it. 

Wyatt.      Inverted    ^sop  —  mountain 

out  of  mouse. 
Say  for  ten  thousand  ten  —  and  pothouse 

knaves, 
Brain-dizzied  with  a  draught  of  morning 

ale. 

Enter  ANTHONY  Knyvett, 

William.     Here's  Anthony  Knyvett. 
Knyvett.      Look   you.   Master   Wyatt, 
Tear  up  that  woman's  work  there. 


Wyatt.  No;   not  these, 

Dumb   children   of  my  father,   that  will 

speak 
When  I  and  thou  and  all  rebellions  lie 
Dead  bodies  without  voice.     Song  flies 

you  know 
For  ages. 

Knyvett.     Tut,  your  sonnet's  a  flying 

ant, 
Wing'd  for  a  moment. 

Wyatt.  Well,  for  mine  own  work, 

[  Tearing  the  paper. 
It  lies  there  in  six  pieces  at  your  feet; 
For  all  that  I  can  carry  it  in  my  head. 
Knyvett.     If  you  can  carry  your  head 

upon  your  shoulders. 
Wyatt.     I  fear  you  come  to  carry  it  off 

my  shoulders. 
And  sonnet-making's  safer. 

Knyvett.  Why,  good  Lord, 

W^rite  you  as  many  sonnets  as  you  will. 
Ay,  but  not  now;   what,  have  you  eyes, 

ears,  brains? 
This  Philip  and  the  black-faced  swarms 

of  Spain, 
The  hardest,  cruellest  people  in  the  world, 
Come  locusting  upon  us,  eat  us  up. 
Confiscate  lands,  goods,  money  —  Wyatt, 

Wyatt, 
Wake,  or  the  stout  old  island  will  become 
A  rotten  limb  of  Spain.     They  roar  for 

you 
On  Penenden  Heath,  a  thousand  of  them 

—  more  — 
All  arm'd,  waiting  a  leader;    there's  no 

glory 
Like  his  who  saves  his  country :  and  you 

sit 
Sing-songing  here;   but  if  I'm  any  judge. 
By  God,  you  are  as  poor  a  poet,  Wyatt, 
As  a  good  soldier. 

Wyatt.  You  as  poor  a  critic 

As  an  honest  friend :  you  stroke  me  on 

one  cheek, 
Buffet   the    other.      Come,  you   bluster, 

Anthony  ! 
You  know  I  know  all  this.     I  must  not 

move 
Until  I  hear  from  Carew  and  the  Duke. 
I  fear  the  mine  is  fired  before  the  time. 
Knyvett  (^showing  a  paper') .  But  here's 

some  Hebrew.     Faith,  I  half  for- 
got it. 


582 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    II. 


Look;    can  you   make    it    English?     A 

strange  youth 
Suddenly    thrust    it    on    me,    whisper'd, 

'  Wyatt; 
And  whisking  round  a  corner,  show'd  his 

back 
Before  I  read  his  face, 

Wyatt.  Ha !  Courtenay's  cipher. 

\^Reads. 
*  Sir  Peter  Carew  fled  to  France  :  it  is 
thought  the  Duke  will  be  taken.  I  am 
with  you  still;  but,  for  appearance'  sake, 
stay  with  the  Queen.  Gardiner  knows, 
but  the  Council  are  all  at  odds,  and  the 
Queen  hath  no  force  for  resistance. 
Move,  if  you  move,  at  once.' 

Is  Peter  Carew  fled  ?    Is  the  Duke  taken ? 
Down  scabbard,  and  out  sword  !  and  let 

Rebellion 
Roar  till  throne  rock,    and    crown   fall. 

No;    not  that; 
But  we  will  teach  Queen  Mary  how  to 

reign. 
Who  are  those  that  shout  below  there? 

Knyvett.  Why,  some  fifty 

That  foUow'd  me  from  Penenden  Heath 

in  hope 
To  hear  you  speak. 

Wyatt.  Open  the  window,  Knyvett; 
The  mine  is  fired,  and  I  will   speak   to 

them. 

Men  of  Kent;  England  of  England; 
you  that  have  kept  your  old  customs 
upright,  while  all  the  rest  of  England 
bow'd  theirs  to  the  Norman,  the  cause 
that  hath  brought  us  together  is  not  the 
cause  of  a  county  or  a  shire,  but  of  this 
England,  in  whose  crown  our  Kent  is  the 
fairest  jewel.  Philip  shall  not  wed  Mary ; 
and  ye  have  called  me  to  be  your  leader. 
1  know  Spain.  I  have  been  there  with 
my  father;  I  have  seen  them  in  their  own 
land;  have  marked  the  haughtiness  of 
their  nobles;  the  cruelty  of  their  priests. 
If  this  man  marry  our  Queen,  however 
the  Council  and  the  Commons  may  fence 
round  his  power  with  restriction,  he  will 
be  King,  King  of  England,  my  masters; 
and  the  Queen,  and  the  laws,  and  the 
people,  his  slaves.  What?  shall  we  have 
Spain  on  the  throne  and  in  the  i^arlia- 


ment;  Spain  in  the  pulpit  and  on  the 
law-bench;  Spain  in  all  the  great  offices 
of  state ;  Spain  in  our  ships,  in  our  forts, 
in  our  houses,  in  our  beds? 

Cro7ud.     No  !  no  !   no  Spain  ! 

JVilliani.  No  vSpain  in  our  beds  — 
that  were  worse  than  all.  I  have  been 
there  with  old  Sir  Thomas,  and  the  beds 
I  know.      I  hate  Spain. 

A  Feasant.  But,  Sir  Thomas,  must  we 
levy  war  against  the  Queen's  Grace? 

Wyatt.  No,  my  friend ;  war  for  the 
Queen's  Grace — to  save  her  from  herself 
and  Philip  —  war  against  Spain.  And 
think  not  we  shall  be  alone  —  thousands 
will  flock  to  us.  The  Council,  the  Court 
itself,  is  on  our  side.  The  Lord  Chancel- 
lor himself  is  on  our  side.  The  King  of 
France  is  with  us;  the  King  of  Denmark 
is  with  us;  the  world  is  with  us  —  war 
against  Spain  !  And  if  we  move  not  now, 
yet  it  will  be  known  that  we  have  moved; 
and  if  Philip  come  to  be  King,  O  my 
God  !  the  rope,  the  rack,  the  thumbscrew, 
the  stake,  the  fire.  If  we  move  not  now, 
Spain  moves,  bribes  our  nobles  with  her 
gold,  and  creeps,  creeps  snake-like  about 
our  legs  till  we  cannot  move  at  all;  and 
ye  know,  my  masters,  that  wherever 
Spain  hath  ruled  she  hath  wither'd  all 
beneath  her.  Look  at  the  New  World  — 
a  paradise  made  hell;  the  red  man,  that 
good  helpless  creature,  starved,  maim'd, 
flogg'd,  flay'd,burn'd,  boil'd,  buried  alive, 
worried  by  dogs;  and  here,  nearer  home, 
the  Netherlands,  Sicily,  Naples,  Lom- 
bardy.  I  say  no  more  —  only  this,  their 
lot  is  yours.  Forward  to  London  with 
me !  forward  to  London !  If  ye  love 
your  liberties  or  your  skins,  forward  to 
London ! 

Croivd.       Forward     to     London !      A 
Wyatt !  a  Wyatt ! 

Wyatt.     But  first  to  Rochester,  to  take 
the  guns 
From  out  the  vessels  lying  in  the  river. 
Then  on. 

A  Peasant.     Ay,  but  I  fear  we  be  too 
few.  Sir  Thomas. 

Wyatt.     Not  many  yet.     The  world  as 
yet,  my  friend, 
Is  not  half-waked;   but  every  parish  tower 
Shall  clang  and  clash  alarum  as  we  pass, 


SCENE    II. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


583 


And  pour  along  the  land,  and  swoU'n  and 

fed 
With  indraughts  and  side-currents,  in  full 

force 
Roll  upon  London, 

Cro7vd.     A  Wyatt:     a    Wyatt !      For- 
ward I 
Knyvetc.      Wyatt,    shall   we    proclaim 

Elizabeth  ? 
Wyatt.     I'll  think  upon  it,  Knyvett. 
Knyveti.  Or  Lady  Jane? 

]Vyatt.     No,  poor  soul;    no. 
Ah,  gray  old  castle  of  Alington,  green  field 
Beside    the    brimming    Medway,  it  may 

chance 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  you  more. 
Knyvett.     Come,  now,  you're  sonnet- 
ting  again. 
Wyatt.  Not  L 

I'll  have  my  head  set  higher  in  the  state; 
Or  —  if  the  Lord   God  will  it  —  on  the 
stake.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE   II.  —  Guildhall. 

Sir  Thomas  White  (the  Lord  Mayor), 
Lord  W^illiam  Howard,  Sir  Ralph 
Bagenhall,  Aldermen  ^wa' Citizens. 

White.     I  trust  the  Queen  comes  hither 

with  her  guards. 
Howard.     Ay,  all  in  arms. 

\_Several  of  the  citizens  move  hastily 
out  of  the  hall. 

Why  do  they  hurry  out  there? 
White.     My  Lord,  cut  out  the  rotten 
from  your  apple. 
Your  apple  eats  the   better.      Let  them 

go- 

They  go  like  those  old  Pharisees  in  John 

Convicted    by   their    conscience,    arrant 
cowards, 

Or   tamperers  with    that    treason  out  of 
Kent. 

When  will  her  Grace  be  here? 

Hozvard.  In  some  few  minutes. 

She  will  address  your   guilds  and  com- 
panies. 

I  have  striven  in  vain  to  raise  a  man  fur 
her. 

But  help  her  in  this  exigency,  make 

Your  city  loyal,  and  be  the  mightiest  man 

This  day  in  England. 


White.  I  am  Thomas  White. 

Few  things  have  fail'd  to  which  I  set  my 

will. 
I  do  my  most  and  best. 

Ho7vard.  You  know  that  after 

The  Captain  Brett,  who  went  with  your 

train  bands 
To  fight  with  Wyatt,  had  gone  over  to  him 
With    all    his   men,  the   (^ueen    in    that 

distress 
Sent   Cornwallis    and    Hastings    to    the 

traitor, 
Feigning    to    treat  with    him  about  her 

marriage  — 
Know  too  what  Wyatt  said. 

White.  He'd  sooner  be. 

While  this  same  marriage  question  was 

being  argued, 
Trusted  than  trust  —  the  scoundrel  —  and 

demanded 
Possession  of  her  person  and  the  Tower. 
Hozvard.     And  four  of  her  poor  Coun- 
cil too,  my  Lord, 
As  hostages. 

White.     I  know  it.     What  do  and  say 
Your  Council  at  this  hour? 

Howard.  I  will  trust  you. 

We   fling    ourselves    on   you,   my    Lord. 

The  Council, 
The    Parliament   as   well,    are    troubled 

waters ; 
And  yet  like  waters  of  the  fen  they  know 

not 
Which  way  to  flow.     All  hangs  on  her 

address, 
And  upon  you.  Lord  Mayor. 

White.  How  look'd  the  city 

When  now  you  past  it?     Quiet? 

Hozvard.  Like  our  Council, 

Your  city  is  divided.     As  we  past, 
Some  hail'd,  some  hiss'd  us.     There  were 

citizens 
Stood  each  before  his  shut-up  booth,  and 

look'd 
As  grim  and  grave  as  from  a  funeral. 
And  here  a  knot  of  ruffians  all  in  rags, 
With  execrating  execrable  eyes. 
Glared  at  the  citizen.     Here  was  a  young 

mother, 
Her  face  on  flame,  her  red  hair  all  blown 

back. 
She  shrilling  '  Wvatt,"  while  the  boy  she 

held 


584 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT  II. 


Mimick'd  and  piped  her  *  Wyatt,'  as  red 

as  she 
In  hair  and  cheek;   and  almost  elbowing 

her, 
So   close    they  stood,  another,    mute  as 

death, 
And  white  as  her  own  milk ;  her  babe  in 

arms 
Had   felt   the  faltering  of  his  mother's 

heart. 
And  look'd  as  bloodless.     Here  a  pious 

Catholic, 
Mumbling  and  mixing  up  in  his  scared 

prayers 
Heaven   and    earth's    Maries;    over   his 

bow'd  shoulder 
Scowl'd    that    world-hated    and   world- 
hating  beast, 
A    haggard     Anabaptist.       Many    such 

groups. 
The  names  of  Wyatt,   Ehzabeth,  Cour- 

tenay, 
Nay,  the  Queen's  right  to  reign  —  'fore 

God,  the  rogues  — 
Were  freely  buzz'd  among  them.     So  I 

say 
Your  city  is  divided,  and  I  fear 
One  scruple,  this  or  that  way,  of  success 
Would  turn  it  thither.     Wherefore  now 

the  Queen 
In  this  low  pulse  and  palsy  of  the  state, 
Bade  me  to  tell  you  that  she  counts  on 

you 
And  on  myself  as  her  two  hands;  on  you. 
In  your  own  city,  as  her  right,  my  Lord, 
For  you  are  loyal. 

White.  Am  I  Thomas  White? 

One  word  before  she  comes.   Ehzabeth  — 
Her  name  is  much  abused  among  these 

traitors. 
Where  is  she  ?     She  is  loved  by  all  of  us. 
I    scarce    have    heart  to  mingle  in  this 

matter. 
If  she  should  be  mishandled. 

Hoivard.  No;   she  shall  not. 

The    Queen    had    written   her   word    to 

come  to  court  : 
Methought   I    smelt  out  Renard  in  the 

letter. 
And  fearing  for  her,  sent  a  secret  missive, 
Which  told  her  to  be  sick.     Happily  or 

not, 
It  found  her  sick  indeed. 


White.  God  send  her  well; 

Here  comes  her  Royal  Grace. 

Enter  Guards,  Mary,  and  Gardiner. 
Sir  Thomas  White  leads  her  to  a 
raised  seat  on  the  dais. 

White.     I,  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  these 

our  companies 
And  guilds  of  London,  gathered   here, 

beseech 
Your    Highness   to    accept   our  lowliest 

thanks 
P'or  your  most  princely  presence;  and  we 

pray 
That  we,  your  true  and  loyal  citizens. 
From  your  own  royal  lips,  at  once  may 

know 
The  wherefore  of  this   coming,  and  so 

learn 
Your   royal   will,  and   do  it.  —  I,    Lord 

Mayor 
Of  London,  and    our   guilds  and  com- 
panies. 
Mary.     In   mine    own    person   am    I 

come  to  you, 
To  tell  you  what  indeed  ye  see  and  know, 
How  traitorously  these  rebels  out  of  Kent 
Have  made  strong  head  against  ourselves 

and  you. 
They  would  not  have  me  wed  the  Prince 

of  Spain; 
That  was  their  pretext — so  they  spake 

at  first  — 
But  we  sent  divers  of  our  Council  to  them, 
And   by  their   answers  to    the  question 

ask'd, 
It  dtith  appear  this  marriage  is  the  least 
Of  all  their  quarrel. 
They  have  betray 'd  the  treason  of  their 

hearts : 
Seek   to   possess   our   person,    hold  our 

Tower, 
Place  and  displace  our  councillors,  and 

use 
Both  us  and  them  according  as  they  will. 
Now  what  I  am  ye   know  right  well  — 

your  Queen; 
To  whom,  when  I  was  wedded  to  the 

realm 
And  the  realm's  laws  (the  spousal  ring 

whereof, 
Not  ever  to  be  laid  aside,  I  wear 
Upon  this  finger),  ye  did  promise  full 


SCENE   II. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


585 


Allegiance  and  obedience  to  the  death. 
Ye  know  my  father  was  the  rightful  heir 
Of  England,  and  his  right  came  down  to 

me, 
Corroborate  by  your  acts  of  Parliament : 
And  as  ye  were  most  loving  unto  him, 
So  doubtless  will  ye  show  yourselves  to 

me. 
Wherefore,  ye  will  not  brook  that  any- 
one 
Should    seize    our    person,    occupy   our 

state, 
More  specially  a  traitor  so  presumptuous 
As  this  same  Wyatt,  who  hath  tamper'd 

with 
A  public  ignorance,  and,  under  colour 
Of  such  a  cause  as  hath  no  colour,  seeks 
To  bend  the  laws  to  his  own  will,  and 

yield 
Full  scope  to  persons  rascal  and  forlorn, 
To  make  free  spoil  and  havock  of  your 

goods. 
Now  as  your  Prince,  I  say, 
I,  that  was  never  mother,  cannot  tell 
How  mothers  love  their   children;    yet, 

methinks, 
A  prince  as  naturally  may  love  his  people 
As  these  their  children;   and  be  sure  your 

Queen 
So  loves  you,  and  so  loving,  needs  must 

deem 
This  love  by  you  return'd  as  heartily; 
And  thro'  this  common  knot  and  bond  of 

love. 
Doubt   not  they  will  be  speedily  over- 
thrown. 
As  to  this  marriage,  ye  ^hall  understand 
We  made  thereto  no  treaty  of  ourselves, 
And  set  no  foot  theretoward  unadvised 
Of  all  our  Privy  Council;   furthermore. 
This  marriage  had  the  assent  of  those  to 

whom 
The  king,  my  father,  did  commit  his  trust; 
Who  not  alone  esteem'd  it  honourable, 
But  for  the  wealth  and  glory  of  our  realm, 
And   all    our   loving   subjects,   most    ex- 
pedient. 
As  to  myself, 

I  am  not  so  set  on  wedlock  as  to  choose 
But  where  I  list,  nor  yet  so  amorous 
That  1  must  needs  be  husbanded ;  I  thank 

God, 
I  have  lived  a  virgin,  and  I  noway  doubt 


But  that  with  God's  grace  I  can  live  so 

still. 
Yet  if  it  might  please  God  that  I  should 

leave 
Some  fruit  of  mine  own  body  after  me. 
To  be  your  king,  ye  would  rejoice  thereat. 
And  it  would  be  your  comfort,  as  I  trust; 
And  truly,  if  I  either  thought  or  knew 
This  marriage  should  bring  loss  or  danger 

to  you, 
My  subjects,  or  impair  in  any  way 
This  royal  state  of  England,  1  would  never 
Consent  thereto,  nor  marry  while  I  live; 
Moreover,   if  this   marriage   should    not 

seem, 
Before  our  own  High  Court  of  Parliament, 
To  be  of  rich  advantage  to  our  realm, 
We  will  refrain,  and  not  alone  from  this. 
Likewise  from  any  other,  out  of  which 
Looms  the  least  chance  of  peril  to  our 

realm. 
Wherefore  be  bold,  and  with  your  lawful 

Prince 
Stand  fast  against  our  enemies  and  yours. 
And   fear  them   not.     I  fear   them  not. 

My  Lord, 
I  leave  Lord   William  Howard  in  your 

city. 
To  guard  and  keep  you  whole  and  safe 

from  all 
The  spoil  and  sackage  aim'd  at  by  these 

rebels. 
Who  mouth  and  foam  against  the  Prince 

of  Spain, 
Voices.     Long  live  Queen  Mary ! 

Down  with  Wyatt ! 

The  Queen ! 
White.     Three  voices  from  our  guilds 

and  companies ! 
You  are  shy  and  proud  like  Englishmen, 

my  masters, 
And  will  not  trust  your  voices.     Under- 
stand : 
Your   lawful  Prince  hath   come   to   cast 

herself 
On  loyal  hearts  and  bosoms,  hoped  to  fall 
Into  the  widespread  arms  of  fealty. 
And  finds  you  statues.     Speak  at  once  — 

and  all ! 
For  whom? 

Our  sovereign  Lady  by  King  Harry's  will ; 
The  Queen  of  England — or  the  Kentish 

Squire? 


586 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    II. 


I  know  you  loyal.     Speak  !  in  the  name 

of  God ! 
The  Queen  of  England  or  the  rabble  of 

Kent? 
The  reeking  dungfork  master  of  the  mace  ! 
Your  havings  wasted  by  the  scythe  and 

spade  — 
Your  rights  and  charters  hobnail'd  into 

slush  — 
Your  houses  fired  —  your  gutters  bubbling 
blood  — 
Acclamation.     No  !    No  !  The  Queen  ! 

the  Queen ! 
White.  Your  Highness  hears 

This  burst  and  bass  of  loyal  harmony, 
And  how  we  each  and  all  of  us  abhor 
The  venomous,  bestial,  devilish  revolt 
Of  Thomas  Wyatt.     Hear  us  now  make 

oath 
To  raise  your  Highness  thirty  thousand 

men, 
And  arm  and  strike  as  with  one  hand, 

and  brush 
This  Wyatt  from  our  shoulders,  like  a  flea 
That  might  have  leapt  upon  us  unawares. 
Swear  with  me,  noble  fellow-citizens,  all. 
With   all   your  trades,   and  guilds,    and 
companies. 
Citizens.     We  swear ! 
Mary.     We  thank  your  Lordship  and 
your  loyal  city. 

\^Exit  Mary  attended. 
White.     I  trust  this  day,  thro'  God,  I 

have  saved  the  crown. 
First  Alderman.     Ay,  so  my  Lord  of 
Pembroke  in  command 
Of  all  her  force  be  safe;   but  there  are 
doubts. 
Second  Alderman.     I   hear   that  Gar- 
diner, coming  with  the  Queen, 
And    meeting    Pembroke,    bent    to    his 

saddle-bow, 
As  if  to  win  the  man  by  flattering  him. 
Is  he  so  safe  to  fight  upon  her  side? 
First  Alderman.     If  not,   there's   no 

man  safe. 
White.  Yes,  Thomas  White. 

I  am  safe  enough ;  no  man  need  flatter  me. 
Second  Alderman.    Nay,  no  man  need; 
but  did  you  mark  our  Queen? 
The  colour  freely  play'd  into  her  face, 
And  the  half  sight  which  makes  her  look 
so  stern. 


Seem'd  thro'  that  dim  dilated  world  of 

hers. 
To  read  our  faces;   I  have  never  seen  her 
So  queenly  or  so  goodly. 

White.  Courage,  sir, 

That  makes  or  man  or  woman  look  their 

goodliest. 
Die  like  the  torn  fox  dumb,  but  never 

whine 
Like   that  poor  heart,  Northumberland, 

at  the  block. 
Bagenhall.      The   man   had  children, 

and  he  whined  for  those. 
Methinks  most  men  are  but  poor-hearted, 

else 
Should  we  so  dote  on  courage,  were  it 

commoner? 
The  Queen  stands  up,  and  speaks  for  her 

own  self; 
And  all  men  cry,  She  is  queenly,  she  is 

goodly. 
Yet   she's  no    goodlier;    the'    my    Lord 

Mayor  here. 
By  his  own  rule,  he  hath  been  so  bold 

to-day. 
Should  look  more  goodly  than  the  rest  of 

us. 
White.     Goodly?     I  feel  most  goodly 

heart  and  hand, 
And  strong  to  throw  ten  Wyatts  and  all 

Kent. 
Ha!  ha!  sir;   but  you  jest;   I  love  it:  a 

jest 
In  time  of  danger  shows  the  pulses  even. 
Be  merry !  yet,  Sir  Ralph,  you  look  but 

sad. 
I  dare  avouch  you'd  stand  up  for  your- 
self, 
Tho'  all  the  world  should  bay  like  winter 

wolves. 
Bagenhall.     Who  knows?  the  man  is 

proven  by  the  hour. 
White.     The    man  should    make    the 

hour,  not  this  the  man; 
And    Thomas    White    will     prove    this 

Thomas  Wyatt, 
And  he  will  prove  an  Iden  to  this  Cade, 
And  he  will  play  the  Walworth  to   this 

Wat; 
Come,  sirs,  we  prate;   hence  all  —  gather 

your  men  — 
Myself   must   bustle.      Wyatt   comes   to 

Southwark; 


SCENE    III. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


587 


I'll  have  the  drawbridge  hewn  into  the 

Thames, 
And  see  the  citizens  arm'd.     Good-day; 
good-day.  \_Exit  White. 

Bagenhall.      One    of    much    outdoor 

bluster. 
Hoivard.  For  all  that, 

Most  honest,  brave,  and  skilful;   and  his 

wealth 
A  fountain  of  perennial  alms  —  his  fault 
So  thoroughly  to  believe  in  his  own  self. 
Bagenhall.     Vet  thoroughly  to  believe 
in  one's  own  self. 
So  one's  own  self  be  thorough,  were  to  do 
Great  things,  my  Lord. 

Hoivard.  It  may  be. 

Bagenhall.  I  have  heard 

One  of  your  Council  fleer  and  jeer  at  him. 

Hozvard.     The  nursery-cocker'd  child 

will  jeer  at  aught 

That  may  seem  strange  beyond  his  nursery. 

The  statesman  that  shall  jeer  and  fleer  at 

men. 
Makes  enemies  for  himself  and  for  his 

king; 
And  if  he  jeer  not  seeing  the  true  man 
Behind  his  folly,  he  is  thrice  the  fool; 
And  if  he  see  the  man  and  still  will  jeer, 
He  is  child  and  fool,  and  traitor  to  the 

State. 
Who  is  he  ?  let  me  shun  him. 

Bagenhall.  Nay,  my  Lord, 

He  is  damn'd  enough  already. 

Hoivard.  I  must  set 

The  guard  at  Ludgate.     Fare  you  well. 

Sir  Ralph. 

Bagenhall.     '  Who  knows?  '     I  am  for 

England.     But  who  knows, 

That  knows  the  Queen,  the  Spaniard,  and 

the  Pope, 
Whether  I  be  for  Wyatt,  or  the  Queen? 

\_Exetint. 

SCENE  III.  — London  Bridge. 

Enter  SiR  Thomas  Wyatt  and  Brett. 

Wyatt.  Brett,  when  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk  moved  against  us 

Thou  cried'st  '  A  Wyatt ! '  and  flying  to 
our  side 

Left  his  all  bare,  for  which  I  love  thee, 
Brett. 


Have  for  thine  asking  aught  that  I  can 

give. 
For    thro'    thine   help  we  are   come    to 

London  Bridge; 
But  how  to  cross  it  balks  me.     I  fear  we 

cannot. 
Brett.     Nay,    hardly,    save    by    boat, 

swimming,  or  wings. 
Wyatt.     Last  night  I  climb'd  into  the 

gate-house,  Brett, 
And  scared  the  gray  old  porter  and  his  wife. 
And  then  I  crept  along  the  gloom  and  saw 
They  had  hewn  the  drawbridge  down  into 

the  river. 
It  roll'd  as  black  as  death ;   and  that  same 

tide 
Which,  coming  with  our  coming,  seem'd 

to  smile 
And   sparkle    like    our    fortune   as   thou 

saidest. 
Ran  sunless  down,  and  moan'd   against 

the  piers. 
But  o'er  the  chasm  I  saw  Lord  William 

Howard 
By  torchlight,  and  his  guard;   four  guns 

gaped  at  me, 
Black,  silent  mouths  :  had  Howard  spied 

me  there 
And  made  them  speak,  as  well  he  might 

have  done. 
Their  voice  had  left  me  none  to  tell  you 

this. 
What  shall  we  do  ? 

Brett.         On  somehow.     To  go  back 
Were  to  lose  all. 

Wyatt.  On  over  London  Bridge 

We   cannot;    stay  we   cannot;    there   is 

ordnance 
On  the  White  Tower  and  on  the  Devil's 

Tower, 
And  pointed  full  at  Southwark;   we  must 

round 
By  Kingston  Bridge. 

Brett.  Ten  miles  about. 

Wyatt.  Ev'n  so. 

But  I  have  notice  from  our  partisans 
Within  the  city  that  they  will  stand  by  us 
If  Ludgate  can  be  reach'd  by  dawn  to- 
morrow. 

Enter  one  of  Wvatt's  men. 

Man.     Sir    Thomas,    I've    found   this 
paper;     pray   your   worship    read   it:    I 


588 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    II. 


know   not   my   letters;    the    old   priests 
taught  me  nothing. 

Wyatt  {reads).     '  Whosoever  will  ap- 
prehend the  traitor  Thomas  Wyatt  shall 
have  a  hundred  pounds  for  reward.' 
Man.     Is  that  it?     That's  a  big  lot  of 

money, 
Wyatt.     Ay,  ay,  my  friend;   not  read 
it?  'tis  not  written 
Half  plain  enough.     Give  me  a  piece  of 
paper ! 

[  Writes  *  THOMAS  Wyatt  '  large. 
There,  any  man  can  read  that. 

\_Sticks  it  in  his  cap. 
Brett.  But  that's  foolhardy. 

Wyatt.     No !     boldness,    which     will 
give  my  followers  boldness. 

Enter  Man  with  a  prisojier. 

Man.  W^e  found  him,  your  worship,  a- 
plundering  o'  Bishop  Winchester's  house; 
he  says  he's  a  poor  gentleman. 

Wyatt.      Gentleman!    a    thief!      Go 
hang  him.     Shall  we  make 
Those  that  we  come  to  serve  our  sharpest 
foes? 
Brett.     Sir  Thomas  — 
Wyatt.     Hang  him,  I  say.  . 
Brett.     Wyatt,  but  now  you  promised 

me  a  boon. 
Wyatt.     Ay,  and  I  Avarrant  this  fine 

fellow's  life. 
Brett.     Ev'n  so;  he  was  my  neighbour 
once  in  Kent. 
He's  poor  enough,  has  drunk  and  gambled 

out 
All  that  he  had,  and  gentleman  he  was. 
We  have  been  glad  together;    let  him 
live. 
Wyatt.     He  has  gambled  for  his  life, 
and  lost,  he  hangs. 
No,  no,  my  word's  my  word.     Take  thy 

poor  gentleman ! 
Gamble  thyself  at  once  out  of  my  sight, 
Or  I  will  dig  thee  with  my  dagger.    Away  ! 
Women  and  children ! 

Ettter  a  Crowd  <?/"  Women  ^^^^  Children. 

First  Wo7nan.  O  Sir  Thomas,  Sir 
Thomas,  pray  you  go  away,  Sir  Thomas, 
or  you'll  make  the  White  Tower  a  black 
'un  for  us  this  blessed  day.  He'll  be  the 
death  on  us;    and  you'll  set  the  Divil's 


Tower  a-spitting,  and  he'll  smash  all  our 
bits  o'  things  worse  than  Philip  o'  Spain. 

Second  Woman.  Don't  ye  now  go  to 
think  that  we  be  for  Philip  o'  Spain. 

Third  Woman.  No,  we  know  that  ye 
be  come  to  kill  the  Queen,  and  we'll 
pray  for  you  all  on  our  bended  knees. 
But  o'  God's  mercy  don't  ye  kill  the 
Queen  here.  Sir  Thomas;  look  ye,  here's 
little  Dickon,  and  little  Robin,  and  little 
Jenny  —  though  she's  but  a  side-cousin  — 
and  all  on  our  knees,  we  pray  you  to  kill 
the  Queen  further  off,  Sir  Thomas. 

Wyatt.     My  friends,  I  have  not  come 
to  kill  the  Queen 
Or  here  or  there  :  1  come  to  save  you  all, 
And  ril  go  further  off. 

Crowd.  Thanks,  Sir  Thomas,  we  be 
beholden  to  you,  and  we'll  pray  for  you 
on  our  bended  knees  till  our  lives'  end. 

Wyatt.     Be  happy,  I  am  your  friend. 
To  Kingston,  forward !   \_Exeunt. 

SCENE    IV.  — Room    in    the    Gate- 
house OF  Westminster  Palace. 

Mary,  Alice,  Gardiner,  Renard, 
Ladies. 

Gardiner.     Their  cry  is,  Philip  never 

shall  be  king. 
Mary.     Lord  Pembroke  in  command 
of  all  our  force 
Will  front  their  cry  and  shatter  them  into 
dust. 
Alice.     Was  not  Lord  Pembroke  with 
Northumberland  ? 
O  Madam,  if  this  Pembroke  should  be 
false  ? 
Mary.     No,  girl;  most  brave  and  loyal, 
brave  and  loyal. 
His  breaking  with  Northumberland  broke 

Northumberland. 
At   the    park    gate   he   hovers  with    our 

guards. 
These  Kentish  ploughmen  cannot  break 
the  guards. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger.     Wyatt,  your  Grace,  hath 
broken  thro'  the  guards 
And  gone  to  Ludgate. 

Gardiner.  Madam,  I  much  fear 


SCENE   IV. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


589 


That  all  is  lost;    but  we  can  save  your 

Grace. 
The    river   still   is   free.     I    do   beseech 

you, 
There  yet  is  time,  take  boat  and  pass  to 
Windsor. 
Mary.     I  pass  to  Windsor  and  I  lose 

my  crown. 
Gardiner.     Pass,    then,    I   pray   your 

Highness,  to  the  Tower. 
Mary.     I  shall  but  be  their  prisoner 

in  the  Tower, 
Cries  zvithont.     The  traitor  !  treason  ! 

Pembroke ! 
Ladies.  Treason  !  treason  ! 

Mary.     Peace. 
False  to  Northumberland,  is  he  false  to 

me? 
Bear  witness,   Renard,  that   I    live  and 

die 
The  true  and  faithful  bride  of  Philip  —  A 

sound 
Of  feet  and  voices  thickening  hither  — 

blows  — 
Hark,    there    is    battle    at    the    palace 

gates, 
And  I  will  out  upon  the  gallery. 

Ladies.     No,  no,  your  Grace;  see  there 

the  arrows  flying. 
Mary.     I  am  Harry's  daughter,  Tudor, 
and  not  Fear. 

[  Goes  out  on  the  gallery. 
The  guards  are  all  driven  in,  skulk  into 

corners 
Like  rabbits  to  their  holes.     A  gracious 

guard 
Truly;   shame  on  them!   they  have  shut 
the  gates ! 

Enter  Sir  Robert  Southw^ell. 

Southzvell.     The    porter,   please    your 
Grace,  hath  shut  the  gates 
On  friend  and  foe.     Your  gentlemen-at- 
arms. 
If  this  be  not  your  Grace's  order,  cry 
To  have  the  gates  set  wide  again,  and 

they 
With  their  good  battleaxes  will  do  you 

right 
Against  all  traitors. 

Mary.     They  are  the  flower  of  Eng- 
land;  set  the  gates  wide. 

\_Exit  Southwell. 


Enter  Courtenay. 

Courtenay.     All     lost,     all    lost,     all 
yielded !     A  barge,  a  barge  ! 
The  Queen  must  to  the  Tower. 

Mary.  Whence  come  you,  sir? 

Cotcrtenay.     From  Charing  Cross;   the 
rebels  broke  us  there. 
And   I  sped  hither  with  what    haste    I 

might 
To  save  my  royal  cousin. 

Mary.     Where  is  Pembroke? 
Courtenay.     I  left  him  somewhere  in 

the  thick  of  it. 
Mary.     Left  him  and  fled;   and  thou 
that  would'st  be  King, 
And  hast  nor  heart  nor  honour.     I  myself 
W^ill  down  into  the  battle  and  there  bide 
The  upshot  of  my  quarrel,  or  die  with  those 
That  are  no  cowards  and  no  Courtenays. 
Courtenay.     I  do  not  love  your  Grace 
should  call  me  coward. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

Messenger.     Over,     your     Grace,     all 

crush'd;   the  brave  Lord  William 

Thrust  him  from  Ludgate,  and  the  traitor 

flying 
To  Temple   Bar,  there  by  Sir   Maurice 

Berkeley 
Was  taken  prisoner. 

Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  him  ! 

Messenger.     'Tis     said     he     told     Sir 
Maurice  there  was  one 
Cognisant  of  this,  and  party  thereunto, 
My  Lord  of  Devon. 

Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  him  ! 

Courtenay.     O    la,    the    Tower,    the 
Tower,  always  the  Tower, 
I  shall  grow  into  it  —  I  shall  be  the  Tower.  ^ 
JMary.     Your  Lordship  may  not  have 
so  long  to  wait. 
Remove  him ! 

Courtenay.     La,  to  whistle  out  my  life, 
And  carve  my  coat  upon  the  walls  again  ! 
S^Exit  Courtenay  guarded. 
Messenger.     x\lso  this  Wyatt  did  con- 
fess the  Princess 
Cognisant  thereof,  and  party  thereunto, 
Mary.     What  ?  whom  —  whom  did  you 

say? 
Messenger.     Elizabeth, 
Your  Royal  sister. 


590 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   III. 


Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  her  ! 

My  foes  are  at  my  feet  and  I  am  Queen. 
[Gardiner  and  her  Ladies  kneel  to  her. 
Gardiner  (rising) .    There  let  them  He, 
your  footstool !      (^Aside.)     Can  I 
strike 
Elizabeth?  —  not  now  and  save  the  life 
Of  Devon  :   if  I  save  him,  he  and  his 
Are  bound  to  me  —  may  strike  hereafter. 

{Aloud.)     Madam, 
What  Wyatt  said,  or  what  they  said  he 

said, 
Cries  of  the  moment  and  the  street  — 
Mary.  He  said  it. 

Gardiner.     Your  courts  of  justice  will 

determine  that. 
Renard  {advancing).     I  trust  by  this 
your  Highness  will  allow 
Some  spice  of  wisdom  in  my  telling  you, 
When  last  we  talk'd,  that  Philip  would 

not  come 
Till  Guildford  Dudley  and  the  Duke  of 

Suffolk, 
And  Lady  Jane  had  left  us. 

Mary.  They  shall  die. 

Renard.     And  your  so  loving  sister? 
Mary.  She  shall  die. 

My  foes  are  at  my  feet,  and  Philip  King. 

\^Exeiint. 

ACT   HL 

SCENE   L  — The  Conduit  in  Grace- 
church, 

Painted  with  the  Nine  Worthies,  among 
them  King  Henry  VIII.  holding  a  book, 
on  it  inscribed  '  Verbum  Dei.' 

Enter  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall  and  Sir 
Thomas  Stafford. 

Bagenhall.  A  hundred  here  and  hun- 
dreds hang'd  in  Kent. 

The  tigress  had  unsheathed  her  nails  at 
last, 

And  Renard  and  the  Chancellor  sharpen'd 
them. 

In  every  London  street  a  gibbet  stood. 

They  are  down  to-day.  Here  by  this 
house  was  one; 

The  traitor  husband  dangled  at  the  door. 

And  when  the  traitor  wife  came  out  for 
bread 


To  still  the  petty  treason  therewithin, 
Her  cap  would  brush  his  heels. 

Stafford.  It  is  Sir  Ralph, 

And  muttering  to  himself  as  heretofore. 
Sir,  see  you  aught  up  yonder? 

Bagenhall.  I  miss  something. 

The  tree  that  only  bears  dead   fruit   is 
gone. 
Stafford.     What  tree,  sir? 
Bagenhall.  Well,  the 

tree  in  Virgil,  sir, 
That  bears  not  its  own  apples. 

Stafford.  What !  the  gallows? 

Bagenhall.       Sir,  this  dead  fruit  was 
ripening  overmuch, 
And  had  to  be  removed  lest  living  Spain, 
Should  sicken  at  dead  England. 

Stafford.  Not  so  dead. 

But  that  a  shock  may  rouse  her. 

Bagenhall.  I  believe 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford? 

Stafford.  I  am  ill  disguised. 

Bagenhall.     Well,  are  you  not  in  peril 

here? 
Stafford.       I  think  so. 
I   came  to  feel   the   pulse    of  England, 

whether 
It  beats  hard  at  this  marriage.     Did  you 
see  it? 
Bagenhall.     Stafford,  I  am  a  sad  man 
and  a  serious. 
Far  liefer  had  I  in  my  country  hall 
Been  reading  some  old  book,  with  mine 

old  hound 
Couch'd  at  my  hearth,  and  mine  old  flask 

of  wine 

Beside  me,  than  have  seen  it :  yet  I  saw  it. 

Stafford.     Good,  was  it  splendid? 

Bagenhall.       Ay,  if  Dukes,  and  Earls, 

And  Counts,  and  sixty  Spanish  cavaliers, 

Some  six  or  seven   Bishops,   diamonds, 

pearls. 
That  royal  commonplace   too,  cloth    of 

gold, 
Could  make  it  so. 

Stafford.    And  what  was  Mary's  dress? 
Bagenhall.     Good  faith,  I  was  too  sorry 
for  the  woman 
To  mark  the  dress.     She  wore  red  shoes  ! 
Stafford.  Red  shoes ! 

Bagenhall.     Scarlet,  as  if  her  feet  were 
wash'd  in  blood, 
As  if  she  had  waded  in  it. 


SCENE   I. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


591 


Stafford.  Were  your  eyes 

So  bashful  that  you  look'd  no  higher? 

Bagenhall.  A  diamond, 

And  Philip's  gift,  as  proof  of  Philip's  love, 
Who  hath  not  any  for  any,  —  tho'  a  true 

one, 
Blazed  false  upon  her  heart. 

Stafford.  But  this  proud  Prince  — 

Bagenhall.      Nay,    he    is    King,    you 

know,  the  King  of  Naples. 
The  father  ceded  Naples,  that  the  son 
Being  a  King,  might  wed  a  Queen  —  O  he 
Flamed    in    brocade  —  white    satin    his 

trunk-hose, 
Inwrought  with  silver,  —  on  his  neck  a 

collar, 
Gold,    thick    with    diamonds;     hanging 

down  from  this 
The  Golden  Fleece  —  and  round  his  knee, 

misplaced. 
Our  English  Garter,  studded  with  great 

emeralds. 
Rubies,  I  know  not  what.     Have  you  had 

enough 
Of  all  this  gear  ? 

Stafford.  Ay,  since  you  hate  the 

telling  it. 
How  look'd  the  Queen? 

Bagenhall.       No  fairer  for  her  jewels. 
And  I  could  see  that  as  the  new-made 

couple 
Came  from  the  Minster,  moving  side  by 

side 
Beneath  one  canopy,  ever  and  anon 
She  cast  on  him  a  vassal  smile  of  love, 
Which  Philip  with  a  glance  of  some  dis- 
taste, 
Or  so  methought,  return'd.      I  may  be 

wrong,  sir. 
This  marriage  will  not  hold. 

Stafford.  I  think  with  you. 

The  King  of  France  will  help  to  break  it. 

Bagenhall.  France ! 

We  once  had  half  of  France,  and  hurl'd 

our  battles 
Into  the  heart   of  Spain;    but   England 

now 
Is   but   a   ball  chuck'd  between  France 

and  Spain, 
His  in  whose  hand  she  drops;    Harry  of 

Bolingbroke 
Had  holpen  Richard's  tottering  throne  to 

stand, 


Could  Harry  have  foreseen  that  all  our 
nobles 

Would  perish  on  the  civil  slaughter-field. 

And  leave  the  people  naked  to  the  crown. 

And  the  crown  naked  to  the  people;   the 
crown 

Female,  too  !     Sir,  no  woman's  regimen 

Can  save  us.     We  are  fallen,  and  as  I 
think. 

Never  to  rise  again. 

Stafford.      You  are  too  black-blooded. 

I'd  make  a  move  myself  to  hinder  that : 

I    know    some    lusty    fellows    there    in 
France. 
Bagenhall.     You  would  but  make  us 
weaker,  Thomas  Stafford. 

Wyatt  was  a  good  soldier,  yet  he  fail'd, 

And  strengthen'd  Philip. 

Stafford.  Did  not  his  last  breath 

Clear  Courtenay  and  the  Princess  from 
the  charge 

Of  being  his  co-rebels? 

Bagenhall.  Ay,  but  then 

What    such    a    one    as    Wyatt    says    is 
nothing : 

We  have  no  men  among  us.     The  new 
Lords 

Are  quieted  with  their  sop  of  Abbeylands, 

And  ev'n  before  the  Queen's  face  Gardi- 
ner buys  them 

With  Philip's'gold.     All  greed,  no  faith, 
no  courage  ! 

Why,  ev'n  the  haughty  prince,  Northum- 
berland, 

The  leader  of  our  Reformation,  knelt 

And   blubber'd  like   a  lad,  and   on   the 
scaffold 

Recanted,  and  resold  himself  to  Rome. 
Stafford.    I  swear  you  do  your  country 
wrong,  Sir  Ralph. 

I  know  a  set  of  exiles  over  there. 

Dare-devils,  that  would  eat  fire  and  spit 
it  out 

At    Philip's   beard :    they   pillage    Spain 
already. 

The  French  King  winks  at  it.     An  hour 
will  come 

When  they  will  sweep  her  from  the  seas. 
No  men? 

Did  not  Lord  Suffolk  die  like  a  true  man? 

Is  not  Lord  William  Howard  a  true  man? 

Yea,  you  yourself,  altho'  you  are  black- 
blooded  : 


592 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   III. 


And  I,  by  God,  believe  myself  a  man. 

Ay,  even  in  the  church  there  is  a  man  — 

Cranmer. 

Fly  would  he  not,  when  all  men  bade  him 

fly. 
And  what  a  letter  he  wrote  against  the 

Pope ! 
There's  a  brave  man,  if  any. 

Bagenhall.  Ay;  if  it  hold. 

Crowd  {coffiing  oil).     God  save  their 

Graces ! 
Stafford.  Bagenhall,  I  see 

The  Tudor  green  and  white.   (  Trumpets?) 

They  are  coming  now. 
And  here's  a  crowd  as  thick  as  herring- 
shoals. 
Bagenhall.     Be  limpets  to  this  pillar, 
or  we  are  torn 
Down  the  strong  wave  of  brawlers. 
Crowd.  God  save  their  Graces  ! 

\_Frocession  of  Trumpeters,  Javelin- 
men,    etc. ;     then     Spanish     and 
Flemish  Nobles  intermingled. 
Stafford.      Worth   seeing,    Bagenhall ! 
These  black  dog-Dons 
Garb   themselves    bravely.      Who's   the 

long-face  there. 
Looks  very  Spain  of  very  Spain? 

Bagenhall.  The  Duke 

Of  Alva,  an  iron  soldier. 

Stafford.  And  the  Dutchman, 

Now  laughing  at  some  jest? 

Bagenhall.  William  of  Orange, 

William  the  Silent. 

Stafford.        Why  do  they  call  him  so? 
Bagenhall.     He  keeps,  they  say,  some 
secret  that  may  cost 
Philip  his  life. 

Stafford.     But  then  he  looks  so  merry. 
Bagenhall.     I  cannot  tell  you  why  they 
call  him  so. 
[  The  King  and  Queen  pass,  attended 
■  by  Peers  of  the  Realm,  Officers  of 
State,  etc.     Cannon  shot  off. 
Croivd.     Philip  and  Mary,  Philip  and 
Mary ! 
Long  live  the  King   and  Queen,  Philip 
and  Mary ! 
Stafford.     Th  ey  smile  as  if  content  with 

one  another. 
Bagenhall.     A  smile   abroad  is  oft   a 

scowl  at  home. 
[King  and  Queen  pass  on.     Procession. 


First  Citizen.  I  thought  this  Philip 
had  been  one  of  those  black  devils  of 
Spain,  but  he  hath  a  yellow  beard. 

Second  Citizen.  Not  red  like  Iscariot's. 

First  Citizen.  Like  a  carrot's,  as  thou 
say'st,  and  English  carrot's  better  than 
Spanish  licorice;  but  I  thought  he  was  a 
beast. 

Third  Citizen.  Certain  I  had  heard 
that  every  Spaniard  carries  a  tail  like  a 
devil  under  his  trunk-hose. 

Tailor.  Ay,  but  see  what  trunk-hoses  ! 
Lord!  they  be  fine;  I  never  stitch'd 
none  such.  They  make  amends  for  the 
tails. 

Fourth  Citizen.  Tut !  every  Spanish 
priest  will  tell  you  that  all  English  heretics 
have  tails. 

Fifth  Citizen.  Death  and  the  Devil  — 
if  he  find  I  have  one  — 

Fourth  Citizen.  Lo  !  thou  hast  call'd 
them  up  !  here  they  come  —  a  pale  horse 
for  Death  and  Gardiner  for  the  Devil. 

Enter  Gardiner  {turning  back  from  the 
procession'). 
Gardiner.     Knave,  wilt  thou  wear  thy 

cap  before  the  Queen? 
Man.     My  Lord,  I  stand  so  squeezed 
among  the  crowd 
I  cannot  lift  my  hands  unto  my  head. 
Gardiner.     Knock  off  his  cap  there, 
some  of  you  about  him  ! 
See  there  be  others  that  can  use  their 

hands. 
Thou  art  one  of  Wyatt's  men  ? 

Man.  No,  my  Lord,  no. 

Gardiner.     Thy  name,  thou  knave  ? 
Man.  ,      I  am  nobody,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner  {shouting).     God's  passion! 

knave,  thy  name? 
Man.  I  have  ears  to  hear. 

Gardiner.     Ay,  rascal,  if  I  leave  thee 
ears  to  hear. 
Find  out  his  name  and  bring  it  me  {to 
Attendant). 
Attendant.  Ay,  my  Lord. 

Garditter.      Knave,  thou    shalt    lose 
thine  ears  and  find  thy  tongue. 
And  shalt  be  thankful  if  I  leave  thee  that. 
[  Cofning  before  the  Conduit. 
The  conduit  painted  —  the  nine  worthies 
—  ay ! 


SCENE    I. 


QUEEN  MARY, 


593 


But  then  what's  here?    King  Harry  with 

a  scroll. 
Ha  —  Verbum  Dei  —  verbum — word  of 

God! 
God's  passion  !   do  you  know  the  knave 
that  painted  it? 
Attendant.     I  do,  my  Lord. 
Gardiner.         Tell  him  to  paint  it  out, 
And   put   some   fresh    device  in  lieu  of 

it  — 
A  pair  of  gloves,  a  pair  of  gloves,  sir; 

ha? 
There  is  no  heresy  there. 

Attendant.  I  will,  my  Lord; 

The  man  shall  paint  a  pair  of  gloves.     I 

am  sure 
(Knowing  the  man)  he  wrought  it  igno- 

rantly, 
And  not  from  any  malice. 

Gardiner.  Word  of  God 

In  English  !  over  this  the  brainless  loons 
That  cannot  spell  Esaias  from  St.  Paul, 
Make  themselves  drunk  and  mad,  fly  out 

and  flare 
Into    rebellions.     I'll   have   their  Bibles 

burnt. 
The  Bible  is  the  priest's.     Ay !   fellow, 

what ! 
Stand  staring  at  me  !  shout,  you  gaping 
rogue ! 
Man.     I  have,  my  Lord,  shouted  till 

I  am  hoarse. 
Gardiner.     What  hast  thou  shouted, 

knave? 
Man.  Long  live  Queen  Mary ! 

Gardiner.         Knave,    there   be    two. 
There  be  both  King  and  Queen, 
Philip  and  Mary.     Shout ! 

Alan.  Nay,  but,  my  Lord, 

The  Queen  comes  first,  Mary  and  Philip. 
Gardiner.  Shout,  then, 

Mary  and  Philip ! 

Afan.    '  Mary  and  Philip  ! 

Gardiner.  Now, 

Thou  hast  shouted  for  thy  pleasure,  shout 

for  mine ! 
Philip  and  Mary  ! 

Man.  Must  it  be  so,  my  Lord? 

Gardiner.     Ay,  knave. 
Man.  Philip  and  Mary  ! 

Gardiner.  I  distrust  thee. 

Thine  is  a  half  voice  and  a  lean  assent. 
What  is  thy  name? 

2  Q 


Man. 

Sanders. 

Gardiner. 

What  else? 

Man. 

Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner. 

Where  dost  thou  live? 

Man. 

In  Cornhill. 

Gardiner. 

Where,  knave,  where? 

Man.     Sign  of  the  Talbot. 
Gardiner.     Come  to  me  to-morrow.  — 
Rascal !  — this  land  is  like  a  hill  of  fire, 
One  crater  opens  when  another  shuts. 
But  so  I  get  the  laws  against  the  heretic. 
Spite  of  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  William 

Howard, 
And  others  of  our  Parliament,  revived, 
I  will  show  fire  on  my  side  —  stake  and 

fire  — 
Sharp  work  and  short.     The  knaves  are 

easily  cow'd. 
Follow  their  Majesties. 

\_Exit.      The  croivd following. 
Bagenhall.  As  proud  as  Becket. 

Stafford.     You   would    not   have   him 

murder'd  as  Becket  was? 
Bagenhall.     No  —  murder  fathers  mur- 
der :  but  I  say 
There  is  no  man  —  there  was  one  woman 

with  us  — 
It  was  a  sin  to  love  her  married,  dead 
I  cannot  choose  but  love  her. 

Stafford.  Lady  Jane  ? 

Crozud  {goi7jg  off).     God  save  their 

Graces ! 
Stafford.  Did  you  see  her  die? 

Bagenhall.  No,  no;   her  innocent 

blood  had  blinded  me. 
You  call   me    too    black-blooded  —  true 

enough 
Her  dark  dead  blood  is  in  my  heart  with 

mine. 
If  ever  I  cry  out  against  the  Pope 
Her  dark  dead  blood  that   ever   moves 

with  mine 
Will  stir  the  living  tongue  and  make  the 
cry. 
Stafford.     Yet  doubtless  you  can  tell 

me  how  she  died? 
Bagenhall.        Seventeen  —  and   knew 
eight  languages  —  in  music 
Peerless  —  her  needle   perfect,  and   her 

learning 
Beyond  the  churchmen;   yet  so  meek,  so 

modest, 
So  wife-like  humble  to  the  trivial  boy 


594 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    III. 


Mismatch'd  with  her  for  poHcy !     I  have 

heard 
She  would  not  take  a  last  farewell  of  him, 
She  fear'd  it  might  unman  him  for  his  end. 
She    could   not  be   unmann'd  —  no,  nor 

outwoman'd  — 
Seventeen  —  a  rose  of  grace  ! 
Girl  never  breathed  to  rival  such  a  rose; 
Rose  never  blew  that  equall'd  such  a  bud. 
Staffoi'd.     Pray  you  go  on. 
Bagenhall.  She    came    upon    the 

scaffold. 
And  said  she  was  condemn'd  to  die  for 

treason; 
She  had  but  follow'd  the  device  of  those 
Her  nearest  kin  :   she  thought  they  knew 

the  laws. 
But  for  herself,  she  knew  but  little  law, 
And  nothing  of  the  titles  to  the  crown; 
She  had  no  desire  for  that,  and  wrung 

her  hands, 
And  trusted  God  would  save  her  thro'  the 

blood 
Of  Jesus  Christ  alone. 

Stafford.  Pray  you  go  on. 

Bagenhall.     Then  knelt  and  said  the 

Miserere  Mei  — 
But  all  in  English,  mark  you;   rose  again, 
And,  when  the   headsman  pray'd  to  be 

forgiven, 
Said,  '  You  will  give  me  my  true  crown 

at  last, 
But    do   it    quickly;  '  then  all  wept  but 

she, 
Who  changed  not  colour  when  she  saw 

the  block. 
But  ask'd  him,  childlike :    '  Will  vou  take 

it  off 
Before  I  lay  me  down?'     'No,  Madam,' 

he  said. 
Gasping;    and  when   her   innocent   eyes 

were  bound, 
She,  with  her  poor  blind  hands  feeling  — 

*  where  is  it? 
Where   is   it?'  —  You    must    fancy   that 

which  follow'd, 
If  you  have  heart  to  do  it ! 

Crowd  {in   the   distance).     God    save 

their  Graces ! 
Stafford.     Their  Graces,  our  disgraces  ! 

God  confound  them  ! 
Why,  she's  grown  bloodier !  when  I  last 

was  here, 


This  was  against  her  conscience  —  would 

be  murder  ! 
Bagenhall.     The  '  Thou   shalt    do   no 

murder,'  w'hich  God's  hand 
Wrote   on   her  conscience,  Mary  rubb'd 

out  pale  — 
She  could  not  make  it  white  —  and  over 

that, 
Traced  in  the  blackest  text  of  Hell  — 

*  Thou  shalt !  ' 
And  sign'd  it  —  Mary  ! 

Stafford.  Philip  and  the  Pope 

Must    have    sign'd    too.      I    hear    this 

Legate's  coming 
To  bring  us  absolution  from  the  Pope. 
The  Lords  and  Commons  will  bow  down 

before  him  — 
You  are  of  the  house?  what  will  you  do. 

Sir  Ralph? 
Bagenhall.       And   why   should   I    be 

bolder  than  the  rest, 
Or  honester  than  all? 

Stafford.  But,  sir,  if  I  — 

And  oversea  they  say  this  state  of  yours 
Hath  no  more  mortice  than  a  tower  of 

cards; 
And  that  a  puff  would  do  it  —  then  if  I 
And  others  made  that  move    I    touch'd 

upon, 
Back'd  by  the  power  of  France,  and  land- 
ing here, 
Came  with   a  sudden  splendour,   shout, 

and  show, 
And  dazzled  men  and  deafen'd  by  some 

bright 
Loud  venture,  and  the  people  so  unquiet — 
And    I    the   race  of  murder'd  Bucking- 
ham— 
Not  for  myself,  but   for  the  kingdom — 

Sir, 
I  trust  that  you  would  fight  along  with  us. 
Bagenhall.     No;   you  would  fling  your 

lives  into  the  gulf. 
Stafford.     But  if  this   Philip,  as  he's 

like  to  do, 
Left  Mary  a  wife-widow  here  alone. 
Set  up  a  viceroy,  sent  his  myriads  hither 
To    seize  upon  the   forts  and  fleet,  and 

make  us 
A  Spanish  province;   would  you  not  fight 

then? 
Bagenhall.     1  think  I  should  fight  then. 
Stafford.     I  am  sure  of  it. 


SCENE    II, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


595 


Hist !  there's  the  face  coming  on  here  of 

one 
Who   knows    me.      1    must    leave    you. 

Fare  you  well, 
You'll  hear  of  me  again. 

Bagenhall.  Upon  the  scaffold. 

\_Exeitnt. 

SCENE   II.  —  Room  in  Whitehall 
Palace. 

Mary.     Enter  Philh'  and 
Cardinal  Pole. 

Pole.     x\ve  Maria,  gratia  plena,  Bene- 

dicta  tu  in  mulieribus. 
Mary.     Loyal      and      royal      cousin, 
humblest  thanks. 

Had  you  a  pleasant  voyage  up  the  river? 
Pole.     We  had  your  royal  barge,  and 
that  same  chair, 

Or  rather  throne  of  purple,  on  the  deck. 

Our    silver    cross    sparkled    before    the 
prow, 

The  ripples  twinkled  at  their  diamond- 
dance, 

The  boats  that  follow 'd  were  as  glowing- 
gay 

As   regal   gardens;   and   your   flocks   of 
swans, 

As  fair  and  white  as  angels;   and  your 
shores 

Wore  in  mine  eyes  the  green  of  Paradise. 

My    foreign    friends,    who    dream'd    us 
blanketed 

In  ever-closing  fog,  were  much  amazed 

To  find  as  fair  a  sun  as  might  have  flash'd 

Upon     their    lake    of    Garda,    fire    the 
Thames ; 

Our  voyage  by  sea  was  all  but  miracle; 

And    here    the    river    flowing    from    the 
sea. 

Not  toward  it  (for  they  thought  not  of 
our  tides), 

Seem'd    as   a    happy   miracle    to    make 
glide  — 

In  quiet  —  home  your  banish'd  country- 
man. 
Mary.     We  heard  that  you  were  sick 

in  Flanders,  cousin. 
Pole.     A  dizziness. 

Mary.  And  how  came 

you  round  again? 


Pole.     The    scarlet    thread   of   Kahab 

saved  her  life; 
And  mine,  a  little  letting  of  the  blood. 
Mary.     Well?  now? 
Pole.  Ay,  cousin,  as  the 

heathen  giant 
Had  but  to  touch  the  ground,  his  force 

return'd  — 
Thus,  after  twenty  years  of  banishment, 
Feeling  my  native  land  beneath  my  foot, 
I  said  thereto  :  '  Ah,  native  land  of  mine. 
Thou  art  much  beholden  to  this  foot   of 

mine. 
That   hastes  with  full  commission  from 

the  Pope 
To  absolve  thee  from  thy  guilt  of  heresy. 
Thou  hast  disgraced  me  and  attainted  me, 
And  mark'd  me  ev'n  as  Cain,  and  I  return 
As  Peter,  but  to  bless  thee  :  make  me  well.' 
Methinks  the  good  land  heard  me,  for  to- 
day 
My  heart  beats  twenty,  when  I  see  you, 

cousin. 
Ah,  gentle  cousin,  since   your    Herod's 

death, 
How  oft  hath  Peter  knock'd  at  Mary's 

gate  ! 
And  Mary  would  have  risen  and  let  him  in, 
But,  Mary,  there   were  those  within  the 

house 
Who  would  not  have  it. 

Mary.  True, good  cousin  Pole; 

And  there  were  also  those  without  the 

house 
Who  would  not  have  it. 

Pole.  I  believe  so,  cousin. 

State-policy  and  church-policy  are  con- 
joint. 
But  Janus-faces  looking  diverse  ways. 
I  fear  the  Emperor  much  misvalued  me. 
But  all  is  well;  'twas  ev'n  the  will  of  God, 
Who,  waiting  till  the  time  had  ripen'd, 

now. 
Makes  me  his  mouth  of  holy  greeting. 

'  Hail, 
Daughter  of  God,  and  saver  of  the  faith. 
Sit  benedictus  fructus  ventris  tui !  ' 
Mary.     Ah,  heaven  I 
Pole.  Unwell,  your  Grace? 

Mary.  No,  cousin,  happy  — 

Happy  to  see  you;   never  yet  so  happy 
Since  I  was  crown'd. 

Pole.  Sweet  cousin,  you  forget 


596 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   III. 


That  long  low  minster  where  you  gave 

your  hand 
To  this  great  Catholic  King. 

Philip.  Well  said,  Lord  Legate. 

Mary.     Nay,  not  well  said;   I  thought 

of  you,  my  liege, 
Ev'n  as  I  spoke. 

Philip.     Ay,  Madam;    my  Lord  Paget 
Waits   to    present    our    Council   to    the 

Legate. 
Sit  down  here,  all;   Madam,  between  us 

you. 
Pole.     Lo,  now  you  are  enclosed  with 

boards  of  cedar. 
Our  little  sister  of  the  Song  of  Songs  ! 
You  are  doubly  fenced  and  shielded  sit- 
ting here 
Between  the  two  most  high-set  thrones 

on  earth, 
The  Emperor's  highness  happily  symboU'd 

by 
The    King    your    husband,    the    Pope's 

Holiness 
By  mine  own  self. 

Mary.  True,  cousin,  I  am  happy. 

When  will  you  that  we  summon  both  our 

houses 
To  take  this  absolution  from  your  lips. 
And  be  regather'd  to  the  Papal  fold? 
Pole.     In  Britain's  calendar  the  bright- 
est day 
Beheld  our  rough  forefathers  break  their 

Gods, 
And  clasp  the  faith  in  Christ;    but  after 

that 
Might  not  St.  Andrew's  be  her  happiest 

day? 
Mary.     Then  these  shall  meet   upon 

St.  Andrew's  day. 

Enter  Paget,  who  presents  the  Council. 
Dumb  show. 

Pole.     I  am  an  old  man  wearied  with 
my  journey, 
Ev'n  with  my  joy.     Permit  me  to  with- 
draw. 
To  Lambeth? 

Philip.    .        Ay,  Lambeth  has  ousted 
Cranmer. 
It  was  not  meet  the  heretic  swine  should 

live 
In  Lambeth. 

Mary.       There  or  anywhere,  or  at  all. 


Philip.     We  have    had   it  swept  and 

garnish'd  after  him. 
Pole.     Not  for  the  seven  devils  to  enter 

in? 
Philip.     No,  for  we  trust  they  parted 

in  the  swine. 
Pole.     True,  and  I   am  the  Angel   of 
the  Pope. 
Farewell,  your  Graces. 

Philip.  Nay,  not  here  —  tome; 

I  will  go  with  you  to  the  waterside. 
Pole.    Not  be  my  Charon  to  the  counter 

side? 
Philip.     No,    my    Lord    Legate,    the 

Lord  Chancellor  goes. 
Pole.     And  unto  no  dead  world;   but 
Lambeth  palace, 
Henceforth  a  centre  of  the  living  faith. 
{^Exeunt  Philip,  Pole,  Paget,  etc. 

Manet  Mary. 

Mary.     He   hath    awaked !    he   hath 

awaked  ! 
He  stirs  within  the  darkness ! 
Oh,  Philip,   husband !  now   thy  love    to 

mine 
Will  cling  more  close,  and  those  bleak 

manners  thaw. 
That  make  me  shamed  and  tongue-tied 

in  my  love. 
The  second  Prince  of  Peace  — 
The  great  unborn  defender  of  the  Faith, 
Who  will  avenge  me  of  mine  enemies  — 
He  comes,  and  my  star  rises. 
The  stormy  Wyatts  and  Northumberlands, 
The  proud  ambitions  of  Elizabeth, 
And  all  her  fieriest  partisans  —  are  pale 
Before  my  star ! 
The  light  of  this  new  learning  wanes  and 

dies: 
The    ghosts    of    Luther    and    Zuinglius 

fade 
Into  the   deathless   hell   which   is   their 

doom 
Before  my  star ! 

His  sceptre  shall  go  forth  from  Ind  to  Ind  ! 
His  sword  shall  hew  the  heretic  peoples 

down  ! 
His  faith  shall  clothe  the  world  that  will 

be  his, 
Like  universal  air  and  sunshine  !     Open, 
Ye  everlasting  gates  !  The  King  is  here  ! — 
My  star,  my  son  ! 


SCENE    III. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


597 


Enter  Philip,  Duke  of  Alva,  etc. 

Oh,  Philip,  come  with  me; 
Good  news  I  have  to  tell  you,  news  to 

make 
Both  of  us  happy  —  ay,  the  Kingdom  too. 
Nay,  come  with  me  —  one  moment ! 

Philip  {to  Alva).  More  than  that: 

There  was  one  here  of  late  —  William  the 

Silent 
They  call  him  —  he  is  free  enough  in  talk. 
But  tells  me  nothing.     You  will  be,  we 

trust, 
Sometime  theviceroy  of  those  provinces — 
He  must  deserve  his  surname  better. 

Alva.  Ay,  sir; 

Inherit  the  Great  Silence. 

Philip.  True;   the  provinces 

Are  hard  to  rule   and  must   be   hardly 

ruled; 
Most  fruitful,  yet,  indeed,  an  empty  rind, 
All  hoUow'd  out  with  stinging  heresies; 
And  for  their  heresies,  Alva,   they  will 

fight; 
You  must  break  them  or  they  break  you. 
Alva  {proudly).  The  first. 

Philip.     Good ! 
Well,  Madam,  this  newhappiness  of  mine  ? 

\^Exeunt. 

Enter  Three  Pages. 

First  Page.     News,  mates  !  a  miracle, 
a  miracle  !  news  ! 
The  bells  must  ring;   Te  Deums  must  be 

sung; 
The  Queen  hath  felt  the  motion  of  her 
babe  ! 
Second  Page.     Ay;   but  see  here  ! 
First  Page.  See  what? 

Second  Page.  This  paper,  Dickon. 

I  found  it  fluttering  at  the  palace  gates  : — 
'  The  Queen  of  England  is  delivered  of  a 
dead  dog  1 ' 
Third  Page.     These    are    the    things 

that  madden  her.     Fie  upon  it ! 
First  Page.     Ay;   but  I  hear  she  hath 
a  dropsy,  lad. 
Or  a  high-dropsy,  as  the  doctors  call  it. 
Third  Page.     Fie    on    her   dropsy,  so 
she  have  a  dropsy  ! 
I  know  that  she  was  ever  sweet  to  me. 
First  Page.     For  thou  and  thine  are 
Roman  to  the  core. 


Third  Page.     So  thou  and  thine  must 

be.     Take  heed  ! 
First  Page.  Not  I, 

And  whether  this  flash  of  news  be  false 

or  true, 
So  the  wine  run,  and  there  be  revelry, 
Content    am    I.      Let    all    the    steeples 

clash. 
Till  the  sun  dance,  as  upon  Easter  Day. 

'[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — Great  PIall  in 
Whitehall. 

At  the  far  end  a  dais.  On  this  three 
chairs,  tivo  under  one  canopy  for  Mary 
and  Philip,  another  ott  the  right  of 
these  for  Pole.  Under  the  dais  on 
Pole's  side,  ranged  along  the  wall, 
sit  all  the  Spiritual  Peers,  and  along 
the  wall  opposite,  all  the  Temporal. 
The  Commons  on  cross  benches  in  front., 
a  line  of  approach  to  the  da'is  hettveen 
them.  In  the  foreground,  Sir  Ralph 
Bagenhall  ajid  other  Members  of  the 
Commons. 

First  Member.     St.  Andrew's  day;   sit 

close,  sit  close,  we  are  friends. 
Is  reconciled  the  word?  the  Pope  again? 
It  must  be  thus;    and  yet,  cocksbody  ! 

how  strange 
That  Gardiner,  once  so  one  with  all  of  us 
Against    this    foreign    marriage,   should 

have  yielded 
So  utterly!  —  strange!  but  stranger  still 

that  he. 
So   fierce  against   the   headship   of  the 

Pope, 
Should    play   the   second   actor   in   this 

pageant 
That  brings  him  in;   such  a  cameleon  he  ! 
Second  Member.     This  Gardiner  turn'd 

his  coat  in  Henry's  time; 
The    serpent    that    hath    slough'd    will 

slough  again. 
Third  Member.     Tut,  then  we  all  are 

serpents. 
Secojid  Member.        Speak  for  yourself. 
Third  Member.    Ay,  and  for  Gardiner  ! 

being  English  citizen. 
How  should  he  bear  a  bridegroom  out  of 

Spain? 


598 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   III. 


The    Queen    would    have    him !     being 

English  churchman 
How  should  he  bear  the  headship  of  the 

Pope? 
The  Queen  would  have  it !     Statesmen 

that  are  wise 
Shape  a  necessity,  as  a  sculptor  clay, 
To  their  own  model. 

Second  Member.     Statesmen  that  are 

wise 
Take  truth  herself  for  model.     What  say 

you?       ^To  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall.     We  talk  and  talk. 
First  Member.     Ay,  and  what  use  to 

talk? 
Philip's  no  sudden   alien  —  the  Queen's 

husband, 
He's  here,   and  king,   or  will  be  —  yet 

cocksbody ! 
So  hated  here  !     I  watch'd  a  hive  of  late; 
My  seven-years'  friend  was  with  me,  my 

young  boy; 
Out  crept  a  wasp,  with  half  the  swarm 

behind. 
*  Philip  ! '  says  he.     I  had  to  cuff  the  rogue 
For  infant  treason. 

Third  Member.    But  they  say  that  bees. 
If  any  creeping  life  invade  their  hive 
Too  gross  to  be  thrust  out,  will  build  him 

round. 
And  bind  him  in  from  harming  of  their 

combs. 
And  Philip  by  these  articles  is  bound 
From  stirring  hand  or  foot  to  wrong  the 

realm. 
Second  Member.     By  bonds  of  beeswax 

like  your  creeping  thing; 
But  your  wise  bees  had  stung  him  first 

to  death. 
Third  Member.     Hush,  hush  ! 
You  wrong  the  Chancellor :   the  clauses 

added 
To  that  same  treaty  which  the  Emperor 

sent  us 
Were  mainly  Gardiner's  :  that  no  foreigner 
Hold  office  in  the  household,  fleet,  forts, 

army; 
That  if  the  Queen  should  die  without  a 

child, 
The    bond    between    the    kingdoms    be 

dissolved; 
Tliat  Philip  should  not  mix  us  any  way 
With  his  French  wars  — 


Second  Member.  Ay,  ay,  but  what 

security. 
Good  sir,  for  this,  if  Philip  — 

Third  Member.      Peace  —  the  Queen, 
Philip,  and  Pole.        \_All  rise,  and  stand. 

Enter  Mary,  Philip,  and  Pole. 

[Gardiner  conducts  them  to  the  three 
chairs  of  state.     Philip  sits  on  the 
Queen's  left,  Pole  on  her  right. 
Gardiner.     Our  short-lived  sun,  before 
his  winter  plunge. 
Laughs  at  the  last  red  leaf,  and  Andrew's 
day. 
Mary.     Should  not  this  day  be  held 
in  after  years 
More  solemn  than  of  old? 

Philip.  Madam,  my  wish 

Echoes  your  Majesty's. 

Pole.  It  shall  be  so. 

Gardiner.       Mine    echoes   both   your 
Graces';    {aside)  but  the  Pope  — 
Can  we  not  have  the  Catholic  church  as 

well 
Without  as  with  the  Italian?  if  we  cannot. 
Why  then  the  Pope. 

My  Lords  of  the  upper  house, 
And  ye,  my  masters,,  of  the  lower  house. 
Do  ye  stand  fast  by  that  which  ye  resolved  ? 
Voices.      We  do. 

Gardiner.     And  be  you  all  one  mind 
to  supplicate 
The  Legate  here  for  pardon,  and  acknow- 
ledge 
The  primacy  of  the  Pope? 

Voices.  We  are  all  one  mind. 

Gardiner.     Then  must  I  play  the  vas- 
sal to  this  Pole.  \_Aside. 
[//<?  dra-iVS  a  paper  from  under  his 
robes  and  presents  it  to  the  King 
and  Queen,  7uho  look  through  it 
and  return  it  to  him  ;  then  ascends 
a  tribune  and  reads. 
We,  the  Lords  Spiritual  and  Temporal, 
And  Commons  here  in  Parliament  assem- 
bled. 
Presenting  the  whole  body  of  this  realm. 
Of  England,  and  dominions  of  the  same. 
Do  make  most    humble   suit   unto   your 

Majesties, 
In  our  own  name  and  that  of  all  the  state. 
That  by  your  gracious  means  and  inter- 
cession 


SCENE   III. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


599 


Our  supplication  be  exhibited 

To  the  Lord  Cardinal  Pole,  sent  here  as 

Legate 
From  our  most  Holy  Father  Julius,  Pope, 
And  from  the  Apostolic  see  of  Rome; 
And  do  declare  our  penitence  and  grief 
For  our  long  schism  and  disobedience. 
Either  in  making  laws  and  ordinances 
Against  the  Holy  Father's  primacy. 
Or  else  by  doing  or  by  speaking  aught 
Which   might  impugn   or   prejudice   the 

same; 
By  this  our  supplication  promising, 
As  well  for  our  own  selves  as  all  the  realm, 
That  now  we  be  and  ever  shall  be  quick, 
Under  and  with  your  Majesties'  authori- 
ties, 
To  do  to  the  utmost  all  that  in  us  lies 
Towards  the  abrogation  and  repeal 
Of  all  such  laws  and  ordinances  made ; 
Whereon  we  humbly  pray  your  Majesties, 
As  persons  undetiled  with  our  offence. 
So  to  set  forth  this  humble  suit  of  ours 
That  we  the  rather  by  your  intercession 
May  from  the  Apostolic  see  obtain, 
Thro'  this  most  reverend  Father,  absolu- 
tion. 
And    full    release    from    danger    of    all 

censures 
Of  Holy  Church  that  we  be  fall'n  into. 
So  that  we  may,  as  children  penitent. 
Be  once  again  received  into  the  bosom 
And  unity  of  Universal  Church; 
And  that  this  noble  realm  thro'  after  years 
May  in  this  unity  and  obedience 
Unto  the  holy  see  and  reigning  Pope 
Serve  God  and  both  your  Majesties. 
Voices.  Amen.     \^All  sit. 

\_He  again  presents  the  petition  to  the 
King   and  Queen,    who   hand  it 
reverentially  to  Pole. 
Pole  (^sitting).    This  is  the  loveliest  day 
that  ever  smiled 
On    England.      All    her   breath    should, 

incenselike. 
Rise  to  the  heavens  in  grateful  praise  of 

Him 
Who  now  recalls  her  to  His  ancient  fold. 
Lo  !  once  again  God  to  this  realm  hath 

given 
A  token  of  His  more  especial  Grace; 
For  as  this  people  were  the  first  of  all 
The  islands  call'd  into  the  dawning  church 


Out  of  the  dead,  deep  night  of  heathen- 
dom, 
So  now  are  these   the    first  whom    God 

hath  given 
Grace    to    repent    and    sorrow   for    their 

schism ; 
And  if  your  penitence  be  not  mockery, 
Oh  how  the  blessed  angels  who  rejoice 
Over  one  saved  do  triumph  at  this  hour 
In  the  reborn  salvation  of  a  land 
So  noble.  \^A  pause. 

For  ourselves  we  do  protest 
That  our  commission  is  to  heal,  not  harm; 
We  come  not  to  condemn,  but  reconcile; 
We  come  not  to  compel,  but  call  again; 
We  come  not  to  destroy,  but  edify; 
Nor  yet  to  question  things  already  done; 
These  are  forgiven  —  matters  of  the  past  — 
And    range  with   jetsam    and  with   offal 

thrown 
Into  the  blind  sea  of  forge tfuln ess. 

\^  A  pause. 
Ye  have  reversed  the  attainder  laid  on  us 
By  him  who  sack'd  the  house  of  God ; 

and  we, 
Amplier  than  any  field  on  our  poor  earth 
Can  render  thanks  in  fruit  for  being  sown, 
Do  here  and  now  repay  you  sixty-fold, 
A  hundred,  yea,  a  thousand  thousand-fold, 
W^ith  heaven  for  earth. 

\_Rising    and   stretching   forth    his 

hands.      All  kneel  but  Sir  Ralph 

Bagenhall,  who  rises  and  remains 

standing. 

The  Lord  who  hath  redeem'd  us 

With  His  own  blood,  and  wash'd  us  from 

our  sins. 
To  purchase  for  Himself  a  stainless  bride; 
He,  whom  the    Father    hath    appointed 

head 
Of  all    his    church,    He    by    His   mercy 
absolve  you  !  S^A  pause. 

And  we  by  that  authority  Apostolic 
Given  unto  us,  his  Legate,  by  the  Pope, 
Our  Lord  and  Holy  Father,  Julius, 
God's  Vicar  and  Vicegerent  upon  earth. 
Do  here  absolve  you  and  deliver  you 
And  every  one  of  you,  and  all  the  realm 
And  its  dominions  from  all  heresy. 
All  schism,  and  from  all  and  every  cen- 
sure. 
Judgment,  and  pain  accruing  thereupon ; 
And  also  we  restore  you  to  the  bosom 


6oo 


QUEEN  MARY, 


ACT   III. 


And  unity  of  Universal  Church. 

[  Turning  to  Gardiner. 
Our  letters  of   commission  will    declare 

this  plainlier. 
[Queen   heard    sobbing.       Cries    of 

Amen  !       Amen  !       Some    of   the 

Members    embrace    one    another. 

All  but  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall  pass 

out  into  the  neighbouring  chapel, 

zvhence  is  heard  the  Te  Deum. 
Bagenhall.       We    strove    against    the 

papacy  from  the  first, 
In  William's  time,  in  our  first  Edward's 

time, 
And  in  my  master  Henry's  time ;  but  now, 
The  unity  of  Universal  Church, 
Mary  would  have  it;    and  this  Gardiner 

follows ; 
The  unity  of  Universal  Hell, 
Philip  would  have  it;    and  this  Gardiner 

follows ! 
A  Parliament  of  imitative  apes  ! 
Sheep  at  the  gap  which  Gardiner  takes, 

who  not 
Believes    the    Pope,   nor   any   of    them 

believe  — 
These  spaniel-Spaniard    English  of  the 

time, 
Who  rub  their  fawning  noses  in  the  dust, 
For  that  is  Philip's  gold-dust,  and  adore 
This  Vicar  of  their  Vicar.     Would  I  had 

been 
Born  Spaniard  !     I  had  held  my  head  up 

then. 
I  am  ashamed  that  I  am  Bagenhall, 
English. 

Enter  OFFICER. 

Officer.     Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall ! 
Bagenhall.  What  of  that? 

Officer.     You  were  the  one  sole  man 

in  either  house 
Who  stood  upright  when  both  the  houses 

fell. 
Bagenhall.     The  houses  fell ! 
Officer.  I  mean  the  houses  knelt 

Before  the  Legate. 

Bagenhall.  Do  not  scrimp  your 

phrase, 
But  stretch  it  wider;   say  when  England 

fell. 
Officer.     I  say  you  were  the  one  sole 

man  who  stood. 


Bagenhall.     I  am  the  one  sole  man  in 
either  house, 
Perchance  in  England,  loves  her  like  a 
son. 
Officer.     Well,  you  one  man,  because 
you  stood  upright, 
Her  Grace  the  Queen  commands  you  to 
the  Tower. 
Bagenhall.     As  traitor,  or  as  heretic, 

or  for  what? 
Officer.     If  any  man  in  any  way  would 
be 
The  one  man,  he  shall  be  so  to  his  cost. 
Bagenhall.     What !  will  she  have  my 

head? 
Officer.  A  round  fine  likelier. 

Your  pardon.  [  Calling  to  Attendant. 

By  the  river  to  the  Tower.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Whitehall.     A  Room 
IN  THE  Palace. 

Mary,  Gardiner,  Pole,  Paget, 
Bonner,  etc. 

Mary.     The  King  and  I,  my  Lords, 
now  that  all  traitors 

Against  our  royal  state  have  lost  the  heads 

Wherewith  they  plotted  in  their  treason- 
ous malice. 

Have  talk'd  together,  and  are  well  agreed 

That  those  old  statutes  touching  Lollard- 
ism 

To  bring  the  heretic  to  the  stake,  should 
be 

No  longer  a  dead  letter,  but  requicken'd. 
Ojte  of  the  Council.     Why,  what  hath 
fluster'd  Gardiner?  how  he  rubs 

His  forelock  ! 

Paget.     I  have  changed  a  word  with 
him 

In  coming,  and  may  change  a  word  again. 
Gardiner.     Madam,  your  Highness  is 
our  sun,  the  King 

And  you  together  our  two  suns  in  one; 

And  so  the  beams  of  both  may  shine  upon 
us, 

The  faith  that  seem'd  to  droop  will  feel 
your  light. 

Lift    head,  and    flourish;    yet    not    light 
alone, 

There  must  be  heat  —  there  must  be  heat 
enough 


SCENE   IV. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


6oi 


To  scorch  and  wither  heresy  to  the  root. 
For  what  saith  Christ?     'Compel  them 

to  come  in.' 
And  what  saith    Paul?     *I   would    they 

were  cut  off 
That  trouble  you.'     Let  the  dead  letter 

live  ! 
Trace    it    in   fire,  that    all    the    louts    to 

whom 
Their  A   B  C   is   darkness,  clowns   and 

grooms 
May  read  it !   so  you  quash  rebellion  too, 
For  heretic  and  traitor  are  all  one : 
Two  vipers  of  one  breed  —  an  amphisbcena, 
Each  end  a  sting:    Let  the  dead  letter 

burn  ! 
Paget.      Yet    there   be   some    disloyal 

Catholics, 
And  many  heretics  loyal;   heretic  throats 
Cried  no  God-bless-her  to  the  Lady  Jane, 
But  shouted  in  Queen  Mary.    So  there  be 
Some   traitor-heretic,   there    is   axe    and 

cord. 
To  take  the  lives  of  others  that  are  loyal. 
And  by  the  churchman's  pitiless  doom  of 

fire, 
Were  but  a  thankless  policy  in  the  crown, 
Ay,    and    against    itself;     for   there    are 

many. 
Mary.     If  we  could  burn  out  heresy, 

my  Lord  Paget, 
We  reck  not  tho'  we  lost  this  crown  of 

England  — 
Ay  !  tho'  it  were  ten  Englands  ! 

Gardiner.  Right,  your  Grace. 

Paget,  you  are  all  for  this  poor  life  of  ours. 
And  care  but  little  for  the  life  to  be. 
Paget.     I  have  some  time,  for  curious- 

ness,  my  Lord, 
Watch'd  children  playing  at  their  life  to 

be, 
And  cruel  at  it,  killing  helpless  flies; 
Such  is  our  time  —  all  times  for  aught  I 

know. 
Gardiner.     We  kill  the  heretics  that 

sting  the  soul  — 
They,  with  right  reason,  flies  that  prick 

the  flesh. 
Paget.     They   had    not    reach'd    right 

reason;   little  children  ! 
They  kill'd  but  for  their  pleasure  and  the 

power 
They  felt  in  killing. 


Garditter.  A  spice  of  Satan,  ha  ! 

Why,  good  !  what  then?  granted  !  —  we 

are  fallen  creatures; 
Look  to  your  Bible,  Paget !  we  are  fallen. 
Paget.     I  am  but  of  the  laity,  my  Lord 

Bishop, 
And  may  not  read  your  Bible,  yet  I  found 
One  day,  a  wholesome  scripture,  '  Little 

children. 
Love  one  another.' 

Gardiner.        Did  you  find  a  scripture, 
'  I  come  not  to  bring  peace  but  a  sword '  ? 

The  sword 
Is  in  her  Grace's  hand  to  smite  with. 

Paget, 
You  stand  up  here  to  fight  for  heresy. 
You  are  more  than  guess'd  at  as  a  heretic, 
And  on  the  steep-up  track  of   the  true 

faith 
Your  lapses  are  far  seen. 

Paget.  The  faultless  Gardiner  ! 

Mary.     You  brawl  beyond  the  ques- 
tion;   speak.  Lord  Legate  ! 
Pole.     Indeed,   I    cannot    follow  with 

your  Grace : 
Rather  would  say  —  the   shepherd  doth 

not  kill 
The  sheep  that  wander  from  his  flock,  but 

sends 
His  careful  dog  to  bring  them  to  the  fold. 
Look  to  the  Netherlands,  wherein  have 

been 
vSuch  holocausts  of  heresy!  to  what  end? 
For  yet  the  faith  is  not  established  there. 
Gardiner.     The  end's  not  come. 
Pole.  No  —  nor  this  way 

will  come. 
Seeing  there  lie  two  ways  to  every  end, 
A  better  and  a  worse  —  the  worse  is  here 
To  persecute,  because  to  persecute 
Makes  a  faith  hated,  and  is  furthermore 
No  perfect  witness  of  a  perfect  faith 
In  him  who  persecutes :  when  men  are 

tost 
On  tides  of  strange  opinion,  and  not  sure 
Of  their  own  selves,  they  are  wroth  with 

their  own  selves. 
And  thence  with  others;  then,  who  lights 

the  faggot? 
Not  the  full  faith,  no,  but    the   lurking 

doubt. 
Old  Rome,  that  first  made  martyrs  in  the 

Church, 


602 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    III. 


Trembled    fur   her  own  gods,  for  these 

were  trembling  — 
But  when  did  our  Rome  tremble? 

Paget.  Did  she  not 

In  Henry's  time  and  Edward's? 

Pole.  What,  my  Lord  ! 

The  Church  on  Peter's  rock?  never  I    I 

have  seen 
A  pine  in  Italy  that  cast  its  shadow 
Athwart  a  cataract;  firm  stood  the  pine  — 
The  cataract  shook  the  shadow.     To  my 

mind, 
The  cataract  typed  the  headlong  plunge 

and  fall 
Of  heresy  to  the  pit :   the  pine  was  Rome. 
You  see,  my  Lords, 
It  was  the  shadow  of   the  Church  that 

trembled ; 
Your   church  was  but  the  shadow  of  a 

church. 
Wanting  the  Papal  mitre. 

Gardiner  {muiiering).  Here  be  tropes. 
Pole.     And  tropes  are  good  to  clothe  a 

naked  truth. 
And  make  it  look  more  seemly. 

Gardiner.  Tropes  again ! 

Pole.     You  are  hard  to  please.     Then 

without  tropes,  my  Lord, 
An  overmuch  severeness,  I  repeat, 
When    faith     is     wavering     makes    the 

waverer  pass 
Into  more  settled  hatred  of  the  doctrines 
Of  those  who  rule,  which  hatred  by  and 

by 
Involves  the  ruler  (thus  there  springs  to 

light 
That  Centaur  of  a  monstrous  Common- 
weal, 
The  traitor-heretic)  then  tho'  some  may 

quail, 
Yet  others  are  that  dare  the  stake  and 

fire, 
And  their  strong  torment  bravely  borne, 

begets 
An  admiration  and  an  indignation. 
And  hot  desire  to  imitate;   so  the  plague 
Of  schism  spreads;   were  there  but  three 

or  four 
Of  these  misleaders,  yet  I  would  not  say 
Burn  !  and  we  cannot  burn  whole  towns; 

they  are  many, 
As  my  Lord  Paget  says. 

Gardiner.      Yet  my  Lunl  Cardinal  — 


Pole.     I  am  your  Legate;   please  you 

let  me  finish. 
Methinks  that  under  our  Queen's  regimen 
We  might  go  softlier  than  with  crimson 

rowel 
And    streaming    lash.       When    Herod- 
Henry  first 
Began  to  batter  at  your  English  Church, 
This  was  the  cause,  and  hence  the  judg- 
ment on  her. 
She  seethed  with  such  adulteries,  and  the 

lives 
Of  many  among  your  churchmen  were  so 

foul 
That  heaven  wept  and  earth  blush'd.     I 

would  advise 
That  we  should  thoroughly  cleanse  the 

Church  within 
Before  these  bitter  statutes  be  requick- 

en'd. 
So  after  that  when  she  once  more  is  seen 
White  as  the  Hght,  the  spotless  bride  of 

Christ, 

Like  Christ   himself  on  Tabor,  possibly 

The  Lutheran  may  be  won  to  her  again; 

Till  when,  my  Lords,  I  counsel  tolerance. 

Gardiner.     What,  if   a  mad    dog  bit 

your  hand,  my  Lord, 
Would  you  not  chop  the  bitten  finger  off, 
Lest    your  whole    body  should    madden 

with  the  poison? 
I  would  not,  were  I  Queen,  tolerate  the 

heretic, 
No,  not  an  hour.     The  ruler  of  a  land 
Is  bounden  by  his  power  and  place  to  see 
His  people   be    not    poison'd.     Tolerate 

them ! 
Why?  do  they  tolerate  you?     Nay,  many 

of  them 
Would    burn  —  have   burnt  each   other; 

call  they  not 
The    one    true    faith,  a  loathsome    idol- 
worship? 
Beware,  Lord  Legate,  of  a  heavier  crime 
Than  heresy  is  itself;  beware,  I  say, 
Lest  men  accuse  you  of  indifference 
To  all  faiths,  all  religion;  for  you  know 
Right  well  tliat  you  yourself  have  lieen 

supposed 
Tainted  with  Lutheranism  in  Italy. 

/W<?  {angered).     But  you,  my    Lord, 

beyond  all  supposition, 
In  clear  and  open  day  were  congruent 


SCENE    IV 


QUEEN  MARY. 


603 


With  that  vile  Crannier  in  the  accursed  lie 
Of  good    Queen    Catharine's  divorce  — 

the  spring 
Of  all  those  evils  that  have  flow'd  upon  us; 
For   you  yourself  have  truckled   to   the 

tyrant, 
And  done    your   best  to  bastardise    our 

Queen, 
For  which  God's  righteous  judgment  fell 

upon  you 
In  your  five  years  of  imprisonment,  my 

Lord, 
Under  young  Edward,    Who  so  bolster'd 

up 
The  gross  King's  headship  of  the  Church, 

or  more 
Denied  the  Holy  Father ! 

Gardiner.  Ha!  what  I  eh? 

But  you,  my  Lord,  a  polish'd  gentleman, 
A  bookman,  flying   from   the   heat    and 

tussle, 
Vou  lived  among  your  vines  and  oranges, 
In   your   soft    Italy  yonder !     You  were 

sent  for. 
You   were    appeal'd    to,    but    you    still 

preferr'd 
Your  learned  leisure.     As  for  what  I  did 
I    suffer'd    and    repented.      You,    Lord 

Legate 
And  Cardinal-Deacon,  have  not  now  to 

learn 
That  ev'n  St.  Peter  in  his  time  of  fear 
Denied  his   Master,  ay,  and  thrice,  my 

Lord. 
Pole.      But    not     for     five-and-twenty 

years,  my  Lord. 
Gardiner.     Ha  !  good  I  it  seems  then 

I  was  summon'd  hither 
But  to  be  mock'd   and   baited.     Speak, 

friend  Bonner, 
And  tell  this  learned  Legate  he  lacks  zeal. 
The  Church's  evil  is  not  as  the  King's, 
Cannot  be  heal'd  by  stroking.     The  mad 

bite 
Must  have  the  cautery  —  tell  him  —  and  at 

once. 
What  would'st  thou  do  had'st  thou  his 

power,  thou 
That  layest  so  long  in  heretic  bonds  with 

me ; 
Would'st  thou  not  burn  and  blast  them 

root  and  branch  ? 
Bonner.  Av,  after  you,  my  I.  ord. 


Gardiner.     Nay,  God's  passion,  before 

me  !  speak  ! 
Bonner.     I  am  on  fire  until  I  see  them 

flame. 
Gardiner.        Ay,    the    psalm-singing 

weavers,  cobblers,  scum  — 
But  this  most  noble  prince  Plantagenet, 
Our  good  Queen's  cousin  —  dallying  over 

seas 
Even  when  his  brother's,  nay,  his  noble 

mother's. 
Head  fell  — 

Pole.     Peace,  madman  ! 
Thou  stirrest  up  a  grief  thou  canst  not 

fathom. 
Thou  Christian  Bishop,  thou  Lord  Chan- 
cellor 
Of   England !  no  more  rein   upon  thine 

anger 
Than  any  child  I     Thou  mak'st  me  much 

ashamed 
That  I  was  for  a  moment  wroth  at  thee. 
Mary.     I  come  for  counsel  and  ye  give 

me  feuds. 
Like  dogs  that  set  to  watch  their  master's 

gate. 
Fall,  when  the  thief  is  ev'n  within  the 

walls. 
To    worrying    one    another.       My    Lord 

Chancellor, 
You  have  an  old  trick  of  offending  us; 
And  but  that  you  are  art  and  part  with  us 
In  purging  heresy,  well  we  might,  for  this 
Your  violence  and  much  roughness  to  the 

Legate, 
Have     shut     you     from     our    counsels. 

Cousin  Pole, 
You  are  fresh  from  brighter  lands.     Re- 
tire with  me. 
His  Highness  and  myself  (so  you  allow 

us) 
Will  let  you  learn  in  peace  and  privacy 
What  power  this  cooler  sun  of  England 

hath 
In  breeding  godless  vermin.     And  pray 

Heaven 
That  you  may  see  according  to  our  sight. 
Come,  cousin. 

{^Exeunt  Queen  and  Pole,  etc. 
Gardiner.      Pole  has  the  Plantagenet 

face, 
But  not  the  force  made  them  our  mightiest 

kings. 


6o4 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    III. 


Fine  eyes  —  but  melancholy,  irresolute  — 
A  fine    beard,   Bonner,    a  very  full    fine 

beard. 
But  a  weak  mouth,  an  indeterminate — ha  ? 
Bonner.     Well,  a  weak   mouth,  per- 
chance. 
Gardiner.         And  not  like  thine 
To  gorge  a  heretic  whole,  roasted  or  raw. 
Bomier.     I'd  do  my  best,  my  Lord; 

but  yet  the  Legate 
Is  here  as  Pope  and  Master  of  the  Church, 
And  if  he  go  not  with  you  — 

Gardiner.  Tut,  Master  Bishop, 

Our  bashful  Legate,  saw'st  not  how  he 

flush'd? 
Touch  him  upon  his  old  heretical  talk, 
He'll  burn  a  diocese  to  prove  his  ortho- 
doxy. 
And  let  him  call  me  truckler.     In  those 

times, 
Thou  knowest  we  had  to  dodge,  or  duck, 

or  die; 
I  kept  my  head  for  use  of  Holy  Church; 
And  see  you,  we  shall  have  to  dodge  again. 
And  let  the  Pope  trample  our  rights,  and 

plunge 
His  foreign  fist  into  our  island   Church 
To  plump  the  leaner  pouch  of  Italy. 
For  a  time,  for  a  time. 
Why?  that  these  statutes  may  be  put  in 

force. 
And  that  his  fan  may  thoroughly  purge 

his  floor. 
Bonner.    So  then  you  hold  the  Pope  — 
Gardiner.  I  hold  the  Pope  ! 

What  do  I  hold    him?  what  do  I  hold 

the  Pope? 
Come,    come,    the    morsel    stuck  —  this 

Cardinal's  fault  — 
I  have  gulpt  it  down.     I  am  wholly  for 

the  Pope, 
Utterly  and  altogether  for  the  Pope, 
The  Eternal  Peter  of  the  changeless  chair, 
Crown'd  slave  of  slaves,  and  mitred  king 

of  kings, 
God  upon  earth  !  what  more?  what  would 

you  have? 
Hence,  let's  be  gone. 

Enter  USHER. 

Usher.     Well   that  you  be  not  gone. 
My  Lord.     The    Queen,  most  wroth  at 
first  with  you, 


Is  now  content  to  grant  you  full  forgive- 
ness. 
So  that   you    crave   full   pardon  of  the 

Legate. 
I  am  sent  to  fetch  you. 

Gardiner.       Doth  Pole  yield,  sir,  ha ! 
Did  you  hear  'em?  were  you  by? 

Usher.  I  cannot  tell  you, 

His  bearing  is  so  courtly-delicate; 
And  yet  methinks  he  falters :   their  two 

Graces 
Do  so  dear-cousin  and  royal-cousin  him, 
So  press  on  him  the  duty  which  as  Legate 
He  owes  himself,  and  with    such    royal 

smiles  — 
Gardiner.       Smiles    that   burn   men. 

Bonner,  it  will  be  carried. 
He  falters,  ha?  'fore  God,  we  change  and 

change; 
Men  now  are  bow'd  and  old,  the  doctors 

tell  you, 
At  three-score  years;   then  if  we  change 

at  all 
We  needs  must  do  it  quickly;   it  is  an  age 
Of  brief  life,  and  brief  purpose,  and  brief 

patience, 
As  I  have  shown  to-day.     I  am  sorry  for  it 
If  Pole  be  like  to  turn.     Our  old  friend 

Cranmer, 
Your  more  especial  love,  hath  turn'd  so 

often. 
He  knows  not  where  he  stands,  which, 

if  this  pass. 
We  two  shall  have  to  teach  him;   let  'em 

look  to  it, 
Cranmer  and  Hooper,  Ridley  and  Latimer, 
Rogers  and  Ferrar,  for  their  time  is  come. 
Their  hour  is  hard  at  hand,  their  '  dies 

Irse,' 
Their  '  dies  Ilia,'  which  will  test  their  sect. 
I  feel  it  but  a  duty  —  you  will  find  in  it 
Pleasure  as  well  as  duty,  worthy  Bonner, — 
To  test  their  sect.    Sir,  I  attend  the  Queen 
To  crave  most  humble  pardon  —  of  her 

most 
Royal,  Infallible,  Papal  Legate-cousin. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE   V.  —  Woodstock. 

Elizabeth,  Lady  in  Waiting. 

Elizabeth.      So    they    have   sent    poor 
Courtenay  over  sea. 


SCENE   V 


QUEEN  MARY. 


605 


Lady.     And  banish'd  us  to  Woodstock, 
and  the  fields. 
The  colours  of  our  queen  are  green  and 

white, 
These  fields  are  only  green,  they  make 
me  gape. 
Elizabeth.     There's  whitethorn,  girl. 
Lady.  Ay,  for  an  hour  in  May. 

But   court  is  always    May,  buds  out  in 

masques, 
Breaks    into    feather'd   merriments,   and 

flowers 
In  silken  pageants.     Why  do  they  keep 

us  here? 
Why  still  suspect  your  Grace? 

Elizabeth.  Hard  upon  both. 

[  Writes  on  the  zvindozu  with  a  dia7?iond. 

Much  suspected,  of  me 
Nothing  proven  can  be. 

Quoth  Elizabeth,  prisoner. 

Lady.      What    hath    your    Highness 

written  ? 
Elizabeth.  A  true  rhyme. 

Lady.     Cut  with  a  diamond;   so  to  last 

like  truth. 
Elizabeth.     Ay,  if  truth  last. 
Lady.         But  truth,  they  say,  will  out. 
So  it  must  last.     It  is  not  like  a  word, 
That  comes  and  goes  in  uttering. 

Elizabeth.  Truth,  a  word  ! 

The  very  Truth  and  very  Word  are  one. 
But  truth  of  story,  which  I  glanced  at, 

girl, 
Is  like  a  word   that   comes  from   olden 

days, 
And  passes  thro'thepeoples  :  every  tongue 
Alters  it  passing,  till  it  spells  and  speaks 
Quite  other  than  at  first. 

Lady.  I  do  not  follow. 

Elizabeth.     How  many  names  in   the 
long  sweep  of  time 
That  so  foreshortens  greatness,  may  but 

hang 
On  the  chance  mention  of  some  fool  that 

once 
Brake  bread  with  us,  perhaps :   and  my 

poor  chronicle 
Is  but  of  glass.     Sir  Henry  Bedingfield 
May  split  it  for  a  spite. 

Lady.  God  grant  it  last. 

And  witness  to  your  Grace's  innocence. 
Till  doomsday  melt  it. 


Elizabeth.  Or  a  second  fire, 

Like  that  which  lately  crackled  underfoot 
And  in  this  very  chamber,  fuse  the  glass. 
And  char  us  back  again  into  the  dust 
We  spring  from.     Never  peacock  against 

rain 
Scream'd  as  you  did  for  water. 

Lady.  And  I  got  it. 

I  woke  Sir   Henry  —  and   he's   true   to 

you  — 
I  read  his  honest  horror  in  his  eyes. 
Elizabeth.     Or  true  to  you? 
Lady.  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield  ! 

I   will   have  no  man    true   to   me,   your 

Grace, 
But  one  that  pares  his  nails;   to  me?  the 
clown  ! 
Elizabeth.     Out,    girl !    you   wrong    a 

noble  gentleman. 
Lady.     For,  like  his  cloak,  his  man- 
ners want  the  nap 
And  gloss  of  court;    but  of  this  fire  he 

says, 
Xay  swears,  it  was  no  wicked  wilfulness, 
Only  a  natural  chance. 

Elizabeth.  A  chance  —  perchance 

One   of  those  wicked   wilfuls   that  men 

make. 
Nor  shame  to  call  it  nature.     Nay,  I  know 
They  hunt  my  blood.     Save  for  my  daily 

range 
Among  the  pleasant  fields  of  Holy  Writ 
I  might  despair.     But  there  hath  some 

one  come; 
The  house  is  all  in  movement.     Hence, 
and  see.  \_Exit  Lady. 

Milkmaid  {singing  without^. 

Shame  upon  you,  Robin, 

Shame  upon  you  now ! 
Kiss  me  would  you?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow? 

Daisies  grow  again, 

Kingcups  blow  again, 
And  you  came  and  kiss'd  me  milking  the  cow. 

Robin  came  behind  me, 

Kiss'd  me  well  I  vow ; 
Cuff  him  could  I?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow? 

Swallows  fly  again, 

Cuckoos  cry  again, 
And  you  came  and  kiss'd  me  milking  the  cow. 


6o6 


QUEEN  MARY 


ACT   III. 


Come,  Robin,  Robin, 

Come  and  kiss  me  now; 
Help  it  can  I?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow? 

Ringdoves  coo  again, 

All  things  woo  again. 
Come  behind  and  kiss  me  milking  the  cow ! 

Elizabeth.       Right    honest    and    red- 

cheek'd ;    Robin  was  violent, 
And  she  was  crafty  —  a  sweet  violence, 
And  a  sweet  craft,     I  would   I   were   a 

milkmaid, 
To  sing,  love,  marry,  churn,  brew,  bake, 

and  die, 
Then  have  my  simple  headstone  l)y  the 

church. 
And  all  things  lived  and  ended  honestly. 
I  could  not  if  I  would.     I  am  Harry's 

daughter : 
Gardiner  would  have  my  head.     They  are 

not  sweet, 
The  violence  and  the  craft  that  do  divide 
The  world  of  nature;   what  is  weak  must 

lie; 
The   lion  needs   but   roar  to  guard   his 

young; 
The  lapwing  lies,  says  '  here '  when  they 

are  there. 
Threaten  the  child;   'I'll  scourge  you  if 

you  did  it :  ' 
What  weapon    hath  the  child,  save  his 

soft  tongue, 
To  say  'I  did  not'?  and  my  rod's  the 

block. 
I  never  lay  my  head  upon  the  pillow 
But  that  I  think,  '  Wilt  thou  lie  there  to- 
morrow? ' 
How  oft  the  falling  axe,  that  never  fell, 
Hath  shock'd  ine  back  into  the  daylight 

truth 
That  it  may  fall  to-day !     Those  damp, 

black,  dead 
Nights  in  the  Tower;    dead  —  with  the 

fear  of  death 
Too  dead  ev'n  for  a  death-watch !     Toll 

of  a  bell, 
Stroke  of  a  clock,  the  scurrying  of  a  rat 
Affrighted  me,  and  then  delighted  me, 
For  there  was  life  —  And  there  was  life 

in  death  — 
The  little  murder'd  princes,  in  a  pale  light, 
Rose  hand  in  hand,  and  whisper'd,'  Come 

away ! 


The  civil  wars  are  gone  fur  evermore : 
Thou  last  of  all  the  Tudors,  come  away  ! 
With  us  in  peace  I '     The  last?     It  was  a 

dream ; 
I  must  not  dream,  not  wink,  but  watch. 

She  has  gone. 
Maid  Marian  to  her  Robin  —  by  and  by 
Both   happy  I  a  fox  may  filch  a  hen  by 

night, 
And  make  a  morning  outcry  in  the  yard; 
But  there's  no  Renard  here  to  '  catch  her 

tripping.' 
Catch  me  who  can;   yet,  sometime  I  have 

wish'd 
That  I  were  caught,  and  kill'd  away  at 

once 
Out    of    the    flutter.      The   gray  rogue, 

Gardiner, 
Went  on   his   knees,  and  pray'd  me  to 

confess 
In  Wyatt's  business,  and  to  cast  myself 
Upon  the  good  Queen's  mercy;  ay,  when, 

my  Lord? 
God  save  the  Queen  !     My  jailor  — 

Enter  SiR  Henry  Bedingfield. 
Bedingfield.  One,  whose  bolts, 

That  jail  you  from  free  life,  bar  you  from 

death. 
There  haunt  some  Papist  ruffians  here- 
about 
Would  murder  you. 

Elizabeth.         I  thank  you  heartily,  sir. 
But  I  am  royal,  tho'  your  prisoner. 
And  God  hath  blest  or  cursed  me  with  a 

nose  — 
Your  boots  are  from  the  horses. 

Bedingfield.  Ay,  my  Lady. 

When  next  there  comes  a  missive  from 

the  Queen 
It  shall  be  all  my  study  for  one  hour 
To  rose  and  lavender  my  horsiness, 
Before  I  dare  to  glance  upon  your  Grace. 
Elizabeth.     A  missive  from  the  Queen  : 
last  time  she  wrote, 
I  had  like  to  have  lost  my  life :  it  takes 

my  breath: 
O  God,  sir,  do  you  look  upon  your  boots. 
Are    you  so  small    a    man?     Help  me: 

what  think  you, 
Is  it  life  or  death? 

Bedingjield.       I    thought    not    on    my 
boots; 


SCENE  YI. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


(Xi'J 


The  devil  take  all  boots  were  ever  made 
Since  man  went  barefoot.     See,  I  lay  it 

here, 
For  I  will  come  no  nearer  to  your  Grace; 
[^Laying  doiun  the  letter. 
And,  whether  it  bring  you  bitter  news  or 

sweet, 
And  God  hath  given  your  Grace  a  nose, 

or  not, 
I'll  help  you,  if  I  may. 

Elizabeth.  Your  pardon,  then; 

It   is   the    heat   and   narrowness   of  the 

cage 
That  makes  the  captive  testy;   with  free 

wing 
The  world  w^ere  all  one  Araby.     Leave 

me  now. 
Will  you,  companion  to  myself,  sir? 

Beding  field.  Willi? 

With  most  exceeding  willingness,  I  will; 
You  know  I  never  come  till  I  be  call'd. 

[  Exit. 

Elizabeth.    It  lies  there  folded  :  is  there 

venom  in  it? 

A  snake  —  and  if  I  touch  it,  it  may  sting. 

Come,  come,  the  worst ! 

Best  wisdom  is  to  know  the  worst  at  once. 

\_Reads  : 

'  It  is  the  King's  wish,  that  you 
should  wed  Prince  Philibert  of  Savoy. 
You  are  to  coine  to  Court  on  the  instant; 
and  think  of  this  in  your  coming. 

'Mary  the  Queen.' 

Think  !   I  have  many  thoughts; 

I  think  there  may  be  birdlime  here  for 

me; 
I  think  they  fain  would  have  me  from  the 

realm ; 
I   think   the  Queen   may  never    bear    a 

child; 
I    think    that    I   may    be    sometime    the 

Queen, 
Then,  Queen  indeed  :   no  foreign  prince 

or  priest 
Should  fill  my  throne,  myself  upon  the 

steps. 
I  think  I  will  not  marry  anyone. 
Specially  not  this  landless  Philibert 
Of  Savoy;   but,  if  Philip  menace  me, 
I  think  that  I  will  play  with  Philibert,— 
As  once  the  Holy  Father  did  with  mine, 


Before     my     father     married     my    good 

mother,— 
For  fear  of  Spain. 

Enter  Lady. 

Lad}'.         O  Lord !    your   Grace,  your 

Grace, 
I  feel  so  happy  :  it  seems  that  we  shall  fly 
These  bald,  blank  fields,  and  dance  into 

the  sun 
That  shines  on  princes. 

Elizabeth.  Yet,  a  moment  since, 

I   wish'd    myself   the    milkmaid    singing 

here. 
To  kiss   and  cuff  among  the   birds  and 

flowers  — 
A  right  rough  life  and  healthful. 

Lady.  But  the  wench 

Hath  her  own  troubles;   she  is  weeping 

now ; 
For  the  wrong  Robin  took  her  at  her  word. 
Then  the   cow  kick'd,  and   all  her  milk 

was  spilt. 
Your  Highness  such  a  milkmaid? 

Elizabeth.  I  had  kept 

My  Robins  and  my  cows  in  sweeter  order 
Had  I  been  such. 

Lady  (^slyly).      And  had  your  Grace  a 

Robin? 
Elizabeth.     Come,  come,  you  are  chill 

here;   ypu  want  the  sun 
That  shines  at  court;   make  ready  for  the 

journey. 
Pray    God,    we    'scape    the    sunstroke. 

Ready  at  once.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  London.      A  Room   in 
the  Palace, 

Lord  Petre  and  Lord  W^illiam 
Howard. 

Petre.       You  cannot    see  the    Queen. 

Renard  denied  her, 
Ev'n  now  to  me. 

LLoivard.       Their  Flemish  go-between 
And    all-in-all.      I    came    to    thank    her 

Majesty 
For   freeing   my  friend    Bagenhall   from 

the  Tower; 
A  grace   to    me !     Mercy,  that    herb-of- 

grace. 
Flowers  now  but  seldom. 


6o8 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT  III. 


Petre.  Only  now  perhaps. 

Because  the  Queen  hath  been  three  days 

in  tears 
For  Philip's  going  —  like  the  wild  hedge- 
rose 
Of  a  soft  winter,  possible,  not  probable, 
However  you  have  prov'n  it. 

Hoivard.  I  must  see  her. 

Enter  Renard. 

Renard.     My  Lords,  you   cannot   see 

her  Majesty. 
Howard.     Why  then  the  King  !   for  I 

would  have  him  bring  it 
Home  to  the  leisure  wisdom  of  his  Queen, 
Before  he  go,  that    since  these    statutes 

past, 
Gardiner  out-Gardiners    Gardiner  in  his 

heat, 
Bonner  cannot  out-Bonner  his  own  self  — 
Beast !  —  but  they  play  with  fire  as  chil- 
dren do, 
And  burn  the  house.     I  know  that  these 

are  breeding 
A  fierce  resolve  and  fixt  heart-hate  in  men 
Against  the  King,  the  Queen,  the  Holy 

Father, 
The  faith  itself.     Can  I  not  see  him? 

Renard.  Not  now. 

And  in  all  this,  my  Lord,  her  Majesty 
Is  flint  of  flint,  you  may  strike  fire  from 

her. 
Not  hope  to  melt.  her.     I  will  give  your 

message. 

[^Exeunt  Petre  and  Howard. 

Enter  Philip  {itinsing). 

Philip.      She    will    not    have    Prince 

Philibert  of  Savoy, 
I  talk'd  with  her  in  vain  —  says  she  will 

live 
And  die  true  maid  —  a  goodly  creature  too. 
Would  she  had  been  the  Queen  !  yet  she 

must  have  him ; 
She  troubles  England :  that  she  breathes 

in  England 
Is  life  and  lungs  to  every  rebel  birth 
That  passes  out  of  embryo. 

Simon  Renard  !  — 
This  Howard,  whom  they  fear,  what  was 

he  saying? 
Renard.     What   your    imperial  father 

said,  my  liege, 


To  deal  with  heresy  gentlier.     Gardiner 

burns, 
And  Bonner  burns;   and  it  would  seem 

this  people 
Care  more  for  our  brief  life  in  their  wet 

land. 
Than  yours  in  happier  Spain.     I  told  my 

Lord 
He  should  not  vex   her   Highness;    she 

would  say 
These    are    the  means  God  works  with, 

that  His  church 
May  flourish. 

Philip.  Ay,  sir,  but  in  statesmanship 
To  strike  too  soon  is  oft  to  miss  the  blow. 
Thou  knowest  I  bade  my  chaplain,  Castro, 

preach 
Against  these  burnings. 

Renard.  And  the  Emperor 

Approved  you,  and  when  last  he  wrote, 

declared 
His  comfort  in  your  Grace  that  you  were 

bland 
And  affable  to  men  of  all  estates, 
In  hope  to  charm  them  from  their  hate  of 

Spain. 
Philip.      In  hope  to  crush  all  heresy 

under  Spain. 
But,  Renard,  I  am  sicker  staying  here 
Than   any  sea   could   make  me  passing 

hence, 
Tho'  I  be  ever  deadly  sick  at  sea. 
So  sick  am  I  with  biding  for  this  child. 
Is  it  the  fashion  in  this  clime  for  women 
To   go   twelve   months   in   bearing  of  a 

child? 
The    nurses   yawn'd,   the    cradle   gaped, 

they  led 
Processions,  chanted  litanies,  clash'd  their 

bells, 
Shot   off    their   lying   cannon,    and    her 

priests 
Have    preach'd,    the    fools,    of  this   fair 

prince  to  come; 
Till,  by  St,  James,  I  find  myself  the  fool. 
Why   do   you   lift  your   eyebrow  at    me 

thus? 
Renard.     I  never  saw  your  Highness 

moved  till  now. 
Philip.     So   weary   am   I   of  this  wet 

land  of  theirs, 
And    every   soul   of   man   that    breathes 

therein. 


SCENE   VI. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


609 


Kenard.     My  liege,  we  must  not  drop 
the  mask  before 
The  masquerade  is  over  — 

Philip.  — Have  I  dropt  it? 

I  have  but  shown  a  loathing  face  to  you, 
Who  knew  it  from  the  first. 

Enter  Mary. 

Maty  {aside).       With  Renard.     Still 
Parleying  with  Renard,  all  the  day  with 

Renard, 
And  scarce  a  greeting  all  the  day  for  me  — 
And  goes  to-morrow.  \_Exit  Mary. 

Philip    {to   Renard,   who    advances  to 

hint).     Well,  sir,  is  there  more? 
Renard  {ivho  has  perceived  the  Queen). 
May  Simon  Renard  speak  a  single 
word? 
Philip.     Ay. 

Renard.     And  be  forgiven  for  it? 
Philip.  Simon  Renard 

Knows  me  too  well   to   speak   a  single 

word 
That  could  not  be  forgiven. 

Renard.  Well,  my  liege, 

Your  Grace  hath  a  most  chaste  and  loving 
wife. 
Philip.     Why   not?      The    Queen    of 

Philip  should  be  chaste. 
Renard.     Ay,  but,  my  Lord,  you  know 
what  Virgil  sings. 
Woman  is  various  and  most  mutable, 
Philip.     She  play  the  harlot !  never. 
Rejiard.  No,  sire,  no, 

Not  dream'd  of  by  the  rabidest  gospeller. 
There  was  a  paper  thrown  into  the  palace, 
'The   King  hath  wearied  of  his  barren 

bride.' 
She  came  upon  it,  read  it,  and  then  rent  it. 
With   all  the  rage  of  one  who  hates  a 

truth 
He    cannot   but   allow.     Sire,    I    would 

have  you  — 
What  should  I   say,   I   cannot  pick  my 

words  — 
Be    somewhat    less  —  majestic    to    your 
Queen. 
Philip.     Am  T  to  change  my  manners, 
Simon  Renard, 
Because  these  islanders  are  brutal  beasts? 
Or  would  you  have  me  turn  a  sonneteer, 
And  warble  those   brief-sighted  eyes  of 
hers? 
2R 


Renard.      Brief-sighted    tho'  they  be, 

I  have  seen  them,  sire. 
When  you  perchance  were  trifling  royally 
With  some  fair  dame  of  court,  suddenly 

fill 
With  such  fierce  fire  —  had  it  been  fire 

indeed 
It  would  have  burnt  both  speakers. 
Philip.  Ay,  and  then? 

Renard.     Sire,  might  it  not  be  policy 

in  some  matter 
Of  small  importance   now  and  then  to 

cede 
A  point  to  her  demand? 

Philip.  Well,  I  am  going. 

Renard.     For  should    her  love   when 

you  are  gone,  my  liege, 
Witness  these  papers,  there  will  not  be 

wanting 
Those  that  will  urge  her  injury  —  should 

her  love  — 
And  I  have  known    such  women  more 

than  one  — 
Veer  to  the  counterpoint,  and  jealousy 
Hath  in  it  an  alchemic  force  to  fuse 
Almost  into  one  metal  love  and  hate,  — 
And  she   impress  her  wrongs  upon  her 

Council, 
And  these  again  upon  her  Parliament  — 
We  are  not  loved   here,  and  would   be 

then  perhaps 
Not   so    well    holpen   in   our  wars  with 

France, 
As  else  we  might  be  —  here  she  comes. 


Enter  Mary. 


O  Philip 


Mary. 
Nay,  must  you  go  indeed? 

Philip.  Madam,  I  must. 

Mary.     The  parting  of  a  husband  and 
a  wife 
Is  like  the  cleaving  of  a  heart;   one  half 
Will  flutter  here,  one  there. 

Philip.  You  say  true.  Madam. 

Mary.     The  Holy  Virgin  will  not  have 
me  yet 
Lose  the  sweet  hope  that  I  may  bear  a 

prince. 
If  such  a  prince  were  born  and  you  not 
here  ! 
Philip.      I   should   be   here   if  such  a 

prince  were  born. 
Mary.     But  must  you  go  ? 


6io 


QUEEN  MARY 


ACT    IV, 


Philip.     Madam,  you  know  my  father, 
Retiring  into  cloistral  sulitude 
To   yield    the   remnant  of  his   years   to 

heaven, 
Will  shift  the  yoke  and  weight  of  all  the 

world 
From  off  his  neck  to  mine.     We  meet  at 

Brussels. 
But  since  mine  absence  will  not  be  for 

long, 
Your  Majesty  shall  go  to  Dover  with  me, 
And  wait  my  coming  back. 

Mary.  To  Dover?  no, 

I  am  too  feeble.    I  will  go  to  Greenwich, 
So  you  will  have  me  with  you;   and  there 

watch 
All   that    is   gracious   in    the    breath    of 

heaven 
Draw  with  your  sails  from  our  poor  land, 

and  pass 
And  leave  me,  Philip,  with  my  prayers 
for  you. 
Philip.      And  doubtless  I  shall  profit 

by  your  prayers. 
Mary.    Methinks  that  would  you  tarry 
one  day  more 
(The  news  was  sudden)   I  could  mould 

myself 
To  bear  your  going  better;   will  you  do 
it? 
Philip.     Madam,  a  day  may  sink    or 

save  a  realm. 
Mary.     A  day  may  save  a  heart  from 

breaking  too. 
Philip.     Well,  Simon  Renard,  shall  we 

stop  a  day? 
Renard.     Your  Grace's   business  will 
not  suffer,  sire. 
For  one  day  more,  so  far  as  I  can  tell. 
Philip.     Then  one  day  more  to  please 

her  Majesty. 
Mary.     The  sunshine    sweeps    across 
my  life  again. 

0  if  I  knew  you  felt  this  parting,  Philip, 
As  I  do  ! 

Philip.     By  St.  James  I  do  protest. 
Upon  the  faith  and  honour  of  a  Span- 
iard, 

1  am  vastly  grieved  to  leave  your  Majesty. 
Simon,  is  supper  ready? 

Renard.  Ay,  my  liege, 

I  saw  the  covers  laying. 

Philip.  Let  us  have  it.      {^F.xennt. 


ACT   IV. 
SCENE   I.  —  A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Mary,  Cardinal  Pole. 

Mary.     What  have  you  there? 
Pole.  So  please  your  Majesty, 

A  long  petition  from  the  foreign  exiles 
To  spare  the  life  of  Cranmer.     Bishop 

Thirlby, 
And  my  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  William 

Howard, 
Crave,  in  the  same  cause,  hearing  of  your 

Grace. 
Hath    he    not  written    himself — infatu- 
ated — 
To  sue  you  for  his  life? 

Mary.  His  life?     Oh,  no; 

Not  sued  for  that  —  he  knows  it  were  in 

vain. 
But  so  much  of  the  anti-papal  leaven 
Works  in  him  yet,  he  hath  pray'd  me  not 

to  sully 
Mine  own  prerogative,  and  degrade  the 

realm 
By  seeking  justice  at  a  stranger's  hand 
Against  my  natural  subject.     King  and 

Queen, 
To  whom  he  owes  his  loyalty  after  God, 
Shall    these    accuse    him    to    a    foreign 

prince? 
Death  would  not   grieve    him  more.     I 

cannot  be 
True  to  this  realm  of  England  and  the 

Pope 
Together,  says  the  heretic. 

Pole.  And  there  errs; 

As  he  hath  ever  err'd  thro'  vanity. 
A  secular  kingdom  is  l)ut  as  the  body 
Lacking  a  soul;   and  in  itself  a  beast. 
The  Holy  Father  in  a  secular  kingdom 
Is  as  the  soul  descending  out  of  heaven 
Into  a  body  generate. 

Mary.  Write  to  him,  then. 

Pole.     I  will. 

Mary.  And  sharply,  Pole. 

Pole.  Here  come  the  Cranmerites ! 

Enter  Thirlby,  Lord  Paget,  Lord 
William  Howard. 

Howard.         Health    to    your    Grace ! 
Good  morrow,  my  Lord  Cardinal; 


SCENE   I. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


6ii 


We  make  our  humble  prayer  unto  your 

Grace 
That  Cranmer  may  withdraw  to  foreign 

parts, 
Or  into  private  life  within  the  realm. 
In  several  bills  and  declarations,  Madam, 
He  hath  recanted  all  his  heresies. 

Paget.     Ay,  ay;    if   Bonner   have  not 

forged  the  bills.  S^Aside. 

Mary.     Did  not  More  die,  and  Fisher? 

he  must  burn. 
Howard.     He  hath  recanted,  Madam. 
Mary.  The  better  for  him. 

He  burns  in  Purgatory,  not  in  Hell. 
Howard.     Ay,  ay,  your  Grace;   but  it 
was  never  seen 
That  anyone  recanting  thus  at  full. 
As  Cranmer  hath,  came    to   the  fire  on 
earth. 
Alary.     It  will  be  seen  now,  then. 
Thirlby.  O  Madam,  Madam  ! 

I  thus  implore  you,  low  upon  my  knees. 
To  reach  the  hand  of  mercy  to  my  friend. 
I  have  err'd  with  him;   with  him  I  have 

recanted. 
What    human   reason   is   there  why  my 

friend 
Should  meet  with  lesser  mercv  than  my- 
self? 
Mary.     My  Lord  of  Ely,  this.     After 
a  riot 
We  hang  the  leaders,  let  their  following 

Cranmer  is  head  and  father  of  these  here- 
sies. 

New  learning  as  they  call  it;    vea,  may 
God 

Forget  me  at  most  need  when  I  forget 

Her  foul  divorce  —  my  sainted  mother  — 
No  !  — 
Ho'iuard.     Ay,  ay,  but  mighty  doctors 
doubted  there. 

The   Pope   himself  waver'd;    and   more 
than  one 

Row'd  in  that  galley  —  Gardiner  to  wit, 

Whom  truly  I  deny  not  to  have  been 

Your  faithful  friend  and  trusty  councillor. 

Hath  not   your  Highness  ever  read  his 
book. 

His  tractate  upon  True  Obedience, 

Writ  by  himself  and  Bonner? 

Mary.  I  will  take 

Such  order  with  all  bad,  heretical  books 


That  none  shall  hold  them  in  his  house 
and  live. 

Henceforward.     No,  my  Lord. 

Hoioard.  Then  never  read  it. 

The  truth  is  here.     Your  father  was  a  man 

Of  such  colossal  kinghood,  yet  so  cour- 
teous, 

Except    when    wroth,  you   scarce    could 
meet  his  eye 

And  hold  your  own;   and  were  he  wroth 
indeed, 

You  held  it  less,  or  not  at  all.     I  say, 

Your  father  had  a  w  ill  that  beat  men  down ; 

Your  father  had  a  brain  that  beat  men 
down  — 
Pole.     Not  me,  my  Lord. 
Howard.     No,  for  you  were  not  here; 

You  sit  upon  this  fallen  Cranmer's  throne; 

And  it  would  more  become  you,  my  Lord 
Legate, 

To  join  a  voice,  so  potent  with  her  High- 
ness, 

To  ours  in  plea  for  Cranmer  than  to  stand 

On  naked  self-assertion. 

JMary.  All  your  voices 

Are  waves  on   flint.     The    heretic  must 
burn. 
Howard.      Yet    once   he   saved   your 
Majesty's  own  life; 

Stood  out  against  the  King  in  your  be- 
half. 

At  his  own  peril. 

Mary.  I  know  not  if  he  did; 

And    if   he    did    I    care    not,    my    Lord 
Howard. 

My  life  is  not  so  happy,  no  such  boon. 

That  I  should  spare    to    take   a  heretic 
priest's. 

Who  saved  it  or  not  saved.    Why  do  you 
vex  me? 
Paget.     Yet  to  save  Cranmer  were  to 
serve  the  Church, 

Your  Majesty's  I  mean;   he  is  effaced. 

Self-blotted    out;     so    wounded    in    his 
honour, 

He  can  but  creep  down  into  some  dark 
hole 

Like  a  hurt  beast,  and  hide  himself  and 
die; 

But  if  you  burn  him,  —  well,  your  High- 
ness knows 

The  saying, '  Martyr's  blood  —  seed  of  the 
Church.' 


6l2 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    IV. 


Mary.     Of  the  true  Church;    but  his 
is  none,  nor  will  be. 
You    are   too   politic    for    me,  my  Lord 

Paget. 
And  if  he  have  to  live  so  loath'd  a  life, 
It  were  more  merciful  to  burn  him  now. 
Thii'lhy.     Oh,  yet  relent.     O  Madam, 
if  you  knew  him 
As  I  do,  ever  gentle,  and  so  gracious. 
With  all  his  learning  — 

Ma7y.  Yet  a  heretic  still. 

His  learning  makes  his  burning  the  more 

just. 

Thij'lby.     So  worshipt  of  all  those  that 

came  across  him; 

The  stranger  at  his  hearth,  and  all  his 

house  — 
.   Mary.     His  children  and   his  concu- 
bine, belike. 
Thirlby.     To  do  him  any  wrong  was 
to  beget 
A  kindness  from  him,  for  his  heart  was 

rich, 
Of  such    fine  mould,  that  if  you  sow'd 

therein 
The  seed  of  Hate,  it  blossom'd  Charity. 
Pole.     '  After    his   kind    it   costs    him 
nothing,'  there's 
An    old    world    English    adage    to    the 

point. 
These  are  but  natural  graces,  my  good 

Bishop, 
Which    in   the   Catholic   garden  are  as 

flowers. 
But  on  the  heretic  dunghill  only  weeds. 
Howard.     Such  weeds  make  dunghills 

gracious. 
Mary.  Enough,  my  Lords. 

It  is  God's  will,  the  Holy  Father's  will, 
And    Philip's   will,    and   mine,    that    he 

should  burn. 
He  is  pronounced  anathema. 

Howard.  Farewell,  Madam, 

God   grant   you   ampler    mercy  at   your 

call 
Than  you  have  shown  to  Cranmer. 

[^Exeunt  Lords. 
Pole.  After  this. 

Your  Grace  will  hardly  care  to  overlook 
This  same  petition  of  the  foreign  exiles 
For  Cranmer's  life. 

Mary.         Make  out  the  writ  to-night. 

\_Exeunt. 


SCENE    II.  —  Oxford.     Cranmer  in 
Prison. 

Cranmer.     Last  night,  I  dream'd  the 

faggots  were  alight, 
And  that  myself  was  fasten'd  to  the  stake, 
And  found  it  all  a  visionary  flame. 
Cool  as  the  light  in  old  decaying  wood; 
And  then  King  Harry  look'd  out   from 

a  cloud, 
And  bade  me  have  good  courage;    and 

I  heard 
An    angel    cry,    'There    is    more  joy  in 

Heaven,'  — 
And  after  that,  the  trumpet  of  the  dead. 
[  Tru77ipets  without. 
Why,  there  are  trumpets  blowing  now  : 

what  is  it? 

Enter  Father  Cole. 

Cole.     Cranmer,   I    come    to    question 
you  again; 
Have  you  remain'd  in  the  true  Catholic 

faith 
I  left  you  in? 

Cranmer.     In  the  true  Catholic  faith. 
By  Heaven's  grace,  I  am  more  and  more 

confirm'd. 
Why  are  the   trumpets  blowing,  Father 
Cole? 
Cole.     Cranmer,  it  is  decided    by  the 
Council 
That  you  to-day  should  read  your  recan- 
tation 
Before  the  people  in  St.  Mary's  Church. 
And  there  be  many  heretics  in  the  town, 
Who  loathe  you  for  your  late  return  to 

Rome, 
And   might  assail   you   passing  through 

the  street, 
And    tear  you  piecemeal :   so  you  have 
a  guard. 
Cranmer.     Or  seek  to  rescue  me.      I 

thank  the  Council. 
Cole.     Do  you  lack  any  money? 
Cranmer.  Nay,  why  should  I? 

The  prison  fare  is  good  enough  for  me. 
Cole.     Ay,  but  to  give  the  poor. 
Cranmer.  Hand  it  me,  then  ! 

I  thank  you. 

Cole.  For  a  little  space,  farewell; 

Until  I  see  you  in  St.  Mary's  Church. 

\^Exit  Cole. 


SCENE    II. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


613 


Cranmer.     It  is  against  all  precedent 

to  burn 
One  who  recants;    they  mean  to  pardon 

me. 
To  give  the  poor  —  they  give  the  poor 

who  die. 
Well,  burn  me  or    not    burn   me    I    am 

fixt; 
It  is  but  a  communion,  not  a  mass : 
A  holy  supper,  not  a  sacrifice; 
No  man   can    make    his    Maker  —  Villa 

Garcia. 

Enter  Villa  Garcia. 

Villa  Garcia.     Pray  you  write  out  this 

paper  for  me,  Cranmer. 
Cra7iJ7ier.     Have   I    not  writ  enough 

to  satisfy  you? 
Villa  Garcia.     It  is  the  last. 
Cranmer.     Give  it  me,  then. 

\_He  writes. 
Villa  Garcia.  Now  sign. 

Cranmer.     I  have  sign'd  enough,  and 

I  will  sign  no  more. 
Villa    Garcia.     It    is    no    more    than 
what  you  have  sign'd  already, 
The  public  form  thereof. 

Cranmer.  It  may  be  so; 

I  sign  it  with  my  presence,  if  I  read  it. 
Villa  Garcia.     But  this  is  idle  of  you. 
Well,  sir,  well, 
You  are  to  beg  the  people  to  pray  for 

you; 
Exhort    them    to   a   pure    and    virtuous 

life; 
Declare  the  Queen's  right  to  the  throne; 

confess 
Your  faith  before  all  hearers;   and  retract 
That  Eucharistic  doctrine  in  your  book. 
Will  you  not  sign  it  now? 

Cran7ner.  No,  Villa  Garcia, 

I  sign  no  more.     Will  they  have  mercy 

on  me? 

Villa  Garcia.     Have  you  good  hopes 

of  mercy !     So,  farewell.     \^Exit. 

Cranmer.      Good    hopes,    not   theirs, 

have  I  that  I  am  fixt, 

Fixt   beyond    fall;    however,   in    strange 

hours, 
After  the  long  brain-dazing  colloquies. 
And  thousand-times  recurring  argument 
Of  those  two  friars  ever  in  my  prison, 
When  left  alone  in  my  despondency, 


Without  a  friend,  a  book,  my  faith  would 

seem 
Dead    or    half-drown'd,    or    else    swam 

heavily 
Against    the    huge    corruptions   of    the 

Church, 
Monsters  of  mistradition,  old  enough 
To  scare  me  into  dreaming,  '  what  arn  I, 
Cranmer,  against  whole  ages?  '  was  it  so, 
Or  am  I  slandering  my  most  inward  friend. 
To   veil  the   fault   of  my  most   outward 

foe  — 
The  soft  and    tremulous  coward    in  the 

flesh? 

0  higher,  holier,  earlier,  purer  church, 

1  have  found    thee  and  not  leave  thee 

any  more. 
It  is  but  a  communion,  not  a  mass  — 
No  sacrifice,  but  a  life-giving  feast ! 
(  Writes.)     So,  so;   this  will  I  say  —  thus 

will  I  pray.       \_Pnts  up  the  paper. 

Enter  Bonner. 

Bonner.     Good-day,  old  friend ;  what, 

you  look  somewhat  worn; 
And  yet  it  is  a  day  to  test  your  health 
Ev'n  at  the  best :   I  scarce  have  spoken 

with  you 
Since    when?  —  your    degradation.      At 

your  trial 
Never  stood  up  a  bolder  man  than  you; 
You  would  not  cap  the  Pope's  commis- 
sioner— 
Your  learning,  and  your  stoutness,  and 

your  heresy, 
Dumbfounded  half  of  us.     So,  after  that. 
We  had  to  dis-archbishop  and  unlord. 
And    make   you   simple    Cranmer   once 

again. 
The  common  barber  dipt  your  hair,  and  I 
Scraped  from  your  finger-points  the  holy 

oil; 
And  worse  than  all,  you  had  to  kneel  to 

me  ; 
Which  was  not  pleasant  for  you,  Master 

Cranmer. 
Now  you,  that  would  not  recognise  the 

Pope, 
And  you,  that  would  not  own  the  Real 

Presence, 
Have  found  a  real  presence  in  the  stake. 
Which  frights  you  back  into  the  ancient 

faith; 


6i4 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    IV, 


And  so  you  have  recanted  to  the  Pope. 
How    are     the    mighty    fallen,     Master 

Cranmer ! 
Cranmer.     You  have  been  more  tierce 

against  the  Pope  than  I; 
But  why  fling  back  the  stone  he  strikes 

me  with?  _  \_Aside. 

0  Bonner,  if  I  ever  did  you  kindness  — 
Power  hath  been  given  you  to  try  faith 

by  Are  — 
Pray  you,  remembering  how  yourself  have 

changed, 
Be  somewhat  pitiful,  after  I  have  gone. 
To  the  poor  flock  —  to  women  and    to 

children  — 
That  when  I  was  archbishop  held  with 

me, 
Bonner.     Ay  —  gentle  as  they  call  you 

—  live  or  die  ! 
Pitiful  to  this  pitiful  heresy? 

1  must  obey  the  Queen  and  Council,  man. 
Win  thro'  this  day  with  honour  to  your- 
self. 

And  I'll  say  something  for  you  —  so  — 
good-bye.  \^ExiL 

Cranmer.  This  hard  coarse  man  of 
old  hath  crouch'd  to  me 

Till  I  myself  was  half  ashamed  for  him. 

Enter  Thirlby. 

Weep  not,  good  Thirlby. 

Thirlby.  O  my  Lord,  my  Lord  ! 

My  heart  is  no  such  block  as  Bonner's  is  : 
Who  would  not  weep? 

Cranmer.     Why  do  you  so  my-lord  me, 
Who  am  disgraced? 

Thirlby.      On    earth;     but    saved    in 
heaven 
By  your  recanting. 

Cranmer.  Will  they  burn  me, 

Thirlby? 
Thirlby.     Alas,  they  will;    these  burn- 
ings will  not  help 
The  purpose  of  the  faith ;    but  my  poor 

voice 
Against  them  is  a  whisper  to  the  roar 
Of  a  spring-tide. 

Cranmer.  ,  And  tliey  will  surely 

burn  me? 
Thirlby.     Ay;    and  besides,  will  liavc 
you  in  the  church 
Repeat  your  recantation  in  the  ears 


Of  all  men,  to  the  saving  of  their  souls, 
Before  your  execution.     May  God   help 

you 
Thro'  that  hard  hour ! 

Cranmer.         And  may  God  bless  you, 

Thirlby ! 
Well,    they   shall    hear    my    recantation 

there. 

[^Exit  Thirlby. 
Disgraced,  dishonour'd  I  —  not  by  them, 

indeed. 
By  mine  own  self — by  mine  own  hand  ! 

0  thin-skinn'd  hand    and  jutting  veins, 

'twas  you 
That  sign'd  the  burning  of  poor  Joan  of 

Kent; 
But  then   she  was  a  witch.     You   have 

written  much. 
But  you  were  never  raised  to  plead  for 

Frith, 
Whose  dogmas  I  have  reach'd :  he  was 

deliver'd 
To  the  secular  arm  to  burn;   and  there 

was  Lambert; 
Who    can    foresee    himself?   truly   these 

burnings, 
As    Thirlby    says,    are    profitless    to    the 

burners, 
And  help  the  other  side.     You  shall  burn 

too. 
Burn  first  when  I  am  burnt. 
Fire  —  inch  by  inch   to    die    in   agony ! 

Latimer 
Had  a  brief  end  —  not  Ridley.     Hooper 

burn'd 
Three-quarters   of   an    hour.       Will    my 

faggots 
Be  wet  as  his  were?     It  is  a  day  of  rain. 

1  will  not  muse  upon  it. 

My  fancy  takes    the    burner's  part,  and 

makes 
The  fire  seem  even  crueller  than  it  is. 
No,  I  doubt  not  that  God  will  give  me 

strength, 
Albeit  I  have  denied  him. 

E)iter  Soio  ami  Vii.LA  Garcia. 

Mlla  (laiiia.  W^e  arc  ready 

Tt)    take    you    to    St.     Mary's,     .Master 

Cranmer. 
CraniiiiT.     And  1:   lead  on;    ye  loose 

me  from  my  bonds.  {^Exeunt, 


SCENE   III. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


615 


SCENE   III.  — St.  Mary's  Church. 

Cole  in  the  Pulpit,  Eord  Williams  of 
Thame  presiding.  Lord  William 
Howard,  Lord  Paget,  ajid  others. 
Cranmer  enters  betzueen  SoTO  ajid 
Villa  Garcia,  and  the  ivhole  Choir 
strike  up  '  Nunc  Dimittis.'  Cranmer 
is  set  upon  a  scaffold  before  the  people. 

Cole.     Behold  him  — 

\_A  pause:  people  in  the  foreground. 
People.     Oh,  unhappy  sight ! 
First  Protestant.      See  how  the  tears 

run  down  his  fatherly  face. 
Second  Protestant.     James,  didst  thou 
ever  see  a  carrion  crow 
Stand  watching  a  sick  beast    before  he 
dies? 
First   Protestant.      Him    perch'd    up 
there?     I  wish  some  thunderbolt 
Would  make  this  Cole  a  cinder,  pulpit 
and  all. 
Cole.     Behold  him,  brethren  :   he  hath 
cause  to  weep  !  — 
So  have  we  all :  weep  with  him  if  ve  will. 
Yet  — 

It  is  expedient  for  one  man  to  die. 
Yea,  for  the  people,  lest  the  people  die. 
Yet  wherefore  should  he  die   that  hath 

return'd 
To  the  one  Catholic  Universal  Church, 
Repentant  of  his  errors? 

Protestant  murtmirs.     Ay,  tell  us  that. 
Cole.     Those   of  the   wrong  side  will 
despise  the  man, 
Deeming  him  one  that  thro'  the  fear  of 

death 
Gave  up  his  cause,  except  he  seal  his  faith 
In  sight  of  all  with  flaming  martyrdt)m. 
Cranmer.     Ay. 

Cole.  .  Ye  hear  him,  and  albeit  there 
may  seem 
According  to  the  canons  pardon  due 
To   him   that    so    repents,  yet  are  there 

causes 
Wherefore  our  Queen  and  Council  at  this 

time 
Adjudge  him  to  the  death.     He  hath  been 

a  traitor, 
A  shaker  and  confounder  of  the  realm; 
And  when  the  King's  divorce  was  sued 
at  Rome, 


He  here,  this  heretic  metropolitan, 
As  if  he  had  been  the  Holy  Father,  sat 
And  judged  it.     Did  I  call  him  heretic? 
A  huge  heresiarch  !   never  was  it  known 
That  any  man  so  writing,  preaching  so. 
So  poisoning  the  Church,  so  long   con- 
tinuing, 
Hath  found  his  pardon ;  therefore  he  must 

die. 
For  warning  and  example. 

Other  reasons 
There   be   for  this  man's  ending,  which 

our  Queen 
And  Council  at  this  present  deem  it  not 
Expedient  to  be  known. 

Protestant  murmurs.       I  warrant  you. 
Cole.     Take  therefore,  all,  example  by 

this  man. 
For  if  our  Holy  Queen  not  pardon  him, 
Much    less   shall    others   in    like    cause 

escape, 
That   all    of   you,    the    highest    as    the 

lowest, 
May  learn  there  is  no  power  against  the 

Lord. 
There    stands  a  man,  once    of  so    high 

degree. 
Chief  prelate  of  our  Church,  archbishop, 

first 
In  Council,  second  person  in  the  realm. 
Friend  for  so  long  time  of  a  mighty  King  : 
And  now  ye  see  downfallen  and  debased 
From  councillor  to  caitiff —  fallen  so  low, 
The  leprous  flutterings  of  the  byway,  scum 
And  offal  of  the  city,  would  not  change 
Estates  with  him ;    in  brief,  so  miserable, 
There  is  no  hope  of  better  left  for  him, 
No  place  for  worse. 

Yet,.  Cranmer,  be  thou  glad. 
This  is  the  work  of  God.  He  is  glorified 
In  thy  conversion  :  lo  I  thou  art  reclaim'd; 
He  brings  thee  home  :   nor  fear  but  that 

to-day 
Thou  shalt  receive  the   penitent  thief's 

award, 
And  be  with  Christ  the  Lord  in  Paradise. 
Remember  how  God  made  the  fierce  fire 

seem 
To  those  three  children  like  a  pleasant 

dew. 
Remember,  too. 

The  triumph  of  St.  Andrew  on  his  cross, 
The  patience  of  St.  Lawrence  in  the  fire. 


6i6 


QUEEN  MARY 


ACT    IV. 


Thus,  if  thou  call  on  God  and  all  the 

saints, 
God  will  beat  down  the  fury  of  the  flame, 
Or  give  thee  saintly  strength  to  undergo. 
And  for  thy  soul  shall  masses  here  be  sung 
By  every  priest  in  Oxford.  Pray  for  him. 
Cranmer.      Ay,    one    and    all,    dear 

brothers,  pray  for  me; 
Pray  with  one  breath,  one  heart,  one  soul 

for  me. 
Cole.     And  now,  lest  anyone   among 

you  doubt 
The   man's    conversion    and    remorse   of 

heart, 
Yourselves  shall  hear  him  speak.     Speak, 

Master  Cranmer, 
Fulfil  your  promise  made  me,  and  pro- 
claim 
Your  true  undoubted  faith,  that  all  may 

hear. 
Cranmer.     And  that  I  will.     O  God, 

Father  of  Heaven  I 
O  Son  of  God,  Redeemer  of  the  world  ! 

0  Holy  Ghost !   proceeding  from   them 

both, 
Three  persons  and  one  God,  have  mercy 

on  me. 
Most  miserable  sinner,  wretched  man.   . 

1  have  offended  against  heaven  and  earth 
More  grievously  than  any  tongue  can  tell. 
Then  whither  should  I  flee  for  any  help? 
I  am  ashamed  to  lift  mine  eyes  to  heaven, 
And  I  can  find  no  refuge  upon  earth. 
Shall  I  despair  then?  —  God  forbid!     O 

God, 
For  thou  art  merciful,  refusing  none 
That   come   to  Thee   for   succour,    unto 

Thee, 
Therefore,   I    come;    humble    myself   to 

Thee; 
Saying,  O  Lord  God,  although  my  sins 

be  great. 
For   thy   great   mercy  have   mercy !     O 

God  the  Son, 
Not  for  slight  faults  alone,  when  thou 

becamest 
Man  in  the  Flesh,  was  the  great  mystery 

wrought; 
O  God  the  Father,  not  for  little  sins 
Didst  thou  yield  up  thy  Son  to  human 

death ; 
But  for  the  greatest  sin  that  can  be  sinn'd, 
Yea,  even  such  as  mine,  incalculable, 


Unpardonable,  —  sin  against  the  light, 
The  truth  of  God,  which  I  had  proven 

and  known. 
Thy  mercy  must  be  greater  than  all  sin. 
Forgive  me.  Father,  for  no  merit  of  mine, 
But  that  Thy  name  by  man  be  glorified. 
And  Thy  most  blessed  Son's,  who  died 

for  man. 
Good   people,   every  man    at   time  of 

death 
Would  fain   set  forth   some  saying  that 

may  live 
After  his  death  and  better  humankind  ; 
For  death  gives  life's  last  word  a  power 

to  live, 
And,  like  the  stone-cut  epitaph,  remain 
After  the  vanish'd  voice,  and   speak  to 

men. 
God  grant  me  grace  to  glorify  my  God  ! 
And  first  I  say  it  is  a  grievous  case. 
Many  so  dote  upon  this  bubble  world. 
Whose  colours  in  a  moment  break  and 

fly, 

They  care  for  nothing  else.     What  saith 

St.  John :  — 
'  Love   of  this   world   is   hatred    against 

God.' 
Again,  I  pray  you  all  that,  next  to  God, 
You  do  unmurmuringly  and  willingly 
Obey  your  King  and  Queen,  and  not  for 

dread 
Of  these    alone,    but   from    the    fear    of 

Him 
Whose  ininisters  they  be  to  govern  you. 
Thirdly,  I  pray  you  all  to  live  together 
Like  brethren;  yet  what  hatred  Christian 

men 
Bear    to    each    other,    seeming    not    as 

brethren, 
But  mortal  foes !     But  do  you  good  to  all 
As  much  as  in  you  lieth.     Hurt  no  man 

more 
Than  you  would  harm  your  loving  natural 

brother 
Of  the  same  roof,  same  breast.     If  any  do. 
Albeit   he  think    himself  at   home   with 

God, 
Of    this    be    sure,    he    is    whole    worlds 

away, 
Protestant   murnnirs.      What    sort   of 

brothers  then  be  those  that  lust 
To  burn  each  other? 

IVilliavis.      Peace  among  you,  there! 


SCENE   III. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


617 


Cranmer.     Fourthly,  to  those  that  own 

exceeding  wealth, 
Remember  that  sore  saying  spoken  once 
By  Him  that  was  the  truth,  '  How  hard 

it  is 
For  the  rich  man  to  enter  into  Heaven;  ' 
Let  all  rich  men  remember  that  hard  word. 
I  have  not  time  for  more :  if  ever,  now 
Let  them  flow  forth  in  charity,  seeing  now 
The  poor  so  many,  and  all  food  so  dear. 
Long   have   I   lain    in   prison,   yet   have 

heard 
Of  all  their  wretchedness.     Give  to  the 

poor, 
Ye  give  to  God.     He  is  with  us  in  the 

poor. 
And  now,  and   forasmuch   as   I    have 

come 
To  the  last  end  of  life,  and  thereupon 
Hangs  all  my  past,  and  all  my  life  to  be, 
Either  to  live  with  Christ  in  heaven  with 

joy, 
Or  to  be  still  in  pain  with  devils  in  hell; 
And,  seeing  in  a  moment,  I  shall  find 

\_Poin(ing  tipwards. 
Heaven  or  else  hell  ready  to  swallow  me, 
[^Pointing  downivards. 
I  shall  declare  to  you  my  very  faith 
Without  all  colour. 

Cole.         Hear  him,  my  good  brethren. 
Cranmer.     I  do  believe  in  God,  Father 

of  all; 
In  every  article  of  the  Catholic  faith, 
And  every  syllable  taught  us  by  our  Lord, 
His  prophets,  and  apostles,  in  the  Testa- 
ments, 
Both  Old  and  New. 

Cole.  Be  plainer,  Master  Cranmer, 

Cranmer.     And   now  I   come  to   the 

great  cause  that  weighs 
Upon  my  conscience  more  than  anything 
Or  said  or.  done  in  all  my  life  by  me; 
For  there  be  writings  I  have  set  abroad 
Against  the  truth  1  knew  within  my  heart. 
Written  for  fear  of  death,  to  save  my  life. 
If  that  might  be;    the  papers  by  my  hand 
Sign'd   since    my   degradation  —  by  this 

hand 

S^Holding  out  his  right  hand. 
Written    and    sign'd  —  I   here    renounce 

them  all; 
And,   since    my   hand    offended,    having 

written 


Against  my  heart,  my  hand  shall  first  be 

burnt, 
So  I  may  come  to  the  fire. 

{^Dead  silence. 
Protestant  murmurs. 
First  Protestant.     I  knew  it  would  be 

so. 
Second  Protestant.      Our    prayers  are 

heard ! 
Third  Protestant.     God  bless  him  ! 
Catholic  innrmtirs.      Out    upon    him  ! 
'       out  upon  him  ! 
Liar  I   dissembler  I  traitor  I  to  the  fire  ! 
Williams    (^raising  his  voice).      You 
know  that  you  recanted   all  you 
said 
Touching    the   sacrament    in  that   same 

book 
You  wrote  against  my  Lord  of  Winches- 
ter; 
Dissemble  not;   play  the  plain  Christian 
man. 
Cranmer.     Alas,  my  Lord, 
I  have  been  a  man  loved  plainness  all  my 

life; 
I  did  dissemble,  but  the  hour  has  come 
For  utter  truth  and  plainness;  wherefore, 

I  say, 
I  hold  by  all  I  wrote  within  that  book. 
Moreover, 

As  for  the  Pope  I  count  him  Antichrist, 

With  all  his  devil's  doctrines;   and  refuse. 

Reject  him,  and  abhor  him.     I  have  said. 

[  Cries  on  all  sides,  '  Pull  him  down  ! 

Away  with  him  !  ' 

Cole.     Ay,  stop  the   heretic's  mouth ! 

Hale  him  away  ! 
Williams.     Harm  him  not,  harm  him 
not  I  have  him  to  the  fire  ! 
[Cranmer  goes   out   between     Two 
Friars,  smiling;  hands  are  reached 
to  him  from   the   crowd.     Lord 
William    Howard    and   Lord 
Pai.et  are  left  alone  in  the  church. 
Paget.     The  nave  and  aisles  all  empty 
as  a  fool's  jest ! 
No,  here's  Lord  William  Howard.    What, 

my  Lord, 
You  have  not  gone  to  see  the  burning? 

Howard.  Fie ! 

To  stand  at  ease,  and  stare  as  at  a  show. 
And   watch  a  good  man    burn  !     Never 
again. 


6i8 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   IV. 


I  saw  the  deaths  of  Latimer  and  Ridley. 
Moreover,  tho'  a  Catholic,  I  would  not, 
For   the  pure    honour    of  our    common 

nature. 
Hear   what  1  might  —  another  recanta- 
tion 
Of  Cranmer  at  the  stake. 

Paget.  You'd  not  hear  that. 

He  pass'd    out    smiling,  and    he  walk'd 

upright; 
His  eye  was  like  a  soldier's,   whom  the 

general 
He  looks  to  and  he  leans  on  as  his  God, 
Hath  rated  for  some  backwardness  and 

bidd'n  him 
Charge  one  against  a  thousand,  and  the 

man 
Hurls   his  soil'd   life    against   the  pikes 

and  dies. 
Hozvard.     Yet  that  he  might  not  after 

all  those  papers 
Of  recantation  yield  again,  who  knows? 
Paget.     Papers  of  recantation !    Think 

you  then 
That   Cranmer  read  all    papers  that   he 

sign'd  ? 
Or  sign'd  all  those  they  tell  us  that  he 

sign'd? 
Nay,  I  trow  not :   and  you  shall  see,  my 

Lord, 
That  howsoever  hero-like  the  man 
Dies  in  the  fire,  this  Bonner  or  another 
Will  in  some  lying  fashion  misreport 
His  ending  to  the  glory  of  their  church. 
And  you  saw  Latimer  and  Ridley  die  ? 
Latimer  was  eighty,  was  he  not?  his  best 
Of  life  was  over  then. 

Hoxva7-d.  His  eighty  years 

Look'd  somewhat  crooked  on  him  in  his 

frieze ; 
But    after    they    had    stript  him    to    his 

shroud. 
He  stood  upright,  a  lad  of  twenty-one, 
And  gather'd  with  his  hands  the  starting 

flame, 
And  wash'd  his  hands  and  all  his  face 

therein, 
Until   the    powder   suddenly    blew    him 

dead. 
Ridley  was  longer  burning;   but  he  died 
As  manfully  and  boldly,  and,  'fore  God, 
I  know  them  heretics,  but  right   English 

ones. 


If  ever,  as  heaven  grant,  we  clash  with 

Spain, 
Our    Ridley-soldiers    and    our    Latimer- 

sailors 
Will  teach  her  something. 

Paget.  Your  mild  Legate  Pole 

Will  tell  you  that  the  devil  helpt  them 

thro'  it. 
\_A  mta-tniir  of  the  crcivd  in  the  dis- 
tance. 
Hark,  how  those  Roman  wolfdogs  howl 

and  bay  him  ! 
Ho7vard.      Might  it  not  be  the  other 

side  rejoicing 
In  his  brave  end? 

Paget.  They  are  too  crush'd, 

too  broken. 
They  can  but  weep  in  silence. 

Hozvard.  Ay,  ay,  Paget, 

They  have  brought  it  in  large  measure 

on  themselves. 
Have  I  not  heard  them  mock  the  blessed 

Host 
In  songs  so  lewd,  the  beast  might   roar 

his  claim 
To    being  in    God's   image,    more    than 

they? 
Have  I  not   seen   the  gamekeeper,  the 

groom, 
Gardener,  and  huntsman,  in  the  parson's 

place. 
The  parson  from  his  own   spire    swung 

out  dead. 
And  Ignorance  crying  in  the  streets,  and 

all  men 
Regarding  her?     I  say  they  have  drawn 

the  fire 
On  their  own  heads :    yet,    Paget,  I  do 

hold  I 

The    Catholic,    if  he    have    the    greater' 

right. 
Hath  been  the  crueller. 

Paget.  Action  and  re-action. 

The  miserable  see-saw  of  our  child-workl. 
Make    us    despise   it  at   odd    hours,  my 

Lord. 
Heaven  help  that  this  re-action  not  re- 
act 
Yet  fiercelier  under  Queen  Elizabeth, 
So  that  she  come  to  rule  us. 

Howard.  The  world's  mad. 

Paget.     My  Lord,  the  worUl  is  like  a 

(hunken  man, 


SCENE   III. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


619 


Who  cannot  move  straight  to  his  end  — 

but  reels 
Now  to  the  right,  then  as  far  to  the  left, 
Push'd  by  the  crowd  beside  —  and  under- 
foot 
An  earthquake;   for  since  Henry  for    a 

doubt  — 
Which  a  young  lust  had  clapt  upon  the 

back. 
Crying,  '  Forward  ! '  —  set  our  old  church 

rocking,  men 
Have  hardly  known  what  to  believe,  or 

whether 
They   should  believe   in  anything;     the 

currents 
So  shift  and  change,  they  see  not  how 

they  are  borne, 
Nor   whither.     I  conclude    the    King  a 

beast; 
Verily  a  lion  if  you  will  —  the  world 
A  most  obedient  beast  and  fool  —  myself 
Half  beast  and  fool  as  appertaining  to  it; 
Altho'    your    Lordship  hath   as  little   of 

each 
Cleaving  to  your  original  Adam-clay, 
As  may  be  consonant  with  mortality. 
Howard.       We     talk     and    Cranmer 

suffers. 
The  kindliest  man  I  ever  knew;  see,  see, 
I  speak  of  him  in  the  past.     Unhappy 

land  ! 
Hard-natured     Queen,    half-Spanish    in 

herself. 
And  grafted  on  the  hard-grain'd  stock  of 

Spain  — 
Her  life,  since  Philip  left  her,  and  she 

lost 
Her  fierce  desire  of  bearing  him  a  child. 
Hath,  like  a  brief  and  bitter  winter's  day, 
Gone  narrowing  down  and  darkening  to 

a  close. 
There  will  be  more  conspiracies,  I  fear. 
Paget.     Ay,  ay,  beware  of  France. 
Howard.  O  Paget,  Paget, 

I  have  seen  heretics  of  the  poorer  sort. 
Expectant  of  the  rack  from  day  to  day. 
To  whom  the  fire  w^ere  welcome,  lying 

chain'd 
In  breathless    dungeons    over    steaming 

sewers, 
Fed  with  rank  bread   that  crawl'd  upon 

the  tongue. 
And  putrid  water,  every  drop  a  worm. 


Until    they   died    of  rotted    limbs;    and 
then 

Cast  on  the  dunghill  naked,  and  become 

Hideously  alive  again  from  head  to  heel, 

Made  even  the   carrion-nosing  mongrel 
vomit 

With  hate  and  horror. 

Paget.  Nay,  you  sicken  me 

To  hear  you. 

Ho'cuard.       Fancy-sick;     these    things 
are  done, 

Done  right  against   the  promise  of  this 
Queen 

Twice  given. 

Paget.  No  faith  with  heretics,  mv 

Lord  1 

Hist!  there  be  two  old  gossips  —  gospel- 
lers, 

I  take  it;    stand  behind  the  pillar  here; 

I  warrant  you  they  talk  about  the  burn- 
ing. 

Enter  Two   Old  Women.      Joan,  and 
after  her  TiB. 

Joan.  Why,  it  be  Tib  I 
Tib.  I  cum  behind  tha,  gall,  and 
couldn't  make  tha  hear.  Eh,  the  wind 
and  the  wet  I  What  a  day,  what  a  day  ! 
nigh  upo'  judgment  daay  loike.  Pwoaps 
be  pretty  things,  Joan,  but  they  wunt  set 
i'  the  Lord's  cheer  o'  that  daay. 

Joan.  I  must  set  down  myself,  Tib;  it 
be  a  var  waay  vor  my  owld  legs  up  vro' 
Islip.  Eh,  my  rheumatizy  be  that  bad 
howiver  be  I  to  win  to  the  burnin'. 

Tib.     I    should    saay    'twur    ower   by 
now.      I'd    ha'    been    here    avore,    but 
Dumble   wur   blow'd  wi'   the  wind,  and 
Dumble's  the  best  milcher  in  Islip. 
Joan.     Our  Daisy's  as  good  'z  her. 
Tib.     Noa,  Joan, 

Joan.  Our  Daisy's  butter's  as  good  'z 
hern. 

Tib.     Noa,  Joan. 

Joan.     Our  Daisy's  cheeses  be  better. 
Tib.     Noa,  Joan. 

Joan.  Eh,  then  ha'  thy  waay  wi'  me, 
Tib;    ez  thou  hast  wi'  thy  owld  man. 

Tib.  Ay,  Joan,  and  my  owld  man 
wur  up  and  awaay  betimes  wi'  dree  hard 
eggs  for  a  good  pleace  at  the  burnin'; 
and  barrin'  the  wet,  Hodge  'ud  ha'  been 
a-harrowin'  o'  white  peasen  i'  the  outfield 


620 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   V. 


—  and  barrin'  the  wind,  Dumble  wur 
blow'd  \vi'  the  wind,  so  'z  we  was  forced 
to  stick  her,  but  we  fetched  her  round  at 
last.  Thank  the  Lord  therevore.  Bum- 
ble's the  best  milcher  in  Islip. 

Joan.  Thou's  thy  way  wi'  man  and 
beast,  Tib,  I  wonder  at  tha',  it  beats 
me  !  Eh,  but  I  do  know  ez  Pwoaps  and 
vires  be  bad  things;  tell  'ee  now,  I  heerd 
summat  as  summun  towld  summun  o' 
owld  Bishop  Gardiner's  end;  there  wur 
an  owld  lord  a-cum  to  dine  wi'  un,  and 
a  wur  so  owld  a  couldn't  bide  vor  his 
dinner,  but  a  had  to  bide  howsomiver, 
vor  '  I  wunt  dine,'  says  my  Lord  Bishop, 
says  he,  '  not  till  I  hears  ez  Latimer  and 
Ridley  be  a-vire;'  and  so  they  bided  on 
and  on  till  vour  o'  the  clock,  till  his  man 
cum  in  post  vro'  here,  and  tells  un  ez  the 
vire  has  tuk  holt.  'Now,'  says  the 
Bishop,  says  he,  'we'll  gwo  to  dinner;' 
and  the  owld  lord  fell  to  's  meat  wi'  a 
will,  God  bless  un !  but  Gardiner  wur 
struck  down  like  by  the  hand  o'  God 
avore  a  could  taste  a  mossel,  and  a  set 
un  all  a-vire,  so  'z  the  tongue  on  un  cum 
a-lolluping  out  o'  'is  mouth  as  black  as  a 
rat.     Thank  the  Lord,  therevore. 

Paget.     The  fools ! 

Tib.  Ay,  Joan;  and  Queen  Mary 
gwoes  on  a-burnin'  and  a-burnin',  to  get 
her  baaby  born;  but  all  her  burnin's  'ill 
never  burn  out  the  hypocrisy  that  makes 
the  water  in  her.  There's  nought  but 
the  vire  of  God's  hell  ez  can  burn  out 
that, 

Joan.     Thank  the  Lord,  therevore. 

Paget.     The  fools  ! 

Tib.  A-burnin',  and  a-burnin',  and 
a-makin'  o'  volk  madder  and  madder; 
but  tek  thou  my  word  vor't,  Joan,  —  and 
I  bean't  wrong  not  twice  i'  ten  year  —  the 
burnin'  o'  the  owld  archbishop  'ill  burn 
the  Pwoap  out  o'  this  'ere  land  vor  iver 
and  iver. 

Howard.       Out    of    the    church,    you 
brace  of  cursed  crones, 
Or  I  will  have   you  duck'd  !      (  Women 

hurry  out.)     Said  I  not  right? 
For    how   should    reverend    prelate    or 

throned  prince 
Brook  for  an  hour  such  brute  malignity? 
Ah,  what  an  acrid  wine  has  Luther  brew'd  ! 


Paget.     Pooh,  pooh,  my    Lord !    poor 
garrulous  country-wives. 
Buy  you   their  cheeses,  and  they'll  side 

with  you; 
You  cannot  judge  the  liquor  from  the  lees. 
Hozuard.     I   think  that  in  some  sort 
we  may.     But  see. 

Enter  Peters. 

PeterSj  my  gentleman,  an  honest  Catholic, 
Who  follow'd  with  the  crowd  to   Cran- 

mer's  fire. 
One  that  would  neither  misreport  nor  lie. 
Not  to  gain  Paradise  :  no,  nor  if  the  Pope, 
Charged  him  to  doit — he  is  white  as  death. 
Peters,  how  pale   you   look !   you   bring 

the  smoke 
Of  Cranmer's  burning  with  you. 

Peters.  Twice  or  thrice 

The  smoke  of  Cranmer's  burning  wrapt 

me  round. 
Howard.        Peters,     you     know     me 

Catholic,  but  English. 
Did  he  die  bravely  ?    Tell  me  that,  or  leave 
All  else  untold. 

Peters.  My  Lord,  he  died  most 

bravely. 
Howard.     Then  tell  me  all. 
Paget.  Ay,  Master  Peters,  tell  us. 

Peters.     You   saw   him    how   he   past 

among  the  crowd; 
And  ever  as  he  walk'd  the  Spanish  friars 
Still  plied  him  with  entreaty  and  reproach  : 
But  Cranmer,  as  the  helmsman  at  the  helm 
Steers,  ever  looking  to  the  happy  haven 
Where  he  shall  rest  at  night,  moved  to 

his  death; 
And  I  could  see  that  many  silent  hands 
Came  from  the  crowd  and  met  his  own; 

and  thus. 
When  we  had  come  where  Ridley  burnt 

with  Latimer, 
He,  with  a  cheerful  smile,  as  one  whose 

mind 
Is  all  made  up,  in  haste  put  off  the  rags 
They  had  mock'd  his  misery  with,  and  all 

in  white, 
His  long  white  beard,  which  he  had  never 

shaven 
Since  Henry's  death,  down-sweeping  to 

the  chain, 
Wherewith  they  bound  him  to  the  stake, 

he  stood 


SCENE    I. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


621 


More  like  an  ancient  father  of  the  Church, 
Than    heretic   of  these   times;    and  still 

the  friars 
Plied  him,  but  Cranmer  only  shook  his 

head. 
Or  answer'd  them  in  smiling  negatives; 
Whereat  Lord  Williams  gave  a  sudden 

cry :  — 
*  Make  short !  make  short !  '  and  so  they 

lit  the  wood. 
Then   Cranmer    lifted    his   left    hand    to 

heaven, 
And  thrust  his  right  into  the  bitter  flame; 
And  crying,  in  his  deep  voice,  more  than 

once, 
'  This     hath     offended  —  this     unworthy 

hand ! ' 
So  held  it  till  it  all  was  burn'd,  before 
The  flame  had  reach'd  his  body;    I  stood 

near  — 
Mark'd  him  —  he  never  uttered  moan  of 

pain: 
He  never  stirr'd  or  writhed,  but,  like  a 

statue, 
Unmoving  in  the  greatness  of  the  flame, 
Gave  up  the  ghost;   and  so  past  martyr- 
like — 
Martyr  I  may  not  call  him  —  past  —  but 

whither? 
Paget.     To  purgatory,  man,  to  purga- 
tory. 
Peters.     Nay,  but,  my  Lord,  he  denied 

purgatory. 
Paget.     Why  then  to  heaven,  and  God 

ha'  mercy  on  him. 
Hoiuard.     Paget,    despite    his    fearful 

heresies, 
I  loved  the  man,  and  needs  must  moan 

for  him; 

0  Cranmer ! 

Paget.     But  your  moan  is  useless  now : 
Come  out,  my  Lord,  it  is  a  world  of  fools. 

\_Exetcnt. 

ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.  —  London.     Hall  in    the 
Palace. 

Queen,  Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 

Heath.     Madam, 

1  do  assure  you,  that  it  must  be  look'd 

to: 


Calais  is  but  ill-garrison'd,  in  Guisnes 
Are   scarce  two   hundred  men,  and  the 

French  fleet 
Rule   in  the    narrow  seas.     It   must    be 

look'd  to, 
If  war  should  fall  between  yourself  and 

France; 
Or  you  will  lose  your  Calais. 

Mary.  It  shall  be  look'd  to; 

I   wish  you   a  good   morning,  good    Sir 

Nicholas : 
Here  is  the  King.  \_Exit  Heath. 

Enter  Philip. 

Philip.         Sir  Nicholas  tells  you  true, 

And  you  must  look  to  Calais  when  I  go. 

Mary.      Go?  must  you  go,  indeed  — 

again  —  so  soon? 

Why,    nature's    licensed    vagabond,    the 

swallow, 
That  might  live  always  in  the  sun's  warm 

heart. 
Stays  longer  here  in  our  poor  north  than 

you:  — 
Knows  where    he    nested — ever    comes 
again. 
Philip.     And,  Madam,  so  shall  I. 
Mary.  Oh,  will  you?  will  you? 

I  am  faint  with  fear  that  you  will  come 
no  more. 
Philip.     Ay,  ay;   but  many  voices  call 

me  hence. 
Mary.     Voices  —  I  hear  unhappy  ru- 
mours —  nay, 
I  say  not,  I  believe.     What  voices  call 

you 
Dearer  than  mine  that  should  be  dearest 

to  you? 
Alas,  my   Lord !  what   voices   and  how 
many  ? 
Philip.     The    voices    of  Castille   and 
Aragon, 
Granada,  Naples,    Sicily,    and  Milan, — 
The  voices  of  Franche-Comte,  and  the 

Netherlands, 
The  voices  of  Peru  and  Mexico, 
Tunis,  and  Oran,  and  the  Philippines, 
And  all  the  fair  spice-islands  of  the  East. 
Mary    {^admiringly^.      You    are    the 
mightiest  monarch  upon  earth, 
I  but  a  little  Queen :   and  so,  indeed, 
Need  you  the  more. 

Philip.  A  little  Queen  !  but  when 


622 


QUEEA'  MARY. 


ACT   V. 


I  came  to  wed  your  majesty,  Lord  Howard, 
Sending  an  insolent  shot  that  dash'd  the 

seas 
Upon  us,  made  us  lower  our  kingly  flag 
To  yours  of  England. 

Mary.  Howard  is  all  English  ! 

There  is  no  king,  not  were  he  ten  times 

king. 
Ten  times  our  husband,  but  must  lower 

his  flag 
To  that  of  England  in  the  seas  of  Eng- 
land. 
Philip.     Is  that  your  answer? 
Mary.  Being  Queen  of  England, 

I  have  none  other. 
Philip.  So, 

Mary.  But  wherefore  not 

Helm  the  huge  vessel  of  your  state,  my 

liege. 
Here  by  the  side  of  her  who  loves  you 
most? 
Philip.     No,  Madam,  no  !  a  candle  in 
the  sun 
Is  all  but  smoke  —  a  star  beside  the  moon 
Is    all   but   lost;    your    people   will    not 

crown  me  — 
Your    people   are    as   cheerless  as   your 

clime ; 
Hate  me  and  mine :  witness  the  brawls, 

the  gibbets. 
Here  swings  a  Spaniard  — there  an  Eng- 
lishman ; 
The    peoples    are    unlike    as  their  com- 
plexion; 
Yet  will  I  be  your  swallow  and  return  — 
But  now  I  cannot  bide. 

Mary.  Not  to  help  me  ? 

They  hate  vie  also  for  my  love  to  you, 
My  Philip;   and  these  judgments  on  the 

land  — 
Harvestless    autumns,     horrible     agues, 
plague  — 
Philip.     The  blood  and  sweat  of  here- 
tics at  the  stake 
Is  God's  best  dew  upon  the  barren  field. 
Burn  more  ! 

Mary.     I  will,  I  will ;  and  you  will  stay  ? 
Philip.     Have  I  not  said?     Madam,  I 
came  to  sue 
Your  Council  and  yourself  to  declare  war. 
Mary.     Sir,  there  are  many  English  in 
your  ranks 
To  help  your  battle. 


Philip.  So  far,  good.     I  say 

I  came  to  sue  your  Council  and  yourself 
To    declare    war    against    the    King   of 

France. 
Mary.     Not  to  see  me  ? 
Philip.  Ay,  Madam,  to  see  you. 

Unalterably  and  pesteringly  fond  !  [Aside. 
But,  soon  or  late  you  must  have  v/ar  with 

France ; 
King  Henry  warms  your  traitors  at  his 

hearth. 
Carew    is    there,    and   Thomas    vStaftbrd 

there. 
Courtenay,  belike  — 

Alary.  A  fool  and  featherhead  ! 

Philip.     Ay,   but  they    use  his  name. 

In  brief,  this  Henry 
Stirs  up  your  land  against  you  to  the  in- 
tent 
That  you  may  lose  your  English  heritage. 
And  then,  your  Scottish  namesake  mar- 
rying 
The   Dauphin,   he  would    weld    France, 

England,  Scotland, 
Into  one  sword  to  hack  at  Spain  and  me. 
Mary.     And  yet  the  Pope  is  now  col- 
leagued  with  France; 
You  make  your  wars  upon  him  down  in 

Italy :  — 
Philip,  can  that  be  well? 

Philip.  Content  you.  Madam; 

You  must  abide  my  judgment,  and  my 

father's. 
Who  deems  it  a  most  just  and  holy  war. 
The  Pope  would  cast  the  Spaniard  out 

of  Naples : 
He    calls   us   worse   than   Jews,   Moors, 

Saracens. 
The  Pope  has  pushed  his  horns  beyond 

his  mitre  — 
Beyond  his  province.     Now, 
Duke    Alva  will    but  touch  him  on  the 

horns. 
And    he    withdraws;    and    of    his    holy 

head  — 
P'or  Alva  is  true  son  of  the  true  church  — 
No  hair  is  harm'd.    Will  you  not  help  me 

here? 
Mary.     Alas !     the    Council    will   not 

hear  of  war. 
They  say  your  wars  are  not  the  wars  of 

England. 
They  will  not  lay  more  taxes  on  a  land 


SCENE    I, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


623 


So  hunger-nipt  and  wretched;   and  you 

know 
The  crown  is  poor.     We  have  given  the 

church-lands  back : 
The   nobles  would  not;   nay,  they  clapt 

their  hands 
Upon     their    swords    when   ask'd;    and 

therefore  God 
Is  hard  upon  the  people.     What's  to  be 

done? 
Sir,    I    will    move    them    in    your   cause 

again, 
And  we  will  raise  us  loans  and  subsidies 
Among  the  merchants;   and  Sir  Thomas 

Gresham 
Will  aid  us.     There  is  Antwerp  and  the 
Jews. 
Philip.     Madam,  my  thanks. 
Mil)-]'.  And  you  will  stay  your 

going? 
Philip.     And  further  to  discourage  and 
lay  lame 
The  plots  of  France,  altho'  you  love  her 

not, 
You  must  proclaim  Elizabeth  your  heir. 
She  stands  between  you  and  the  Queen 
of  Scots. 
Alary.     The  Queen  of  Scots  at  least  is 

Catholic. 
Philip.     Ay,  Madam,  Catholic;    but  I 
will  not  have 
The  King  of  France  the  King  of  England 
too. 
Mary.     But  she's  a  heretic,  and,  when 
I  am  gone, 
Brings  the  new  learning  back. 

Philip.  It  must  be  done. 

You  must  proclaim  Elizabeth  your  heir. 
Mary.     Then  it  is  done;    but  you  will 
stay  your  going 
Somewhat  beyond  your  settled  purpose? 
Philip.  No ! 

Jl/afy.     What,  not  one  day? 
Philip.  You  beat  upon  the  rock. 

Mary.     And  I  am  broken  there. 
Philip.  Is  this  a  place 

To  wail  in,  Madam?  what !  a  public  hall. 
Go  in,  1  pray  you. 

Mary.  Do  not  seem  so  changed! 

Say  go;   but  only  say  it  lovingly. 

Philip.     You  do  mistake.     I    am  not 
one  to  change. 
I  never  loved  vou  more. 


Mary.  Sire,  I  obey  you. 

Come  quickly. 

Philip.  Ay.  ]^Exit  Mary. 

Enter  COUNT  de  Feria. 

Feria  {aside).     The  Queen  in  tears! 
Philip.  Feria ! 

Hast  thou  not  mark'd  —  come  closer  to 

mine  ear  — 
IIow  doubly  aged  this  Queen  of  ours  hath 

grown 
Since    she   lost   hope    of    bearing    us    a 
child? 
Feria.     .Sire,  if  your  Grace  hath  mark'd 

it,  so  have  I. 
Philip.     Hast  thou  not  likewise  mark'd 
Elizabeth, 
How    fair    and    royal  —  like    a   Queen, 
indeed? 
Feria.     Allow  me  the  same  answer  as 
before  — 
That  if  your  Grace  hath  mark'd  her,  so 
have  I. 
Philip.     Good,    now;     methinks    my 
Queen  is  like  enough 
To  leave  me  by  and  by. 

Feria.  To  leave  you,  sire? 

Philip.     I    mean    not     like    to    live. 
Elizabeth  — 
To  Philibert  of  Savoy,  as  you  know, 
We    meant  to   wed  her;   but   I  am   not 

sure 
She   will    not    serve  me  better  —  so  my 

Queen 
Would  leave  me  —  as  —  my  wife. 

Feria.  Sire,  even  so. 

Philip.     She    will    not    have    Prince 

Philibert  of  Savoy. 
Feria.     No,  sire. 

Philip.  I  have  to  pray  you,  some 

odd  time. 
To  sound  the  Princess  carelessly  on  this; 
Not  as  from  me,  but  as  your  phantasy; 
And  tell  me  how  she  takes  it. 

Feria.  Sire,  I  will. 

Philip.     I    am   not    certain    but    that 
Philibert 
Shall  be  the  man;   and  I  shall  urge  his 

suit 
Upon  the  Queen,  because  I  am  not  cer- 
tain : 
You  understand,  Feria? 

Feria.  Sire,  I  do. 


624 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   V. 


Philip.     And  if  you  be  not  secret  in 
this  matter, 
You  understand  me  there,  too? 

Feria.  Sire,  I  do, 

Philip.     You  must  be  sweet  and  supple, 

like  a  Frenchman. 

She    is    none  of  those   who    loathe   the 

honeycomb.  \^Exit  Feria. 

Enter  Renard. 

Renard.     My  liege,  I  bring  you  goodly 

tidings. 
Philip.  Well? 

Renard.     There    will    be    war    with 

France,  at  last,  my  liege; 
Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  a  bull-headed  ass. 
Sailing  from  France,  with  thirty  English- 
men, 
Hath   taken    Scarboro'   Castle,   north  of 

York ; 
Proclaims  himself  protector,  and  affirms 
The  Queen  has  forfeited  her  right  to  reign 
By  marriage  with  an  alien — other  things 
As  idle;  a  weak  Wyatt !     Little  doubt 
This  buzz  will  soon  be  silenced;   but  the 

Council 
(I  have  talk'd  with  some  already)    are 

for  war. 
This  is  the   fifth  conspiracy  hatch'd   in 

France  ; 
They  show  their  teeth  upon  it;   and  your 

Grace, 
So  you  will  take  advice  of  mine,  should  stay 
Yet  for  awhile,  to  shape  and  guide  the 

event. 
Philip.     Good !    Renard,    I    will    stay 

then. 
Renard.         Also,  sire. 
Might  I  not  say  —  to  please  your  wife, 

the  Queen? 
Philip.     Ay,  Renard,   if  you    care  to 

put  it  so.  \^Exennt. 

SCENE   IL  — A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Mary,  sitting:  a  rose  in  her  hand. 
Lady  Clarence.  Alice  in  the  back- 
ground. 

Mary.     Look  !  I  have  play'd  with  this 
poor  rose  so  long 
1  have  broken  olf  the  head. 


Lady  Clarence.     Your  Grace  hath  been 
More  merciful  to  many  a  rebel  head 
That   should  have  fallen,  and  may  rise 
again. 
Alary.     There  were  not  many  hang'd 

for  Wyatt's  rising. 
Lady  Clarence.    Nay,  not  two  hundred. 
Mary.  I  could  weep  for  them 

And  her,  and  mine  own  self  and  all  the 
world. 
Lady  Clarence.     For  her?   for  whom, 
your  Grace? 


Usher. 


Enter  UsHER. 
The  Cardinal. 


Enter  Cardinal  Pole.     (Mary  rises^ 

Mary.     Reginald  Pole,  what  news  hath 

plagued  thy  heart? 
\Vhat  makes  thy  favour  like  the  bloodless 

head 
P'all'n  on  the  block,  and  held  up  by  the 

hair? 
Philip?  — 

Pole.         No,  Philip  is  as  warm  in  life 
As  ever. 

Mary.     Ay,  and  then  as  cold  as  ever. 
Is  Calais  taken? 

Pole.  Cousin,  there  hath  chanced 

A  sharper  harm  to  England  and  to  Rome, 
Than  Calais  taken.     Julius  the  Third 
Was  ever  just,  and  mild,  and  father-like; 
But    this    new    Pope    Caraffa,    Paul    the 

Fourth, 
Not  only  reft  me  of  that  legateship 
Which  Julius  gave  me,  and  the  legateship 
Annex'd  to  Canterbury  —  nay,  but  worse — 
And  yet  I  must  obey  the  Holy  Father, 
And  so  must  you,  good  cousin ;  —  worse 

than  all, 
A  passing  bell  toU'd  in  a  dying  ear  — 
He  hath  cited  me  to  Rome,  for  heresy, 
Before  his  Inquisition. 

Alary.  I  knew  it,  cousin, 

But    held   from  you  all  papers  sent  by 

Rome, 
That  you  might  rest  among  us,  till  the 

Pope, 
To    compass   which   I    wrote    myself  to 

Rome, 
Reversed  his  doom,  and  that  you  might 

not  seem 
To  disobey  his  Holiness. 


SCENE   II. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


625 


Pole.                               He  hates  Philip; 

(It  was  God's  cause) ;    so  far  they  call 

He   is   all    Italian,    and    he    hates    the 

me  now. 

Spaniard; 

The  scourge  and  butcher  of  their  English 

He    cannot    dream    that    /  advised    the 

church. 

M'ar; 

Mary.     Have  courage,  your  reward  is 

He  strikes  thro'  me  at  Philip  and  your- 

Heaven itself. 

self. 

Pole.     They  groan  amen;   they  swarm 

Nay,  but  I  know  it  of  old,  he  hates  me 

into  the  fire 

too; 

Like  flies  —  for  what?  no  dogma.     They 

So  brands  me  in  the  stare  of  Christendom 

know  nothing; 

A  heretic  ! 

They  burn  for  nothing. 

Now,  even  now,  when  bow'd  before  my 

Mary.             You  have  done  your  best. 

time. 

Pole.      Have  done  my  best,  and  as  a 

The   house   half-ruin'd   ere  the  lease  be 

faithful  son. 

out; 

That  all  day  long  hath  wrought  his  father's 

When  I  should  guide  the  Church  in  peace 

work, 

at  home. 

When  back  he  comes  at  evening  hath  the 

After  my  twenty  years  of  banishment, 

door 

And  all  my  lifelong  labour  to  uphold 

Shut    on    him   by  the    father  whom   he 

The  primacy — a  heretic.     Long  ago, 

loved. 

When  I  was  ruler  in  the  patrimony, 

His  early  follies  cast  into  his  teeth. 

I  was  too  lenient  to  the  Lutheran, 

And  the  poor   son  turn'd   out    into   the 

And  I  and  learned  friends  among  our- 

street 

selves 

To    sleep,    to    die  —  I    shall    die    of    it. 

Would  freely  canvass  certain  Lutheran- 

cousin. 

isms. 

Mary.      I    pray   you    be   not   so    dis- 

What then,  he  knew  I  was  no  Lutheran. 

consolate; 

A  heretic  ! 

I  still  will  do  mine  utmost  with  the  Pope. 

He    drew  this  shaft    against  me  to  the 

Poor  cousin  ! 

head. 

Have  not  I  been  the  fast  friend  of  your 

When  it  was  thought  I  might  be  chosen 

life 

Pope, 

Since  mine  began,  and  it  was  thought  we 

But   then  withdrew   it.     In  full   consis- 

two 

tory, 

Might  make  one  flesh,  and  cleave  unto 

When     I     was     made    Archbishop,    he 

each  other 

approved  me. 

As  man  and  wife? 

And  how  should  he  have  sent  me  Legate 

Pole.                  Ah,  cousin,  I  remember 

hither. 

How  I  would  dandle  you  upon  my  knee 

Deeming  me  heretic?  and  what  heresy 

At  lisping-age.     I  vvatch'd  you  dancing 

since? 

once 

But  he  was  evermore  mine  enemy. 

With  your  huge  father;    he   look'd  the 

And  hates  the  Spaniard  —  fiery-choleric. 

Great  Harry, 

A    drinker    of    black,    strong,    volcanic 

You    but    his     cockboat;     prettily    you 

wines, 

did  it. 

That  ever  make  him  fierier.     I,  a  heretic? 

And  innocently.    No  —  we  were  not  made 

Your  Highness  knows  that  in  pursuing 

One    flesh    in    happiness,    no    happiness 

heresy 

here; 

I   have   gone    beyond    your    late    Lord 

But    now    we    are    made    one    flesh    in 

Chancellor,  — 

misery; 

He  cried  Enough  1    enough  I   before  his 

Our    bridemaids    are    not    lovely  —  Dis- 

death, — 

appointment, 

Gone  beyond  him  and  mine  own  natural 

Ingratitude,  Injustice,  Evil-tongue, 

man 

Labour-in-vain. 

2  s 


626 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   V. 


Alary.  Surely,  not  all  in  vain. 

Peace,  cousin,  peace  !     I  am  sad  at  heart 
myself. 
Pole.     Our  altar  is  a  mound   of  dead 

men's  clay, 
Dug  from  the  grave   that  yawns  for  us 

beyond; 
And  there   is  one  Death   stands  behind 

the  Groom, 
And  there  is  one   Death   stands  behind 

the  Bride  — 
Majy.     Have  you  been  looking  at  the 

'Dance  of  Death'? 
Pole.     No;    but  these  libellous  papers 

which  I  found 
Strewn  in  your  palace.     Look  you  here 

—  the  Pope 
Pointing  at  me  with  *  Pole,  the  heretic, 
Thou  hast  burnt  others,   do   thou  burn 

thyself, 
Or   I  will   burn  thee;  '   and  this  other; 

see  !  — 
*  We  pray  continually  for  the  death 
Of  our    accursed    Queen    and    Cardinal 

Pole.' 
This  last  —  I  dare  not  read  it  her.    \_Aside. 
Alary.  Away ! 

Why  do  you  bring  me  these? 
1  thought  you  knew  me  better.     I  never 

read, 
I  tear  them;   they  come  back  upon  my 

■  dreams. 
The   hands  that   write    them    should  be 

burnt  clean  off 
As  Cranmer's,  and  the  fiends  that  utter 

them 
Tongue-torn  with  pincers,  lash'd  to  death, 

or  lie 
Famishing  in  black  cells,  while  famish'd 

rats 
Eat  them  alive.     Why  do  they  bring  me 

these? 
Do  you  mean  to  drive  me  mad  ? 

Pole.  I  had  forgotten 

How  these  poor  libels  trouble  you.     Your 

pardon. 
Sweet  cousin,  and  farewell !     '  O  bubble 

world, 
Whose  colours  in  a  moment  break  and  fly  ! ' 
Why,    who    said    that?     I    know    not  — 

true  enough  ! 
\^Puis  tip  the  papers,  all  but  the  last, 
which  falls.     Exit  I'ole. 


Alice.       If    Cranmer's    spirit    were     a 
mocking  one. 
And   heard   these   two,    there   might   be 
sport  for  him.  \_Aside. 

Mary.     Clarence,  they  hate  me;    even 
while  I  speak 
There  lurks  a  silent  dagger,  listening 
In  some  dark  closet,  some  long  gallery, 

drawn, 
And  panting  for  my  blood  as  I  go  by. 
Lady    Clarence.     Nay,   Madam,   there 
be  loyal  papers  too, 
x\nd  I  have  often  found  them. 

Alary.  Find  me  one  ! 

Lady  Clarence.     Ay,  Madam;    but  Sir 
Nicholas  Heath,  the  Chancellor, 
Would  see  your  Highness. 

ALary.      Wherefore  should  I  see  him? 
Lady    Clarence.       Well,    Madam,    he 

may  bring  you  news  from  Philip. 
ALary.     So,  Clarence. 
L^ady  Clarence.  Let  me  first  put 

up  your  hair; 
It  tumbles  all  abroad. 

ALary.  And  the  gray  dawn 

Of  an  old  age  that  never  will  be  mine 
Is  all  the  clearer  seen.     No,  no;    what 

matters? 
Forlorn  I  am,  and  let  me  look  forlorn. 

Enter  SiR  NICHOLAS  Heath. 

LLeath.      I    bring   your    Majesty   such 
grievous  news 
I  grieve  to  bring  it.     Madam,  Calais  is 
taken. 
ALary.     What   traitor   spoke?     Here, 
let  my  cousin  Pole 
Seize  him  and  burn  him  for  a  Lutheran. 
Lieath.     Her   Highness    is   unwell.     I 

will  retire. 
LAidy   Clarence.     Madam,  your  Chan- 
cellor, Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 
ALary.     Sir   Nicholas !    I    am    stunn'd 
—  Nicholas  Heath? 
Methought  some  traitor  smote  me  on  the 

head. 
What  said  you,  my  good  Lord,  that  our 

brave  English 
I  fad  sallied  out  from  Calais  and  driven 

back 
The  Frenchmen  from  their  trenches  ? 

LLeath.  Alas  !   no. 

That  gateway  to  the  mainland  over  which 


SCENE   II. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


627 


Our  flag  hath  floated   for   two  hunrired 

years 
Is  France  again. 

Mary.  So;  but  it  is  not  lost  — 

Not  yet.     Send  out :   let  England  as  of 

old 
Rise  lionlike,  strike  hard  and  deep  into 
The  prey  they  are  rending  from  her  —  ay, 

and  rend 
The  renders  too.     Send    out,  send    out, 

and  make 
Musters  in  all  the  counties;   gather  all 
P>om  sixteen  years  to  sixty;   collect  the 

fleet; 
Let  every  craft  that  carries  sail  and  gun 
Steer    toward    Calais.      Guisnes    is    not 

taken  yet? 
Heath.     Guisnes  is  not  taken  yet. 
Mary.  There  yet  is  hope. 

Heath.     Ah,  Madam,  but  your  people 

are  so  cold; 
I   do   much  fear  that   England  will   not 

care. 
Methinks  there  is  no  manhood  left  among 

us. 
Mary.     Send  out;   I  am  too  weak  to 

stir  abroad : 
Tell  my  mind   to   the  Council  —  to    the 

Parliament : 
Proclaim  it  to  the  winds.     Thou  art  cold 

thyself 
To  babble  of  their  coldness.     O  would  I 

were 
My  father  for  an   hour !     Away  now  — 

Quick  !  S^Exit  Heath. 

I  hoped  I  had  served  God  with  all  my 

might ! 
It  seems  I  have  not.     Ah  !  much  heresy 
Shelter'd   in  Calais.     Saints,  I  have   re- 
built 
Your  shrines,  set  up  your  broken  images; 
Be  comfortable  to  me.     Suffer  not 
That  my  brief  reign  in  England  be  de- 
famed 
Thro'  all  her  angry  chronicles  hereafter 
By   loss    of    Calais.      Grant    me    Calais. 

Philip, 
We    have    made    war    upon    the    Holy 

Father 
All  for  your  sake :  what  good  could  come 

of  that? 
Lady     Clarence.      No,     Madam,     not 

against  the  Holy  Father; 


You  did   but  help  King  Philip's  war  with 

France, 
Your  troops  were  never  down  in  Italy. 
J/a?y.     I  am  a  byword.     Heretic  and 
rebel 
Point  at  me  and  make  merry.    Philip  gone  ! 
And   Calais   gone !     Time    that    I    were 
gone  too ! 
Lady  Clarence.    Nay,  if  the  fetid  gutter 
had  a  voice 
x\nd  cried  1  was  not  clean,  what  should 

I  care? 
Or  you,  for  heretic  cries?    And  I  believe, 
Spite  of  your  melancholy  Sir  Nicholas, 
Your  England  is  as  loyal  as  myself. 

Mary  (^seeing  the  paper  dropt  by  Pole). 
There  !  there  !  another  paper  !  said 
you  not 
Many  of  these  were  loyal?     Shall  I  try 
If  this  be  one  of  such  ? 

Lady  Clarence.         Let  it  be,  let  it  be. 

God    pardon    me !       I    have    never   yet 

found  one.  \^Aside. 

Mary  {reads).     '  Your  people  hate  you 

as  your  husband  hates  you.' 

Clarence,  Clarence,  what  have  I   done? 

what  sin 
Beyond  all  grace,  all  pardon?     Mother 

of  God, 
Thou  knowest  never  woman   meant   so 

well. 
And  fared  so  ill  in  this  disastrous  world. 
My  people  hate  me  and  desire  my  death. 
Lady  Clarence.     No,  Madam,  no. 
Mary.     My    husband    hates   me,   and 

desires  my  death. 
Lady   Clarence.      No,  Madam;    these 

are  libels. 
Mary.     I  hate  myself,  and  I  desire  my 

death. 
L^ady     Clarence.       Long     live     your 
Majesty  !     Shall  Alice  sing  you 
One  of  her  pleasant  songs?     Alice,  my 

child. 
Bring  us  your  lute.     (Alice  goes.)     They 

say  the  gloom  of  Saul 
Was  lighten'd  by  young  David's  harp. 

Mary.  Too  young ! 

And  never  knew  a  Philip. 

Re-enter  Alice. 


Give  me  the  lute. 


He  hates  me ! 


628 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   V. 


<^She  sings ^ 

Hapless  doom  of  woman  happy  in  betrothing! 

Beauty  passes  like  a  breath  and  love  is  lost  in 
loathing: 

Low,  my  lute;  speak  low,  my  lute,  but  say  the 
world  is  nothing  — 

Low,  lute,  low! 

Love  will  hover  round  the  flowers  when  they  first 
awaken ; 

Love  will  fly  the  fallen  leaf,  and  not  be  over- 
taken ; 

Low,  my  lute!  oh  low,  my  lute!  we  fade  and  are 
forsaken  — 

Low,  dear  lute,  low ! 

Take  it  away  !  not  low  enough  for  me  ! 

Alice.     Your  Grace  hath  a  low  voice. 

Mary.  How  dare  you  say  it? 

Even  for  that  he  hates  me.     A  low  voice 

Lost    in    a  wilderness  where  none    can 

hear ! 
A  voice  of  shipwreck  on  a  shoreless  sea ! 
A  low  voice  from  the  dust  and  from  the 

grave 
(^Sitting  on  the  ground').     There,  am  I 

low  enough  now? 
Alice.     Good    Lord !    how   grim    and 

ghastly  looks  her  Grace, 
With  both  her  knees  drawn  upward  to 

her  chin. 
There  was  an  old-world  tomb  beside  my 

father's, 
And  this  was  open'd,  and  the  dead  were 

found 
Sitting,  and  in  this  fashion;   she  looks  a 

corpse. 

Enter  Lady  Magdalen  Dacres. 

Lady  Magdalen.     Madam,  the  Count 
de  Feria  waits  without, 
In  hopes  to  see  your  Highness. 

Lady    Clarence    (^pointing  to    Mary). 
Wait  he  must  — 
Her  trance  again.     She  neither  sees  nor 

hears, 
And  may  not  speak  for  hours. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Unhappiest 

Of  Queens  and  wives  and  women  ! 

Alice   {in  the  foreground  ivith    Lady 
Magdalen).  And  all  along 

Of  Philip. 

Lady  Magdalen.     Not  so  loud  !     Our 
Clarence  there 


Sees    ever    such    an    aureole    round    the 

Queen, 
It  gilds  the  greatest  wronger  of  her  peace, 
Who  stands  the  nearest  to  her. 

Alice.  Ay,  this  Philip; 

I   used   to  love  the  Queen  with  all  my 

heart  — 
God  help  me,  but  methinks  I  love  her  less 
For  such  a  dotage  upon  such  a  man. 
I  would  I  were  as  tall  and  strong  as  you. 
Lady  Magdalen.     I  seem  half-shamed 

at  times  to  be  so  tall. 
Alice.     You  are  the  stateliest  deer  in 
all  the  herd  — 
Beyond   his  aim  —  but  I   am  small  and 

scandalous, 
And  love  to  hear  bad  tales  of  Philip. 

Lady  Magdale^i.  Why? 

I  never  heard  him  utter  worse  of  you 
Than  that  you  were  low-statured. 

Alice.  Does  he  think 

Low  stature  is  low  nature,  or  all  women's 
Low  as  his  own? 

Lady  Magdalen.     There  you  strike  in 
the  nail. 
This  coarseness  is  a  want  of  phantasy. 
It  is  the  low  man  thinks  the  woman  low; 
Sin  is  too  dull  to  see  beyond  himself. 
Alice.     Ah,  Magdalen,  sin  is  bold  as 
well  as  dull. 
How  dared  he? 

Lady  Magdalen.     Stupid  soldiers  oft 
are  bold. 
Poor  lads,  they  see  not  what  the  general 

sees, 
A  risk  of  utter  ruin.     I  am  not 
Beyond  his  aim,  or  was  not. 

Alice.  Who?     Not  you? 

Tell,  tell  me ;  save  my  credit  with  myself. 

Lady  Magdalen.     I  never  breathed  it 

to  a  bird  in  the  eaves. 

Would  not  for  all  the  stars  and  maiden 

moon 
Our  drooping  Queen  should  know  !     In 

Hampton  Court 
My  window  look'd  upon  the  corridor; 
And  I  was  robing;  — this  poor  throat  of 

mine. 
Barer  than  I  should  wish  a  man  to  see  it,  — 
When  he  we  speak  of  drove  the  window 

back, 
And,   like   a  thief,    push'd   in   his   royal 
hand; 


SCENE   II. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


629 


But  by  God's   providence  a  good  stout 

staff 
Lay  near  me;   and  you  know  me  strong 

of  arm; 
I  do  believe  I  lamed  his  Majesty's 
For  a  day  or  two,  tho',  give  the   Devil 

his  due, 
I  never  found  he  bore  me  any  spite. 
Alice.     I  would  she  could  have  wedded 

that  poor  youth, 
My  Lord  of  Devon  —  light  enough,  God 

knows. 
And  mixt  with  Wyatt's  rising — and  the 

boy 
Not  out  of  him  —  but  neither  cold,  coarse, 

cruel. 
And  more  than  all  —  no  Spaniard. 

Lady  Clarence.  Not  so  loud. 

Lord  Devon,  girls !  what  are  you  whis- 
pering here? 
Alice.     Probing  an  old  state-secret  — 

how  it  chanced 
That  this  young  Earl  was  sent  on  foreign 

travel, 
Not  lost  his  head. 

Lady  Clarence.     There  was  no  proof 

against  him. 
Alice.    Nay,  Madam ;  did  not  Gardiner 

intercept 
A  letter  which  the   Count   de   Noailles 

wrote 
To    that   dead    traitor   Wyatt,  with   full 

proof 
Of  Courtenay's  treason?     What  became 

of  that? 
Lady  Clarence.     Some  say  that  Gardi- 
ner, out  of  love  for  him. 
Burnt   it,  and   some  relate   that  it  was 

lost 
When   Wyatt    sack'd    the    Chancellor's 

house  in  Southwark. 
Let  dead  things  rest. 

Alice.         Ay,  and  with  him  who  died 
Alone  in  Italy. 

Lady    Clarence.      Much     changed,     I 

hear. 
Had  put  off  levity  and  put  graveness  on. 
The    foreign    courts   report    him    in   his 

manner 
Noble  as  his  young  person  and  old  shield. 
It  might  be  so  —  but  all  is  over  now; 
He  caught  a  chill  in  the  lagoons  of  Venice, 
And  died  in  Padua. 


Mary  {looking  tip  suddenly) .    Died  in 

the  true  faith? 
Lady  Clarence.     Ay,  Madam,  happily. 
Mary.  Happier  he  than  I. 

Lady  Magdalen.     It  seems  her  High- 
ness hath  awaken'd.     Think  you 
That  I  might  dare  to  tell  her  that  the 
Count  — 
Alary.     I  will  see  no  man  hence  for 
evermore. 
Saving  my  confessor  and  my  cousin  Pole. 
Lady  Magdalen.     It  is  the  Count   de 

Feria,  my  dear  lady. 
Mary.  What  Count? 

Lady  Magdalen.     The  Count  de  Feria, 
from  his  Majesty 
King  Philip. 

Mary.     Philip !    quick !    loop    up    my 
hair ! 
Throw  cushions  on  that  seat,  and  make 

it  throne-like. 
Arrange  my  dress  —  the  gorgeous  Indian 

shawl 
That    Philip  brought   me  in  our  happy 

days ! — 
That  covers  all.      So  —  am  I   somewhat 

Queenlike, 
Bride  of  the    mightiest    sovereign  upon 
earth? 
Lady   Clarence.     Ay,    so   your    Grace 

would  bide  a  moment  yet. 
Mary.     No,    no,   he    brings    a   letter. 
I  may  die 
Before  I  read  it.      Let  me  see  him   at 
once. 

^«/<rr  Count  de  Feria  {kneels). 

Feria.     I   trust   your    Grace    is   well. 

{Aside)   Plow  her  hand  burns  ! 
Mary.     I    am    not   well,    but   it   will 

better  me. 
Sir  Count,  to  read  the  letter  which  you 

bring. 
Feria.     Madam,  I  bring  no  letter. 
Mary.  How!   no  letter? 

Feria.     His  Highness  is  so  vex'd  with 

strange  affairs  — 
Mary.     That  his  own  wife  is  no  affair 

of  his. 
Feria.     Nay,  Madam,  nay !  he  sends 

his  veriest  love, 
And  says,  he  will  come  quickly. 


630 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   V. 


Mary.  Doth  he,  indeed? 

You,  sir,  diO  you  remember  what  jj't>zf  said 
When  last  you  came  to  England  ? 

Feria.  Madam,  I  brought 

My  King's  congratulations;   it  was  hoped 
Your  Highness  was  once  more  in  happy 

state 
To  give  him  an  heir  male. 

Mary.  Sir,  you  said  more; 

You  said  he  would  come  quickly.     I  had 

horses 
On    all  the   road  from  Dover,   day  and 

night; 
On  all  the  road  from  Harwich,  night  and 

day; 
But  the  child  came  not,  and  the  husband 

came  not; 
And  yet  he  will  come  quickly.   .  ,    Thou 

hast  learnt 
Thy  lesson,  and    I   mine.     There  is  no 

need 
For  Philip  so  to  shame  himself  again. 
Return, 
And  tell  him  that  I  know  he  comes  no 

more. 
Tell    him    at    last    I    know    his    love    is 

dead. 
And    that  I  am    in   state  to   bring  forth 

death  — 
Thou  art  commission'd  to  Elizabeth, 
And  not  to  me  ! 

Feria.     Mere  compliments  and  wishes. 
But  shall  I  take  some  message  from  your 

Grace? 
Mary.     Tell  her  to  come  and  close  my 

dying  eyes, 
And  wear  my  crown,  and  dance  upon  my 

grave. 
Feria.     Then  I  may  say  your  Grace 

will  see  your  sister? 
Your  Grace  is  too  low-spirited.     Air  and 

sunshine. 
I  would  we  had  you,  Madam,  in  our  warm 

Spain. 
You  droop  in  your  dim  London. 

Mary.  Have  him  away  ! 

I  sicken  of  his  readiness. 

Lady  Clare^ue.  My  Lord  Count, 

Her  Piighness  is  too  ill  for  colloquy. 
Feria  {^kneels.,  and  kisses  her  ha7id').    I 

wish  her  Highness  l)etter.   {Aside^ 

How  her  hand  burns!      \^Exeiin(. 


SCENE  IH.  — A  House  near 
London. 

Elizabeth,   Steward  of  the  House- 
hold, Attendants. 

Elizabeth.      There's     half    an     angel 
wrong'd  in  your  account; 
Methinks  1  am  all  angel,  that  I  bear  it 
Without    more     ruffling.      Cast   it    o'er 
again. 
Sietvard.     I    were   whole    devil    if    I 
wrong'd  you.  Madam. 

\^Exit  Steward. 
Attendant.     The  Count  de  Feria,  from 

the  King  of  vSpain. 
Elizabeth.     Ah  !  —  let  him  enter.  Nay, 
you  need  not  go  : 

[  To  her  Ladies. 
Remain  within  the  chamber,  but  apart. 
We'll  have  no  private  conference.     Wel- 
come to  England  ! 

Enter  Feria. 

Feria.     Fair  island  star  ! 

Elizabeth.  I  shine  !     What  else. 

Sir  Count? 
Feria.     As    far    as    France,   and    into 
Philip's  heart. 
My   King  would  know  if  you  be   fairly 

served. 
And  lodged,  and  treated. 

Elizabeth.     You   see  the  lodging,  sir, 
I  am  well-served,  and  am  in  everything 
Most  loyal    and    most    grateful    to    the 
Queen. 
Feria.     You  should  be  grateful  to  my 
master,  too. 
He  spoke  of  this;   and  unto  him  you  owe 
That  Mary  hath   acknowledged  you  her 
heir. 
Elizabeth.     No,  not   to  her  nor  him; 
but  to  the  people. 
Who  know  my  right,  and  love  me,  as  I 

love 
The  people  !  whom  God  aid  ! 

Feria.  You  will  be  Queen, 

And,  were  I  Philip  — 

Elizabeth.         Wherefore  pause  you  — 

what? 
Feria.     Nay,   but   I   speak    from  mine 
own  self,  not  him; 
Your  royal  sister  cannot  last;    your  hand 


SCENE    IV. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


631 


Will  be  much  coveted  I    What  a  delicate 

one  I 
Our  Spanish  ladies  have  none  such  —  and 

there, 
W^ere  you  in  Spain,  this  fine  fair  gossamer 

gold  — 
Like    sun-gilt     breathings    on    a    frosty 

dawn  — 
That  hovers  round  your  shoulder  — 

Elizabeth.  Is  it  so  fine? 

Troth,  some  have  said  so. 

Feria.     —  would  be  deemed  a  miracle. 
Elizabeth.     Your  Philip  hath  gold  hair 
and  golden  beard; 
There  must  be  ladies  many  with  hair  like 
mine. 
Feria.     vSome    few    of    Gothic    blood 
have  golden  hair, 
But  none  like  yours. 

Elizabeth.     I  am  happy  you  approve  it. 
Feria.     But   as    to    Philip    and    your 
Grace  —  consider,  — 
If  such  a  one  as  you  should  match  with 

Spain, 
What  hinders  but  that  Spain  and  England 

join'd, 
Should  make  the  mightiest  empire  earth 

has  known. 
Spain  would  be  England  on  her  seas,  and 

England 
Mistress  of  the  Indies. 

Elizabeth.  It  may  chance,  that 

England 
Will  be  the  Mistress  of  the  Indies  yet, 
Without  the  help  of  Spain. 

Feria.  Impossible ; 

Except  you  put  Spain  down. 
Wide  of  the  mark  ev'n  for  a  madman's 
dream. 
Elizabeth.       Perhaps;    but    we    have 
seamen.     Count  de  Feria, 
I  take  it  that  the  King  hath  spoken  to 

you; 
But  is  Don  Carlos  such  a  goodly  match? 
Feria.     Don    Carlos,    Madam,  is   but 

twelve  years  old. 
Elizabeth.     Ay,   tell  the   King  that   I 
will  muse  upon  it; 
He  is  my  good  friend,  and  I  would  keep 

him  so; 
But  —  he    would    have    me    Catholic    of 

Rome, 
And  that  I  scarce  can  be ;  and,  sir,  till  now 


My    sister's    marriage,    and    my   father's 

marriages. 
Made  me  full  fain  to  live  and  die  a  maid. 
But  I  am  much  beholden  to  your  King. 
Have  you  aught  else  to  tell  me? 

Feria.  Nothing,  Madam, 

Save  that  methought  I  gather'd  from  the 

Queen 
That  she  would  see  your  Grace  before  she 

—  died. 
Elizabeth.     God's  death  !    and  where- 
fore spake  you  not  before? 
We  dally  with  our  lazy  moments  here. 
And  hers  are  number'd.       Horses  there, 

without  I 
I  am  much  beholden  to  the  King,  your 

master. 
Why  did  you  keep  me  prating?     Horses, 

there  !  \_Exit  Elizabeth,  etc. 

Feria.     So  from  a  clear  sky  falls  the 

thunderbolt ! 
Don    Carlos?       Madam,    if    you    marry 

Philip, 
Then  I  and  he  will  snaffle  your  'God's 

death,' 
And  break  your  paces  in,  and  make  you 

tame; 
God's  death,  forsooth  —  you  do  not  know 

King  Philip.  S^Exit. 

SCENE  IV.  —  London.     Before  the 
Palace. 

A  light  burning  within.     Voices  of  the 
night  passing. 

First.     Is  not  yon  light  in  the  Queen's 

chamber? 
Second.  Ay, 

They  say  she's  dying. 

First.  So  is  Cardinal  Pole. 

May  the  great  angels  join  their  wings, 

and  make 
Down  for  their  heads  to  heaven  I 

Second.  Amen.     Come  on. 

S^Exeunt. 

Two  Others. 

First.     There's  the  Queen's  light.     I 

hear  she  cannot  live. 
Second.    God  curse  her  and  her  Legate  I 

Gardiner  burns 
Already;    but  to  pay  them  full  in  kind, 


632 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT   V. 


The  hottest  hold  in  all  the  devil's  den 
Were  but  a  sort  of  winter;   sir,  in  Guern- 
sey, 
I  watch'd  a   woman  burn;    and    in  her 

agony 
The  mother    came    upon    her  —  a  child 

was  born  — 
And,   sir,   they  hurl'd   it   back   into   the 

fire, 
That,    being   but    baptized    in   fire,    the 

babe 
Might  be  in    fire   for    ever.      Ah,   good 

neighbour, 
There  should  be  something  fierier  than 

fire 
To  yield  them  their  deserts. 

First.  Amen  to  all 

Your  wish,  and  further. 

A  Third  Voice.  Deserts !  Amen  to 
what?  Whose  deserts?  Yours?  You 
have  a  gold  ring  on  your  finger,  and  soft 
raiment  about  your  body;  and  is  not  the 
woman  up  yonder  sleeping  after  all  she 
has  done,  in  peace  and  quietness,  on  a 
soft  bed,  in  a  closed  room,  with  light, 
fire,  physic,  tendance;  and  I  have  seen 
the  true  men  of  Christ  lying  famine-dead 
by  scores,  and  under  no  ceiling  but  the 
cloud  that  wept  on  them,  not  for  them. 
First.     Friend,  tho'  so  late,  it  is  not 

safe  to  preach. 
You  had  best  go  home.  What  are  you? 
Third.  What  am  I?  One  who  cries 
continually  with  sweat  and  tears  to  the 
Lord  God  that  it  would  please  Him  out 
of  His  infinite  love  to  break  down  all 
kingship  and  queenship,  all  priesthood 
and  prelacy;  to  cancel  and  abolish  all 
bonds  of  human  allegiance,  all  the  magis- 
tracy, all  the  nobles,  and  all  the  wealthy; 
and  to  send  us  again,  according  to  His 
promise,  the  one  King,  the  Christ,  and 
all  things  in  common,  as  in  the  day  of  the 
first  church,  when  Christ  Jesus  was  King. 
First.     If  ever  I  heard  a  madman,  — 

let's  away  ! 
Why,  you  long-winded —    Sir,   you   go 

beyond  me. 
I  pride  myself  on  being  moderate. 
Good   night !     Go  home.     Besides,   you 

curse  so  loud, 
The  watch  will  hear  you.     Get  you  home 

at  once.  \_Exetuit. 


SCENE  V.  —  London.     A  Room  in 
THE  Palace. 

A  Gallery  on  one  side.  The  Moonlight 
streaming  through  a  range  of  -windows 
on  the  wall  opposite.  Mary,  Lady 
Clarence,  Lady  Magdalen  Dacres, 
Alice.  Queen  pacing  the  Gallery. 
A  7vriting-table  in  Jront.  Ql'EEN 
co?nes  to  the  table  and  writes  and  goes 
again,  pacing  the  Gallery. 

Lady  Clarence.     Mine  eyes  are  dim : 

what  hath  she  written?  read. 
Alice.     '  I  am  dying,  Philip ;   come  to 

me.' 
Lady   Magdalen.        There  —  up    and 

down,  poor  lady,  up  and  down. 
Alice.     And  how  her  shadow  crosses 
one  by  one 
The   moonlight   casements  pattern'd   on 

the  wall. 
Following   her    like    her    sorrow.       She 
turns  again. 
[Queen  sits  and  writes,  and  goes  again. 
Lady  Clarence.     What  hath  she  written 

now? 
Alice.      Nothing;    but    'come,    come, 
come,'  and  all  awry. 
And  blotted  by  her  tears.     This  cannot 
last.  [Queen  returns. 

Mary.     I    whistle    to   the    bird    has 
broken  cage. 
And  all  in  vain.  {^Sitting  doivn. 

Calais  gone  —  Guisnes  gone,  too  —  and 
Philip  gone  ! 
Lady   Clarence.     Dear  Madam,  Philip 
is  but  at  the  wars; 
I  cannot  doubt  but  that  he  comes  again; 
And  he  is  with  you  in  a  measure  still. 
I  never  look'd  upon  so  fair  a  likeness 
As  your  great  King  in  armour  there,  his 

hand 
Upon  his  helmet. 

\  Pointing  to  the  portrait  of  V\i\\y^  on 

the  wall. 

Mary.  Doth  he  not  look  noble? 

I  had  heard  of  him  in  battle  over  seas, 

And  I  would  have  my  warrior  all  in  arms. 

He    said    it   was    not    courtly    to    stand 

helmeted 
Before  the  Queen.     He  had  his  gracious 
moment, 


SCENE   V, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


^IZ 


Altho'  you'll  not  believe  me.     How  he 

smiles 
As  if  he  loved  me  yet ! 

Lady  Clarence.  And  so  he  does. 

Mary.     He  never  loved  me  —  nay,  he 

could  not  love  me. 
It  was  his  father's  policy  against  France. 
I  am  eleven  years  older  than   he,  poor 

boy !  [  Weeps. 

Alice.     That  was  a  lusty  boy  of  twenty- 
seven  ;  \_Aside. 
Poor  enough  in  God's  grace  ! 

Mary.  — And  all  in  vain  ! 

The    Queen  of   Scots  is  married  to  the 

Dauphin, 
And  Charles,  the  lord  of  this  low  world, 

is  gone ; 
And  all  his  wars  and  wisdoms  past  away; 
And  in  a  moment  I  shall  follow  him. 
Lady   Clarence.     Nay,   dearest    Lady, 

see  your  good  physician. 
Mary.     Drugs  —  but    he   knows    they 

cannot  help  me  —  says 
That   rest  is  all  —  tells  me  I  must   not 

think  — 
That  I  must  rest  —  I  shall  rest  by  and  by. 
Catch  the  wild  cat,  cage  him,  and  when 

he  springs 
And  maims  himself  against  the  bars,  say 

*  rest ' : 
Why,  you   must    kill  him  if  you  would 

have  him  rest  — 
Dead   or   alive   you   cannot   make   him 

happy. 
Lady    Clarence.      Your    Majesty   has 

lived  so  pure  a  life. 
And  done  such  mighty  things  by  Holy 

Church, 
I  trust  that  God  will  make  you  happy  yet. 
Ma^ry.       What   is   the    strange    thing 

happiness?     Sit  down  here: 
Tell  me  thine  happiest  hour. 

Lady  Clarence.  I  will,  if  that 

May  make  your  Grace  forget  yourself  a 

little. 
There  runs  a  shallow  brook  across  our 

field 
For  twenty  miles,  where  the  black  crow 

flies  five, 
And  doth  so  bound  and  babble  all  the 

way 
As  if  itself  were   happy.     It  was  May- 
time, 


And  I  was  walking  with  the  man  I  loved. 
I  loved  him,  but  I  thought  I  was  not  loved. 
And    both  were    silent,  letting  the  wild 

brook 
Speak  for  us  —  till  he  stoop'd  and  gath- 

er'd  one 
From  out  a  bed  of  thick  forget-me-nots, 
Look'd  hard  and  sweet  at  me,  and  gave 

it  me. 
I  took  it,  tho'  I  did  not  know  I  took  it. 
And  put  it  in  my  bosom,  and  all  at  once 
I  felt  his  arms  about  me,  and  his  lips  — 
Alary.     O  God  !  I  have  been  too  slack, 

too  slack; 
There  are  Hot  Gospellers   even   among 

our  guards  — 
Nobles  we  dared  not  touch.     W'e  have 

but  burnt 
The  heretic  priest,  workmen,  and  women 

and  children. 
Wet,  famine,  ague,  fever,  storm,  wreck, 

wrath,  — 
We  have  so  play'd  the  coward;   but  by 

God's  grace, 
We'll  follow  Philip's  leading,  and  set  up 
The  Holy  Office  here  —  garner  the  wheat. 
And  burn  the  tares  with  unquenchable 

fire! 
Burn !  — 
Fie,  what  a  savour !    tell   the   cooks    to 

close 
The  doors  of  all  the  offices  below. 
Latimer ! 
Sir,    we    are    private   with    our   women 

here  — 
Ever  a  rough,  blunt,  and  uncourtly  fel- 
low— 
Thou   light  a  torch    that   never  will  go 

out! 
'Tis   out  —  mine    flames.      V/omen,    the 

Holy  Father 
Has  ta'en  the  legateship  from  our  cousin 

Pole  — 
Was  that  well  done?  and  poor  Pole  pines 

of  it. 
As  I  do,  to  the  death.    I  am  but  a  woman, 
I  have  no  power.  —  Ah,  weak  and  meek 

old  man, 
Seven-fold  dishonour'd  even  in  the  sight 
Of  thine    own  sectaries  —  No,  no.     No 

pardon !  — 
Why  that  was  false :    there  is  the  right 

hand  still 


634 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT    V, 


Beckons  me  hence. 

Sir,  you  were  burnt  for  heresy,   not  for 

treason, 
Remember  that  I   'twas  I  and  Bonner  did 

it, 
And  Pole;   we  are  three  to  one  —  Have 

you  found  mercy  there, 
Grant  it  me  here  :  and  see,  he  smiles  and 

goes. 
Gentle  as  in  life. 

Alice.  Madam,  who  goes?     King 

Philip? 
Mary.     No,  Philip  comes    and   goes, 

but  never  goes. 
Women,  when  I  am  dead. 
Open  my  heart,  and  there  you  will  find 

written 
Two   names,    Philip    and   Calais;     open 

his,  — 
So  that  he  have  one, — 
You  will  find  Philip  only,  policy,  policy,  — 
Ay,  worse  than  that  —  not  one  hour  true 

to  me  1 
Foul  maggots  crawling  in  a  fester'd  vice  ! 
Adulterous  to  the  very  heart  of  Hell. 
Hast  thou  a  knife? 

Alice.  Ay,  Madam,  but  o'  God's 

mercy  — 
Mary.     Fool,   think'st    thou    I  would 

peril  mine  own  soul 
By  slaughter  of  the  body?     I  could  not, 

girl, 
Not  this  way  —  callous  with  a  constant 

stripe, 
Unwoundable.     The  knife  ! 

Alice.  Take  heed,  take  heed  I 

The  blade  is  keen  as  death. 

Mary.  This  Philip  shall  not 

Stare  in  upon  me  in  my  haggardness; 
Old,  miserable,  diseased, 
Incapable  of  children.    Come  thou  down. 
[  Cuts  out  the  picture  and  throivs  it  down. 
Lie  there.     (  Wails)  O  God,  I  have  kill'd 

my  Philip  ! 
Alice.  No, 

Madam,  you   have   but   cut   the   canvas 

out; 
We  can  replace  it. 

Maiy.  All  is  well  then ;   rest  — 

I  will  to  rest;   he  said,  T  must  have  rest. 

\_Cries  t?/"' E"li/.abeth  '  /;/  the  street. 
Aery!  What's  that?  Klizaheth?  revolt? 
A  new  Northumberland,  another  Wyatt? 


I'll    fight    it    on    the    threshold    of    the 

grave. 
Lady    Clarence.     Madam,   your    royal 

sister  comes  io  see  you. 
Mary.     I  will  not  see  her. 
Who  knows  if  Boleyn's  daughter  be  my 

sister? 
I  will  see  none  except  the  priest.     Your 

arm.  [  7^o  Lady  Clarence. 

(J  Saint  of  Aragon,  with  that  sweet  worn 

smile 
Among  thy  patient  wrinkles  —  Help  me 

hence.  [Exeunt. 

The  Priest  passes.     Enter   Elizabeth 
and  Sir  William  Cecil. 

Elizabeth.     Good  counsel  yours  — 

No  one  in  waiting?  still. 

As  if  the  chamberlain  were  Death  him- 
self! 

The  room  she  sleeps  in  —  is  not  this  the 
way? 

No,  that  way  there    are  voices.     Am   I 
too  late? 

Cecil  .  .  .  God  guide  me  lest  I  lose  the 
way.  S^Exit  Elizabeth. 

Cecil.     Many  points  weather'd,  many 
perilous  ones. 

At   last  a  harbour   opens;     but    therein 

Sunk  rocks  —  they  need  fine  steering  — 
much  it  is 

To    be    nor    mad,    nor    bigot  —  have    a 
mind  — 

Nor  let  Priests'  talk,  or  dream  of  worlds 
to  be, 

Miscolour    things    about    her  —  sudden 
touches 

For  him,  or  him  —  sunk  rocks;   no  pas- 
sionate faith  — 

But  —  if  let  be  —  balance  and  compro- 
mise; 

Brave,  wary,  sane  to  the  heart  of  her  — 
a  Tudor 

School'd    by    the    shadow  of   death  —  a 
Boleyn,  too. 

Glancing  across  the  Tudor —  not  so  well. 

Enter  Alice. 

How  is  the  good  Queen  now? 

Alice.  Away  from  Philip. 

Ijack  in  her  childhixjd  —  prattling  to  her 

mother 
<  )f  her  betrothal  to  the  Emperor  Charles, 


SCENE   V, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


635 


And  childlike-jealous  of  him  again  —  and 

once 
She  thank'd  her  father    sweetly  for    his 

book 
Against  that  godless  German.     Ah,  those 

days 
Were     appy.     It  was  never  merry  world 
In  England,  since  the  Bible  came  among 
us. 
Cecil.      And  who  says  that? 
Alice.      It    is    a    saying    among    the 

Catholics. 
Cecil.      It  never  will  be  merry  world 
in  England, 
Till  all  men  have  their  Bible,  rich  and 
poor. 
Alice.     The    Queen    is  dying,  or  you 
dare  not  say  it. 

Enter    ELIZABETH. 

Elizabeth.     The  Queen  is  dead. 

Cecil.     Then    here    she    stands  I     my 

homage. 
Elizabeth.     She    knew    me,    and    ac- 
knowledged me  her  heir, 
Pray'd  me  to  pay  her   debts,  and    keep 

the  Faith; 
Then  claspt  the  cross,  and  pass'd  away 

in  peace. 
I  left  her  lying  still  and  beautiful, 


More  beautiful  than  in  life.     Why  would 

you  vex  yourself, 
Poor  sister?    Sir,  I  swear  I  have  no  heart 
To  be  your  Queen.     To  reign  is  restless 

fence, 
Tierce,    quart,    and    trickery.      Peace    is 

with  the  dead. 
Her  life  was  winter,  for  her  spring  was 

nipt : 
And  she  loved  much  :   pray  God  she  be 

forgiven. 
Cecil.    Peace  with  the  dead,  who  never 

were  at  peace  ! 
Yet   she    loved    one  so  much  —  I  needs 

must  say  — 
That  never  English  monarch  dying  left 
England  so  little. 

Elizabeth.  But  with  Cecil's  aid 

And  others,  if  our  person  be  secured 
From  traitor  stabs  — we  will  make  Eng- 
land great. 

Enter  Paget,  and  other  Lords  of  the 
Council,  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall,  etc. 

Lords.     God  save  Elizabeth,  the  Queen 

of  England  I 
Bagenhall.     God  save  the  Crown  I   the 

Papacy  is  no  more. 
Paget  {aside).     Are  we  so  sure  of  that? 
Acclamation.     God  save  the  Oueen  I 


HAROLD: 

A  DRAMA. 

To  His  Excellency 
THE   RIGHT   HON.   LORD   LYTTON, 

Viceroy  and  Goverfior-General  of  India. 

My  dear  Lord  Lytton,  —  After  old-world  records  —  such  as  the  Bayeux  tapestry  and  the  Roman 
de  Rou,  —  Edward  Freeman's  History  of  the  Norman  Conquest,  and  your  father's  Historical  Romance 
treating  of  the  same  times,  have  been  mainly  helpful  to  me  in  writing  this  Drama.  Your  father 
dedicated  his  '  Harold '  to  my  father's  brother  ;  allow  me  to  dedicate  my  '  Harold '  to  yourself. 

A.  TENNYSON. 

SHOW-DAY  AT  BATTLE  ABBEY,  1876. 

A  GARDEN  here  —  May  breath  and  bloom  of  spring  — 

The  cuckoo  yonder  from  an  English  elm 

Crying  *  with  my  false  egg  I  overwhelm 

The  native  nest:  '  and  fancy  hears  the  ring 

Of  harness,  and  that  deathful  arrow  sing, 

And  Saxon  battleaxe  clang  on  Norman  helm. 

Here  rose  the  dragon-banner  of  our  realm : 

Here  fought,  here  fell,  our  Norman-slander'd  king. 

O  Garden  blossoming  out  of  English  blood  ! 

O  strange  hate-healer  Time  !     We  stroll  and  stare 

Where  might  made  right  eight  hundred  years  ago; 

Might,  right?  ay  good,  so  all  things  make  for  good  — 

But  he  and  he,  if  soul  be  soul,  are  where 

Each  stands  full  face  with  all  he  did  below. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

King  Edward  the  Confessor. 

Stigand,  created  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  by  the  Antipope  Benedict. 
KvDR^Ti,  Archbishop  0/  York.  The  Norman  Bishop  of  London. 

Harold,  Earl  of  Wessex,  afterwards  King  of  Efigland  \ 

TosTiG,  Earl  of  Northumbria  c.,  .-  ^r 

'  ■'  cions  oj 

GURTH,  Earl  of  East  A  nglia  \  Godwin. 

\.¥.OYv^\^,  Earl  of  Kent  and  Essex  \ 

wulfnoth  j 

Count  William  of  Normandy.  William  Rufus. 

William  Malet,  a  Norniafi  Noble.^ 

Edwin,  Earl  of  Mercia  )  Sons  of  Alfgar  of 

MoRCAR,  Earl  of  Northumbria  after  TostigS  Mercia. 

Gkvv^i^,  a  Northumbrian  Thane.  Gv\,  Cotint  of  Ponthiett. 

Rolf,  a  Ponthieu  Fisherrtian.  Hugh  Margot,  a  Norman  Monk. 

OsGOD  and  Athelric,  Cations  from  Waltham. 

The  Queen,  Edward  the  Confessor  s  Wife,  Daughter  of  Godwin. 
Aldwyth,  Daifghter  of  Alfgar  and  Widow  of  Griffyth,  Kifig  of  Wales. 
Edith,  Ward  of  Kitig  Ed^vard. 

Courtiers,  Earls  and  Thanes,  Men-at-Arms,  Canons  of  Waltham,  Fishermen,  etc. 

'  .  .  .  quidam  partim  Normannus  et  Anglus 
Compater  Heraldi.     {Gjty  of  Amiens,  587.) 


ACT   I,    SCENE   I. 


HAROLD. 


637 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.  — LoNDOxN.    The  King's 
Palace. 

{^A  cor,  :t  seen  through  the  open  windo'cu.') 

Aldwyth,   Gamel,    Courtiers   talking 
together. 

First  Courtier.     Lo?  there  once  more 
—  this  is  the  seventh  night! 
Yon    grimly -glaring,    treble -brandish'd 

scourge 
Of  England  ! 

Second  Courtier.     Horrible  ! 
First  Courtier.     Look  you,  there's  a  star 
That  dances  in  it  as  mad  with  agony ! 
Third  Courtier.     Ay,  like  a  spirit  in 
Hell  who  skips  and  flies 
To  right  and  left,  and  cannot  scape  the 
flame. 
Second    Courtier.       Steam'd    upward 
from  the  undescendible 
Abysm. 

First  Courtier.     Or  floated  downward 
from  the  throne 
Of  God  Almighty. 

Aldwyth.  Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 

What  thinkest  thou  this  means? 

Gamel.  War,  my  dear  lady  ! 

Aldwyth.     Doth  this  affright  thee? 
Gamel.  Mightily,  my  dear  lady  ! 

Aldwyth.     Stand  by  me  then,  and  look 
upon  my  face, 
Not  on  the  comet. 

{Enter  MoRCAR.) 

Brother!  why  so  pale? 
Morcar.     It  glares  in  heaven,  it  flares 
upon  the  Thames, 
The  people  are  as  thick  as  bees  below. 
They  hum  like  bees,  —  they  cannot  speak 

—  for  awe ; 
Look  to  the  skies,  then  to  the  river,  strike 
Their  hearts,  and  hold  their  babies  up  to  it. 
I  think  that  they  would  Molochise  them 

too. 
To  have  the  heavens  clear. 

Aldzvyth.  They  fright  not  me. 

{Enter  Leofwin,  after  him  Gurth.) 

Ask  thou  Lord  Leofwin  what  he  thinks 
of  this ! 


Morcar.       Lord     Leofwin,  dost    thou 
believe,  that  these 
Three  rods  of  blood-red  fire  up  yonder 

mean 
The  doom  of  England  and  the  wrath  of 
Heaven? 
Bishop  of  Londo7i  {passing').     Did  ye 
not  cast  with  bestial  violence 
Our  holy  Norman  bishops  down  from  all 
Their   thrones    in     England?      I    alone 

remain. 
Why  should  not  Heaven  be  wroth? 
Leofzain.  With  us,  or  thee? 

Bishop  of  London.     Did  ye  not  outlaw 
your  archbishop  Robert, 
Robert  of  Jumieges — well-nigh  murder 

him  too? 
Is  there    no    reason    for    the    wrath    of 
Heaven? 
Leofwin.       Why    then    the    wrath    of 
Heaven  hath  three  tails, 
The  devil  only  one. 

\_Exit  Bishop  of  London. 

{Enter  ARCHBISHOP  Stigand.  ) 

Ask  our  Archbishop. 

Stigand   should   know    the   purposes    of 

Heaven. 

Stigand.     Not  I.     I  cannot  read  the 

face  of  heaven; 

Perhaps  our  vines  will  grow  the  better  for  it. 

Leoftvin  {laughing) .     He  can  but  read 

the  king's  face  on  his  coins. 
Stigand.     Ay,  ay,  young  lord,  there  the 

king's  face  is  power. 
Gurth.     O  father,  mock  not  at  a  public 
fear. 
But  tell  us,  is  this  pendent  hell  in  heaven 
A  harm  to  England? 

Stigand.  Ask  it  of  King  Edward  ! 

And  he  may  tell  thee,  /  am  a  harm  to 

England. 
Old  uncanonical  Stigand  —  ask  of  me 
Who  had  my  pallium  from  an  Antipope  ! 
Not  he  the  man  —  for  in  our  windy  world 
What's  up  is  faith,  what's  down  is  heresy. 
Our  friends,  the  Normans,  holp  to  shake 

his  chair. 
I  have  a  Norman  fever  on  me,  son, 
And  cannot  answer  sanely.  .  .  .  What  it 

means? 
Ask  our  broad  Earl. 

\_Poititing  to  Harold,  who  enters. 


638 


HAROLD. 


ACT    I. 


Harold  {seeing  Gamel).     Hail,  Gamel, 

son  of  Orm  ! 
Albeit  no  rolling  stone,  my  good  friend 

Gamel, 
Thou  hast  rounded  since  we  met.     Thy 

life  at  home 
Is  easier  than  mine  here.     Look  I  am  I  not 
Work- wan,  flesh-fallen? 

Gamel.  Art  thou  sick,  good  Earl? 

Harold.     Sick  as  an  autumn  swallow 

for  a  voyage. 
Sick  for  an  idle  week  of  hawk  and  hound 
Beyond    the    seas  —  a    change  1      When 

earnest  thou  hither? 
Gamel.     To-day,  good  Earl, 
Harold.     Is  the  North  quiet,  Gamel? 
Gamel.     Nay,  there  be  murmurs,  for 

thy  brother  breaks  us 
With  over-taxing — quiet,  ay,  as  yet  — 
Nothing  as  yet. 

Harold.      Stand    by    him,    mine    old 

friend. 
Thou  art  a  great  voice  in  Northumber- 
land ! 
Advise  him :  speak  him  sweetly,  he  will 

hear  thee. 
He  is  passionate  but  honest.     Stand  thou 

by  him  I 
More  talk  of  this  to-morrow,  if  yon  weird 

sign 
Not  blast  us  in  our  dreams. —  Well,  father 

Stigand  — 

[  To  Stigand,  'who  advances  to  him. 
Stigand  {poi7iting  to  the  comet).     War 

there,  my  son?  is  that  the  doom 

of  England? 
Harold.     Why  not  the  doom  of  all  the 

world  as  well? 
For  all  the  world  sees  it  as  well  as  Eng- 
land. 
These  meteors  came  and  went  before  our 

day, 
Not   harming   any :    it   threatens    us   no 

more 
Than    French    or   Norman.      War?    the 

worst  that  follows 
Things  that  seem  jerk'd  out  of  the  com- 
mon rut 
Of  Nature  is  the  hot  religious  fool, 
Who,  seeing  war  in  heaven,  for  heaven's 

credit 
Makes    it    on    earth :     but    look,    where 

Edward  draws 


A  faint  fool  hither,  leaning  upon  Tostig. 
He  hath  learnt  to  love  our  Tostig  much 
of  late. 
Leofivin.     And  he  hath  learnt,  despite 
the  tiger  in  him. 
To  sleek  and  supple  himself  to  the  king's 
hand. 
Gurth.     I  trust  the  kingly  touch  that 
cures  the  evil . 
May  serve  to  charm  the  tiger  out  of  him. 
Leofivin.     He  hath  as  much  of  cat  as 
tiger  in  him. 
Our  Tostig  loves  the  hand  and  not  the 
man. 
Harold.     Nay  !     Better  die  than  lie  ! 

Enter  King,  Queen,  a^id  Tostig. 

Edivard.  In  heaven  signs  ! 

Signs   upon   earth !     signs    everywhere ! 

your  Priests 
Gross,  worldly,  sinioniacal,  unlearn'd  ! 
They  scarce  can  read  their  Psalter;   and 

your  churches 
Uncouth,  unhandsome,  while  in  Norman- 
land 
God   speaks   thro'    abler   voices,  as    He 

dwells 
In  statelier  shrines.     I  say  not  this,  as 

being 
Half  Norman-blooded,  nor  as  some  have 

held. 
Because  I  love  the  Norman  better  —  no. 
But    dreading  God's  revenge   upon  this 

realm 
For  narrowness  and  coldness :  and  I  say 

it 
For  the  last  time  perchance,  before  I  go 
To  find   the   sweet   refreshment   of  the 

Saints, 
I  have  lived  a  life  of  utter  purity : 
I  have  builded  the  great  church  of  Holy 

Peter : 
I  have  wrought  miracles  —  to  God   the 

glory  — 
And  miracles  will  in  my  name  be  wrought 
Hereafter.  —  I  have  fought  the  fight  and 

go  — 
I  see  the  flashing  of  the  gates  of  pearl  — 
And  it  is  well  with  me,  tho'  some  of  you 
Have  scorn'd  me  —  ay  —  but  after  I  am 

gone 
Woe,  woe  to  England !      I  have  had  a 

vision; 


SCENE   I. 


HAROLD. 


639 


The  seven  sleepers  in  the  cave  at  Ephesus 
Have  turn'd  from  right  to  left. 

Harold.  My  most  dear  Master, 

What  matters?  let  them  turn  from  left  to 

right 
And  sleep  again. 

Tostig.  Too  hardy  with  thy  king  I 

A  life  of  prayer  and  fasting  well  may  see 
Deeper  into  the  mysteries  of  heaven 
Than  thou,  good  brother. 

Aldiuyth  {aside).      Sees  he  into  thine, 

That  thou  wouldst  have  his  promise  for 

the  crown? 

Edzuard.        Tostig  says  true;   my  son, 

thou  art  too  hard, 

Not  stagger'd  by  this  ominous  earth  and 

heaven : 
But  heaven  and  earth  are  threads  of  the 

same  loom, 
Play  into  one  another,  and  weave  the  web 
That  may  confound  thee  yet. 

Harold.  Nay,  I  trust  not, 

For  I  have  served  thee  long  and  honestly. 

Edward.     I  know  it,  son;    I  am  not 

thankless :  thou 

Hast  broken  all  my  foes,  lighten'd  for  me 

The  weight  of  this  poor  crown,  and  left 

me  time 
And  peace  for  prayer  to  gain  a  better  one. 
Twelve  years  of  service  !     England  loves 

thee  for  it. 
Thou  art  the  man  to  rule  her ! 

Aldiuyth  {aside) .  So,  not  Tostig  I 

Harold.     And  after  those  twelve  years 
a  boon,  my  king. 
Respite,  a  holiday  :  thyself  wast  wont 
To  love  the  chase  :  thy  leave  to  set  my  feet 
On  board,  and  hunt  and  hawk  beyond 
the  seas ! 
Edward.      What    with    this    flaming 

horror  overhead? 
Harold.     W"ell,  when  it  passes  then. 
Edivard.  Ay  if  it  pass. 

Go  not  to  Normandy  —  go  not  to  Nor- 
mandy. 
Harold.    And  wherefore  not,  my  king, 
to  Normandy? 
Is  not  my  brother  Wulfnoth  hostage  there 
For  my  dead  father's  loyalty  to  thee? 
I  pray  thee,  let  me  hence  and  bring  him 
home. 
Edivard.      Not   thee,  my  son :    some 
other  messenger. 


Harold.     And  why  not  me,  my  lord, 
to  Normandy? 
Is  nut  the  Norman  Count  thy  friend  and 
mine? 
Edward.     I   pray  thee,  do  not  go  to 

Normandy. 
Harold.     Because  my  father  drove  the 
Normans  out 
Of  England?  —  That  was  many  a  summer 

gone  — 
Forgotten  and  forgiven  by  them  and  thee. 
Edzvard.     Harold,  I  will  not  yield  thee 

leave  to  go. 
Harold.       Why  then  to  Flanders.     I 
will  hawk  and  hunt 
In  Flanders. 

Edivard.     Be  there  not  fair  woods  and 
fields 
In  England?     Wilful,  wilful.     Go  —  the 

Saints 
Pilot  and  prosper  all  thy  wandering  out 
And  homeward.    Tostig,  I  am  faint  again. 
Son  Harold,  I  will  in  and  pray  for  thee. 
\^Exit,  leaning  on  Tostig,  and  fol- 
loived   by  Stigand,    Morcar,    and 
Courtiers. 
Harold.     What  lies  upon  the  mind  of 
our  good  king 
That  he  should  harp  this  way  on  Nor- 
mandy? 
Queen.      Brother,   the    king   is   wiser 
than  he  seems; 
And  Tostig  knows  it;    Tostig  loves  the 
king. 
Harold.     And  love  should  know;   and 
—  be  the  king  so  wise,  — 
Then    Tostig    too    were    wiser    than    he 

seems. 
I  love  the  man  but  not  his  phantasies. 

{Re-enter  TOSTIG.) 

Well,  brother. 

When  didst  thou  hear  from  thy  North- 

umbria? 
Tostig.     When  did  I  hear  aught  but 

this  '  When  '  from  thee? 
Leave  me  alone,  brother,  with  my  North- 

umbria : 
She  is  my  mistress,  let  me  look  to  her  ! 
The  King  hath  made  me  Earl;   make  me 

not  fool ! 
Nor  make  the   King  a  fool,  who  made 

me  Earl  I 


640 


HAROLD. 


ACT    I. 


Harold.      No,   Tostig  —  lest    I    make 
myself  a  fool 
Who  made  the  King    who  made   thee, 
make  thee  Earl. 
Tostig.     Why  chafe  me  then?      Thou 

knowest  I  soon  go  wild. 
Gurth.     Come,  come  !   as  yet  thou  art 
not  gone  so  wild 
But  thou  canst  hear  the  best  and  wisest 
of  us. 
Harold.      So  says   old  Gurth,  not   I  : 
yet  hear  !  thine  earldom, 
Tostig,  hath  been  a  kingdom.     Their  old 

crown 
Is  yet  a  force  among  them,  a  sun  set 
But    leaving   light    enough    for   Alfgar's 

house 
To  strike  thee  down  by  —  nay,  this  ghastly 

glare 
May  heat  their  fancies. 

Tostig.  My  most  worthy  brother. 

Thou  art  the    quietest    man    in    all   the 

world  — 
Ay,  ay  and  wise  in  peace  and  great  in 

war  — 
Pray  God   the    people   choose    thee  for 

their  king ! 
But  all  the  powers  of  the  house  of  Godwin 
Are  not  enframed  in  thee, 

Harold.  Thank  the  Saints,  no  ! 

But  thou  hast  drain'd  them  shallow  by 

thy  tolls, 
And  thou  art  ever  here  about  the  King : 
Thine  absence  well  may  seem  a  want  of 

care. 
Cling  to  their  love;   for,  now  the  sons  of 

Godwin 
Sit  topmost  in  the  field  of  England,  envy. 
Like  the  rough  bear  beneath   the  tree, 

good  brother. 
Waits  till  the  man  let  go. 

Tostig.  Good  counsel  truly  ! 

I  heard  from  my  Northumbria  yesterday. 

Harold.      How  goes  it  then  with  thy 

Northumbria?     Well? 
Tostig.    And  wouldst  thou  that  it  went 

aught  else  than  well? 
Harold.     I  would  it  went  as  well  as 
.  with  mine  earldom, 
Leofwin's  and  Gurth's. 

Tostig.  Ye  govern  milder  men. 

Gurth.     W^e  have  made  them  milder 
by  just  government. 


Tostig.     Ay,  ever  give  yourselves  your 

own  good  word. 
Leofwin.      An  honest  gift,  by  all  the 
Saints,  if  giver 
And  taker  be  but  honest !  but  they  bribe 
Each  other,  and  so  often,  an  honest  world 
Will  not  believe  them. 

Harold.  I  may  tell  thee,  Tostig, 

I  heard  from  thy  Northumberland  to-day. 
Tostig.    Yxo\x\  spies  of  thine  to  spy  my 
nakedness 
In  my  poor  North  ! 

Harold.     There  is  a  movement  there, 
A  blind  one  —  nothing  yet. 

Tostig.  Crush  it  at  once 

With  all  the  power  I  have  I  —  I  must  —  I 

will !  — 
Crush  it  half-born  !     Fool  still  ?  or  wis- 
dom there, 
My  wise  head-shaking  Harold? 

Harold.  Make  not  thou 

The  nothing  something.     Wisdom  when 

in  power 
And  wisest,  should  not  frown  as  Power, 

but  smile 
As  kindness,  watching  all,  till  the  true 

must 
Shall  make   her   strike    as    Power :     but 

when  to  strike  — 
O  Tostig,  O  dear  brother  —  If  they  prance. 
Rein  in,  not  lash  them,  lest  they  rear  and 

run 
And  break  both  neck  and  axle. 

Tostig.  Good  again ! 

Good  counsel  tho'  scarce  needed.     Pour 

not  water 
In  the  full  vessel  running  out  at  top 
To  swamp  the  house. 

Leofwin.         Nor  thou  be  a  wild  thing 
Out  of  the  waste,  to   turn  and  bite  the 

hand 
Would  help  thee  from  the  trap. 

Tostig.  Thou  playest  in  tune. 

Leofzvin.     To  the  deaf  adder  thee,  that 
wilt  not  dance 
However  wisely  charm'd. 

Tostig.  No  more,  no  more  ! 

Gurth.     I    likewise    cry    '  no    more.' 
Unwholesome  talk 
For  Godwin's  house  !    Leofwin,  thou  hast 

a  tongue  ! 
Tostig,    thou    look'st    as    thou    wouldst 
spring  upon  him. 


SCENE   II. 


HAROLD. 


641 


St.  Olaf,  not  while  I  am  by  !     Come,  come, 
Join  hands,  let  brethren  dwell  in  unity; 
Let    kith    and   kin   stand    close    as    our 

shield- wall. 
Who  breaks  us  then  ?     I  say,  thou  hast  a 

tongue, 
AndTostig  is  not  stout  enough  to  bear  it. 
Vex  him  not,  Leofwin. 

Tostig.  No,  I  am  not  vext,  — 

Altho'  ye  seek  to  vex  me,  one  and  all. 
I  have  to  make  report  of  my  good  earl- 
dom 
To  the  good  king  who  gave  it  —  not  to 

you  — 
Not  any  of  you.  —  I  am  not  vext  at  all. 
Harold.     The  king?  the  king  is  ever 

at  his  prayers; 
In  all  that  handles  matter  of  the  state 
I  am  the  king. 

Tostig.  That  shalt  thou  never  be 

If  I  can  thwart  thee. 

Harold.  Brother,  brother  ! 

Tostig.  Away ! 

\Exit  Tostig. 
Queen.     Spite   of  this   grisly  star   ye 

three  must  gall 
Poor  Tostig. 

Leofivin.     Tostig,  sister,  galls  himself; 
He  cannot  smell  a   rose   but  pricks  his 

nose 
Against  the  thorn,  and  rails  against  the 

rose. 
Queen.     I  am  the  only  rose  of  all  the 

stock 
That  never  thorn'd  him;   Edward  loves 

him,  so 
Ye  hate  him.     Harold  always  hated  him. 
Why  —  how  they  fought   when  boys  — 

and.  Holy  Mary  ! 
How  Harold  used  to  beat  him  ! 

Harold.  Why,  boys  will  fight. 

Leofwin  would  often  fight  me,  and  I  beat 

him. 
Even  old  Gurth  would  fight.    I  had  much 

ado 
To   hold   mine    own  against  old  Gurth. 

Old  Gurth, 
We    fought   like   great  states    for  grave 

cause ;   but  Tostig  — 
On   a  sudden  —  at  a  something  —  for  a 

nothing  — 
The  boy  would  fist  me  hard,  and  when 

we  fought 

2T 


I  conquer'd,  and  he  loved  me  none  the 

less. 
Till  thou  wouldst  get  him  all  apart,  and 

tell  him 
That  where  he  was  but  worsted,  he  was 

wrong'd. 
Ah  !  thou  hast  taught  the  king  to  spoil 

him  too; 
Now  the  spoilt  child  sways  both.     Take 

heed,  take  heed; 
Thou  art  the  Queen;  ye  are  boy  and  girl 

no  more : 
Side  not  with  Tostig  in  any  violence, 
Lest  thou  be  sideways  guilty  of  the  vio- 
lence. 
Queen.     Come  fall  not  foul  on  me.     I 

leave  thee,  brother. 
Harold.     Nay,  my  good  sister  — 

{^Exeunt  Queen,  Harold,  Gurth,  and 
Leofwin. 
Aldivyth.  Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 

What  thinkest  thou  this  means? 

\_Pointing  to  the  cofuet. 
Gamel.  War,  my  dear  lady. 

War,  waste,  plague,  famine,  all  maligni- 
ties. 
Aldwyth.     It  means  the  fall  of  Tostig 

from  his  earldom. 
Ga/nel.     That  were  too  small  a  matter 

for  a  comet ! 
Aldivyth.     It  means  the  lifting  of  the 

house  of  Alfgar. 
Gamel.     Too    small !    a   comet    would 

not  show  for  that ! 
Aldwyth.     Not  small  for  thee,  if  thou 

canst  compass  it. 
Ga?nel.     Thy  love? 

Aldivyth.  As  much  as  I  can  give 

thee,  man; 
This  Tostig  is,  or  like  to  be,  a  tyrant; 
Stir  up  thy  people  :  oust  him  ! 

Ga?nel.  And  thy  love? 

Aldwyth.    As  much  as  thou  canst  bear. 
Gamel.  I  can  bear  all. 

And  not  be  giddy. 

Aldwyth.     No  more  now  :  to-morrow. 

SCENE  II.  —  In  the  Garden.  The 
King's  House  near  London.  Sun- 
set. 

Edith.     Mad  for  thy  mate,  passionate 
nightingale  .  .  . 


642 


HAROLD. 


ACT   I. 


I    love  thee   for  it  —  ay,  but  stay  a   iiiu- 

ment; 
He  can  but  stay  a  moment  :   he  is  going. 
I  fain  would  hear  him  coming  1   .  .  .   near 

me  .  .   .  near, 
Somewhere  — To  draw  him  nearer  with  a 

charm 
Like  thine  to  thine. 

(^Singing:) 

Love  is  come  with  a  song  and  a  smile, 
Welcome  Love  with  a  smile  and  a  song : 
Love  can  stay  but  a  little  while. 
Why    cannot   he    stay?     They  call    him 

away : 
Ye  do  him  wrong,  ye  do  him  wrong; 
Love  will  stay  for  a  whole  life  long. 

Enter  Harold. 

Harold.     The   nightingales  in    Have- 
ringatte-Bower 
Sang  out  their  loves  so  loud,   that  Ed- 
ward's prayers 
Were  deafen'd  and  he  pray'd  them  dumb, 

and  thus 
I  dumb  thee  too,  my  wingless  nightingale  ! 

\_Kissing  her. 

Edith.     Thou  art  my  music  !     Would 

their  wings  were  mine 

To  follow  thee  to  Flanders !     Must  thou 

go? 

Harold.     Not  must,  but  will.     It  is  but 

for  one  moon. 
Edith.     Leaving  so  many  foes  in  Ed- 
ward's hall 
To  league  against  thy  weal.     The  Lady 

Aldwyth 
Was  here  to-day,  and  when  she  touch'd 

on  thee, 
vShe  stammer'd  in  her  hate;    I  am  sure 

she  hates  thee, 
Pants  for  thy  blood. 

Harold.  Well,  I  have  given  her 

cause  — 
I  fear  no  woman. 

Edith.  Hate  not  one  who  felt 

Some  pity  for  thy  hater  !     I  am  sure 
Her   morning   wanted    sunlight,   she   so 

praised 
The  convent  and  lone  life  —  within  the 

pale  — 
Beyond    the   passion.     Nay  —  she   held 
with  Edward, 


At  least  methought  she   held  with   holy 

Edward, 
That  marriage  was  half  sin. 

Harold.  A  lesson  worth 

Finger  and  thumb  —  thus  {snaps  his  fin- 
gers^ .     And  my  answer  to  it  — 
See  here  —  an  interwoven  H  and  EI 
Take  thou  this  ring;    I  will  demand  his 

ward 
From  Edward  when  I  come  again.     Ay, 

would  she? 
She  to  shut  up  my  blossom  in  the  dark  ! 
Thou  art   my  nun,  thy   cloister  in   mine 

arms. 
Edith    {taking  the    ring).      Yea,   but 

Earl  Tostig  — 
Harold.  That's  a  truer  fear  ! 

For  if  the  North  take  fire,  I  should  be 

back ; 
I  shall  be,  soon  enough. 

Edith.  Ay,  but  last  night 

An  evil  dream  that  ever  came  and  went  — 

Harold.     A  gnat  that  vext  thy  pillow  I 

Had  I  been  by, 
I  would  have  spoil'd  his  horn.     My  girl, 

what  was  it? 
Edith.    Oh  !  that  thou  wert  not  going  ! 
For  so  methought  it  was  our  marriage- 
morn, 
And  while  we  stood  together,  a  dead  man 
Rose  from  behind  the  altar,  tore  away 
My  marriage  ring,  and    rent    my  bridal 

veil ; 
And  then  I  turn'd,  and  saw  the  church 

all  fill'd 
With  dead  men  upright  from  their  graves, 

and  all 
The  dead  men  made  at  thee  to  murder 

thee, 
But   thou  didst   back    thyself  against  a 

pillar, 
And  strike  among  them  with  thy  battle- 
axe  — 
There,  what  a  dream  ! 

Harold.  Well,  well  —  a  dream  — 

no  more  ! 
Edith.     Ditl  not  Heaven  speak  to  men 

in  dreams  of  old  ? 
Harold.     Ay  —  well  —  of  old.     I   tell 

thee  what,  my  child; 
Thou  hast  misread  this  merry  dream  of 

thine, 
Taken  the  rifted  pillars  of  the  wood 


SCENE   II. 


HAROLD. 


643 


For  smooth  stone  columns  of  the  sanct- 
uary, 
The  shadows  of  a  hundretl  fat  dead  deer 
For  dead  men's  ghosts.     True,  that  the 

battle-axe 
Was  out  of  place;   it  should  have  been 

the  bow.  — 
Come,  thou  shalt    dream  no  more  such 

dreams;    I  swear  it. 
By  mine  own  eyes  —  and  these  two  sap- 
phires—  these 
Twin  rubies,  that  are  amulets  against  all 
The  kisses  of  all  kind  of  womankind 
In  Flanders,  till  the  sea  shall  roll  me  back 
To  tumble  at  thy  feet. 

Edith.  That  would  but  shame  me, 

Rather  than  make  me  vain.    The  sea  may 

roll 
Sand,  shingle,  shore-weed,  not  the  living 

rock 
Which  guards  the  land. 

Harold.  Except  it  be  a  soft  one, 

And    undereaten    to    the    fall.        Mine 

amulet  .  .  . 
This   last  .    .  .   upon    thine    eyelids,    to 

shut  in 
A  happier  dream.    Sleep,  sleep,  and  thou 

shalt  see 
My  greyhounds  fleeting  like  a  beam  of 

light, 
And  hear  my  peregrine  and  her  bells  in 

heaven; 
And  other  bells  on  earth,  which  yet  are 

heaven's; 
Guess  what  they  be. 

Edith.      He  cannot  guess  who  knows. 
Farewell,  my  king. 

Harold.   Not  yet,  but  then  —  my  queen. 

\_Exeiint. 

Enter  Aldwyth  from  the  thicket. 

Aldwyth.     The  kiss  that  charms  thine 

eyelids  into  sleep, 
Will  hold  mine  waking.     Hate  him?     I 

could  love  him 
More,  tenfold,  than  this  fearful  child  can 

do; 
Griffyth  I  hated  :  why  not  hate  the  foe 
Of  England?     Griffyth  when  I  saw  him 

flee, 
Chased    deer-like  up  his  mountains,  all 

the  blood 


That  should  have  only  pulsed  for  Griftyth, 

beat 
For  his  pursuer.      I  love  him  or  think  I 

love  him. 
If  he  were  King  of  England,  I  his  queen, 
I  might  be  sure  of  it.     Nay,  I  do  love 

him.  — 
She  must  be  cloister'd  somehow,  lest  the 

king 
Should  yield  his  ward  to  Harold's  will. 

What  harm? 
She  hath  but  blood  enough  to  live,  not 

love.  — 
When  Harold  goes  and  Tostig,  shall  I 

play 
The  craftier  Tostig  with  him?  fawn  upon 

him? 
Chime  in  with  all?     'O  thou  more  saint 

than  king  I  ' 
And  that  were  true  enough.      '  O  blessed 

relics  I  ' 
'  O  Holy  Peter  I  '     If  he  found  me  thus, 
Harold  might  hate  me;   he  is  broad  and 

honest. 
Breathing   an    easy   gladness    .    .    .    not 

like  Aldwyth  .  .  . 
For  which  I  strangely  love  him.     Should 

not  England 
Love  Aldwyth,  if  she  stay  the  feuds  that 

part 
The  sons  of  Godwin   from   the  sons  of 

Alfgar 
By  such    a    marrying?     Courage,    noble 

Aldwyth  ! 
Let  all  thy  people  bless  thee ! 

Our  wild  Tostig, 
Edward  hath  made  him  Earl :    he  would 

be  king :  — 
The  dog  that  snapt  the  shadow,  dropt  the 

bone.  — 
I  trust  he  may  do  well,  this  Gamel,  whom 
I  play  upon,  that  he  may  play  the  note 
Whereat  the  dog  shall  howl  and  run,  and 

Harold 
Hear   the  king's  music,   all    alone   with 

him, 
Pronounced  his  heir  of  England. 
I  see  the  goal  and  half  the  way  to  it.  — 
Peace-lover  is  our  Harold  for  the  sake 
Of  England's  wholeness  —  so  —  to  shake 

the  North 
With  earthquake  and  disruption  —  some 

division  — 


644 


HAROLD. 


ACT   II. 


Then  fling  mine  own  fair  person  in  the  gap 
A  sacrifice  to  Harold,  a  peace-offering, 
A  scape-goat  marriage  —  all  the  sins  of 

both 
The  houses  on  mine  head  —  then  a  fair 

life 
And  bless  the  Queen  of  England. 

Morcar  {coming frojn  the  thickef).    Art 
thou  assured 
By  this,  that  Harold  loves  but  Edith? 

Aldwyth.  Morcar ! 

Why  creep'st  thou  like  a  timorous  beast 

of  prey 
Out  of  the  bush  by  night? 

Morcar.  I  follow'd  thee. 

Aldivyth.     Follow  my  lead,  and  I  will 

make  thee  earl. 
Morcar.     What  lead  then? 
Aldivyth.     Thou  shalt  flash  it  secretly 
Among   the    good    Northumbrian    folk, 

that  I  — 
That  Harold  loves  me  —  yea,  and  pres- 
ently 
That  I  and  Harold  are  betroth'd  —  and 

last  — 
Perchance  that  Harold  vi^rongs  me;   tho' 

I  would  not 
That  it  should  come  to  that. 

Morcar.  I  will  both  flash 

And  thunder  for  thee. 

Aldivyth.  I  said  '  secretly  ' ; 

It  is  the    flash   that   murders,  the   poor 

thunder 
Never  harm'd  head. 

Morcar.    But  thunder  may  bring  down 
That  which  the  flash  hath  stricken. 

Aldivyth.  Down  with  Tostig  ! 

That  first  of  all.  —  And  when  doth  Harold 
go? 
Morcar.   To-morrow  —  first  to  Bosham, 

then  to  Flanders. 
Aldwyth.       Not    to    come    back    till 
Tostig  shall  have  shown 
And  redden'd  with  his  people's  blood  the 

teeth 
That  shall  be  broken  by  us  —  yea,  and 

thou 
Chair'd  in  his  place.     Good-night,  and 

dream  thyself 
Their  chosen  Earl.  \^Exit  Aldwyth. 

Morcar.  Earl  first,  and  after  that 

Who  knows  1  may  not  dream  myself  their 
king ! 


ACT  n. 

SCENE   I.  —  Seashore.     Ponthieu. 
Night. 

Harold  and  his  Men,  wrecked. 

Harold.     Friends,  in  that    last  inhos- 
pitable plunge 

Our  boat  hath  burst  her  ribs;   but  ours 
are  whole; 

I  have  but  bark'd  my  hands. 

Attendant.  I  dug  mine  into 

My  old  fast  friend  the  shore,  and  clinging 
thus 

Felt   the  remorseless  outdraught  of  the 
deep 

Haul  like  a  great  strong  fellow  at  my  legs. 

And  then  I  rose  and  ran.    The  blast  that 
came 

So  suddenly  hath  fallen  as  suddenly  — 

Put  thou    the  comet  and  this    blast  to- 
gether — 
Harold.     Put  thou  thyself  and  mother- 
wit  together. 

Be  not  a  fool ! 

{Enter  Fishermen  with  torches,  HAROLD 
going  up  to  one  of  them,  RoLF.) 

Wicked  sea-will-o'-the-wisp ! 
Wolf  of  the  shore !  dog,  with  thy  lying 

lights 
Thou  hast  betray'd  us  on  these  rocks  of 
thine  ! 
Rolf.     Ay,  but  thou  liest  as  loud  as  the 
black  herring-pond  behind  thee.    We  be 
fishermen;    I  came  to  see  after  my  nets. 
Harold.      To     drag     us     into     them. 
Fishermen?   devils! 
Who,  while    ye  fish  for  men  with   your 

false  fires, 
Let  the  great  Devil  fish  for  your  own  souls. 
Rolf.    Nay  then,  we  be  liker  the  blessed 
Apostles;  they  were  fishers  of  men,  Father 
Jean  says. 

Harold.     I  had  liefer  that  the  fish  had 
swallowed  me. 
Like  Jonah,  than  have  known  there  were 

such  devils. 
What's  to  be  done? 

[  To  his  Men  — goes  apart  with  them. 
Fisherman.    Rolf,  what  fish  did  swallow 
Jonah? 


SCENE   II. 


HAROLD. 


645 


Rolf.     A  whale  ! 

Fisherman.  Then  a  whale  to  a  whelk 
we  have  swallowed  the  King  of  England. 
I  saw  him  over  there.  Look  thee,  Rolf, 
when  I  was  down  in  the  fever,  she  was 
down  with  the  hunger,  and  thou  didst 
stand  by  her  and  give  her  thy  crabs,  and 
set  her  up  again,  till  now,  by  the  patient 
Saints,  she's  as  crabb'd  as  ever. 

Rolf.  And  I'll  give  her  my  crabs  again, 
when  thou  art  down  again. 

Fisherman.  I  thank  thee,  Rolf.  Run 
thou  to  Count  Guy;  he  is  hard  at  hand. 
Tell  him  what  hath  crept  into  our  creel, 
and  he  will  fee  thee  as  freely  as  he  will 
wrench  this  outlander's  ransom  out  of 
him  —  and  why  not?  for  what  right  had 
he  to  get  himself  wrecked  on  another 
man's  land? 

Rolf  Thou  art  the  human-heartedest, 
Christian-charitiest  of  all  crab-catchers. 
Share  and  share  alike  I  \^Exit. 

//a raid  (^lo  Fishenn3.n) .  Fellow,  dost 
thou  catch  crabs? 

Fisherman.  As  few  as  I  may  in  a 
wind,  and  less  than  I  would  in  a  calm. 
Ay! 

Harold.  I  have  a  mind  that  thou  shalt 
catch  no  more. 

Fisherman .     How  ? 

Harold.  I  have  a  mind  to  brain  thee 
with  mine  axe. 

Fisherjfiatt.  Ay,  do,  do,  and  our  great 
Count- crab  will  make  his  nippers  meet 
in  thine  heart;  he'll  sweat  it  out  of  thee, 
he'll  sweat  it  out  of  thee.  Look,  he's 
here!  He'll  speak  for  himself!  Hold 
thine  own,  if  thou  canst  I 

Enter  Guy,  Count  of  Ponthieu. 

Harold.     Guy,  Count  of  Ponthieu? 
Guy.  Harold,  Earl  of  Wessex  ! 

Harold.     Thy  villains  with  their  lying 

lights  have  wreck' d  us  I 
Guy.     Art  thou  not  Earl  of  Wessex? 
Harold.  In  mine  earldom 

A   man  may  hang    gold  bracelets  on  a 

bush, 
And  leave  them  for  a  year,  and  coming 

back 
Find  them  again. 

Guy.  Thou  art  a  mighty  man 

In  thine  own  earldom  ! 


Harold.         Were  such  murderous  liars 
In    Wessex  —  if    I    caught    them,    they 

should  hang 
Cliff-gibbeted  for  sea-marks ;  our  sea-mew 
Winging  their  only  wail ! 

Guy.  Ay,  but  my  men 

Hold  that  the  shipwreckt  are  accursed  of 

God;  — 
What  hinders  me  to  hold  with  mine  own 
men? 
Harold.      The  Christian  manhood  of 

the  man  who  reigns  I 
Guy.     Ay,  rave  thy  worst,  but  in  our 
oubliettes 
Thou  shalt  or  rot  or  ransom.     Hale  him 
hence  !    [  To  one  of  his  Attendants. 
Fly  thou  to  William;    tell  him  we  have 
Harold. 

SCENE  II.  —  Bayeux.     Palace. 

Count  William  and  William  Malet. 

William.     We  hold  our  Saxon  wood- 
cock in  the  springe. 
But  he  begins  to  flutter.     As  I  think 
He  was  thine  host  in  England  when  I 

went 
To  visit  Edward. 

Malet.  Yea,  and  there,  my  lord, 

To    make    allowance    for    their    rougher 

fashions, 
I  found  him  all  a  noble  host  should  be. 
William.     Thou  art  his  friend :  thou 
know'st  my  claim  on  England 
Thro'   Edward's  promise :  we  have  him 

in  the  toils. 
And  it  were  well,  if  thou  shouldst  let  him 

feel 
How  dense  a  fold  of  danger   nets  him 

round. 
So  that  he  bristle  himself  against  my  will. 
Alalet.     What  would  I  do,  my  lord,  if 

I  were  you? 
William.     What  wouldst  thou  do? 
Malet.  My  lord,  he  is  thy  guest. 

William.     Nay,  by  the  splendour   of 
God,  no  guest  of  mine. 
He  came  not  to  see  me,  had  past  me  by 
To  hunt   and  hawk   elsewhere,  save  for 

the  fate 
Which  hunted  him  when  that  un-Saxon 
blast. 


646 


HAROLD. 


ACT   11. 


And  bolts  of   thunder  moulded  in  high 

heaven 
To  serve  the  Norman  purpose,  drave  and 

crack'd 
His  boat  on  Ponthieu  beach;   where  our 

friend  Guy 
Had  wrung  his  ransom  from  him  by  the 

rack, 
But  that  I  stept  between  and  purchased 

him, 
Translating  his  captivity  from  Guy 
To  mine  own  hearth  at  Bayeux,  where  he 

sits 
My  ransom'd  prisoner. 

Malet.  Well,  if  not  with  gold, 

With  golden  deeds  and  iron  strokes  that 

brought 
Thy  war  with  Brittany  to  a  goodlier  close 
Than  else  had  been,  he  paid  his  ransom 

back. 
William.     So  that  henceforth  they  are 

not  like  to  league 
With  Harold  against  )ne. 

Malet.  A  marvel,  how 

He  from  the  liquid  sands  of  Coesnon 
Haled     thy     shore-swallow'd,    armour'd 

Normans  up 
To  fight  for  thee  again ! 

William.  Perchance  against 

Their   saver,  save  thou   save   him    from 

himself, 
Malet.     But  I   should    let    him    home 

again,  my  lord. 
William.     Simple !    let    fly   the    bird 

within  the  hand. 
To  catch  the  bird  again  within  the  bush  ! 
No. 
Smooth  thou   my  way,  before   he   clash 

with  me; 
I    want    his   voice    in  England    for    the 

crown, 
I  want  thy  voice  with  him  to  bring  him 

round ; 
And  being  brave  he  must  be  subtly  cow'd, 
And  being  truthful  wrought  upon  to  swear 
Vows  that  he  dare  not  break,     England 

our  own 
Thro'  Harold's  help,  he  shall  be  my  dear 

friend 
As  well  as  thine,  and  thou  thyself  slialt 

have 
Large  lordship  there  of  lands  an<l  terri- 
tory. 


Malet.     I  knew  thy  purpose;    he  and 
Wulfnoth  never 
Have  met,  except  in  public;   shall  they 

meet 
In    private?     I   have    often    talk'd   with 

Wulfnoth, 
And  stuff'd  the  boy  with  fears  that  these 

may  act 
On  Harold  when  they  meet. 

William.  Then  let  them  meet ! 

Malet.      I   can   but   love    this    noble, 

honest  Harold. 
William.     Love  him  !  why  not?  thine 
is  a  loving  office, 
I   have   commission'd  thee   to  save   the 

man : 
Help  the  good  ship,  showing  the  sunken 

rock, 
Or  he  is  wreckt  for  ever. 

Enter  WiLLiAM  RuFUS. 

William  Rufus.  Father. 

William.  Well,  boy. 

William    Riifus.      They   have    taken 
away  the  toy  thou  gavest  me, 
The  Norman  knight. 

William.  Why,  boy? 

William  Rtifus.  Because  I  broke 

The   horse's  leg — it  was  mine   own  to 

break; 
I  like  to  have  my  toys,  and  break  them 
too. 
JVilliam.     Well,  thou  shalt  have  an- 
other Norman  knight ! 
William  Rtifus.     And    may   I   break 

his  legs? 
William.     Yea,  —  get  thee  gone  ! 
William  Ruftis.     I'll  tell  them  I  have 
had  my  way  with  thee.  \_Exit. 

Malet.     I  never  knew  thee  check  thy 
will  for  aught 
Save  for  the  prattling  of  thy  little  ones. 
William.     Who    shall    be    kings    of 
England.     I  ^m  heir 
Of  England  by  the  promise  of  her  king. 
Malet.     But  there  the  great  Assembly 
choose  their  king. 
The  choice  of  England  is  the  voice  of 
England. 
William.      1  will  be  king  of  England 
by  the  laws, 
The  choice,  and  voice  of  England. 
Maid.  Can  that  be? 


SCENE   II. 


HAROLD. 


647 


William.     The  voice  of  any  people  is 

the  sword 
That  guards  them,  or  the  sword  that  beats 

them  down. 
Here   comes  the  would-be  what   I   will 

be  .  .  •  kinglike  .  .  . 
The' scarce  at  ease;  for,  save  our  meshes 

break, 
More  kinglike  he  than  like  to  prove  a 

king. 

(^Enter  Harold,  musing.,  ivith  his  eyes 
■   on  the  ground.^ 

He  sees  me  not  —  and  yet  he  dreams  of 

me. 
Earl,  wilt  thou  fly  my  falcons  this  fair 

day? 
They  are  of  the  best,  strong-wing'd  against 

the  wind. 
Harold  {looking  up  suddenly,  having 

caught  but  the  last  zvord^ .     Which 

way  does  it  blow? 
William.     Blowing  for  England,  ha? 
Not  yet.     Thou  hast  not  learnt  thy  quar- 
ters here. 
The   winds   so    cross   and  jostle  among 

these  towers. 
Harold.     Count  of  the  Normans,  thou 

hast  ransom'd  us, 
Maintain'd,  and  entertain'd  us  royally ! 
William.     And  thou  for  us  hast  fought 

as  loyally, 
Which  binds  us  friendship-fast  for  ever ! 
Harold.  Good ! 

But  lest  we  turn  the  scale  of  courtesy 
By  too  much  pressure  on  it,  I  would  fain, 
Since  thou  hast  promised  Wulfnoth  home 

with  us, 
Be  home  again  with  Wulfnoth. 

William.  Stay  —  as  yet 

Thou  hast  but  seen  how  Norman  hands 

can  strike. 
But    walk'd    our    Norman    field,   scarce 

touch'd  or  tasted 
The  splendours  of  our  Court. 

Harold.  I  am  in  no  mood  : 

I  should  be  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Crossing  your  light. 

William.     Nay,  rest  a  week  or  two. 
And  we  will  fill  thee  full  of  Norman  sun, 
And  send  thee  back  among  thine  island 

mists 
With  laughter. 


Harold.         Count,  I  thank  thee,  but 
had  rather 
Breathe  the  free  wind  from  off  our  Saxon 

downs, 
Tho'  charged  with  all  the  wet  of  all  the 
west. 
William.     Why  if  thou  wilt,  so  let  it 
be  —  thou  shalt. 
That  were  a  graceless  hospitality 
To  chain  the  free  guest  tc  the  banquet- 
board  ; 
To-morrow   we    will    ride    with    thee   to 

Harfleur, 
And  see  thee  shipt,  and  pray  in  thy  behalf 
For  happier  homeward  winds  than  that 

which  crack'd 
Thy  bark  at  Ponthieu,  —  yet  to  us,  in  faith, 
A  happy  one  —  whereby  we  came  to  know 
Thy  valour  and  thy  value,  noble  earl. 
Ay,  and  perchance  a  happy  one  for  thee, 
Provided  —  I  will  go  with  thee  to-mor- 
row— 
Nay  —  but    there    be    conditions,    easy 

ones. 
So  thou,  fair  friend,  will  take  them  easily. 

Enter  Page. 

Page.     My  lord,  there  is  a  post  from 

over  seas 
With  news  for  thee.  \^Exit  Page. 

William.     Come,  Malet,  let  us  hear  ! 
\_Exeunt  Count  William  aiid  Malet. 
Harold.      Conditions?      What    condi- 
tions? pay  him  back 
His  ransom?  '  easy'  —  that  were  easy  — 

nay  — 
No    money-lover   he !      What   said    the 

King? 
'  I  pray  you  do  not  go  to  Normandy. ' 
And  fate  hath  blown  me  hither,  bound 

me  too 
With  bitter  obligation  to  the  Count  — 
Have  I  not  fought  it  out?     What  did  he 

mean? 
There  lodged  a  gleaming  grimness  in  his 

eyes. 
Gave  his  shorn  smile  the  lie.     The  walls 

oppress  me. 
And  yon  huge  keep  that  hinders  half  the 

heaven. 
Free  air  !  free  field  ! 

\_Moves  to  go  out.     A  Man-at-arms 

folloivs  him. 


648 


HAROLD. 


ACT   II. 


Harold  {to  the  Man-at-arms).     I  need 
thee  not.     Why  dost  thou  follow 
me? 
Man-at-arms.      I    have    the    Count's 

commands  to  follow  thee. 
Harold.     What  then  ?    Am  I  in  danger 

in  this  court? 
Man-at-ar77is.     I  cannot  tell.     I  have 

the  Count's  commands. 
Harold.     Stand  out   of  earshot  then, 
and  keep  me  still 
In  eyeshot. 

Man-at-arf?is.  Yea,  lord  Harold. 

[  Withdraws. 

Harold.  And  arm'd  men 

Ever  keep  watch  beside  my  chamber  door. 

And  if  I  walk  within  the  lonely  wood, 

There  is  an  arm'd  man  ever  glides  behind  ! 

{Enter  Malet.) 

Why  am  I  foUow'd,  haunted,  harass'd, 

watch'd? 
See  yonder ! 

^Pointing  to  the  Man-at-arms. 
Malet.     'Tis  the  good  Count's  care  for 
thee! 
The  Normans  love  thee  not,  nor  thou  the 

Normans, 
Or  —  so  they  deem. 

Harold.  But  wherefore  is  the  wind. 
Which  way  soever  the  vane-arrow  swing, 
Not  ever   fair   for    England?     Why  but 

now 
He  said  (thou  heardst  him)  that  I  must 

not  hence 
Save  on  conditions. 

Alalet.  So  in  truth  he  said. 

Harold.     Malet,   thy  mother    was    an 
Englishwoman; 
There  somewhere  beats  an  English  pulse 
in  thee  ! 
Malet.     Well  —  for  my  mother's  sake 
I  love  your  England, 
But  for  my  father  I  love  Normandy. 
Harold.     Speak  for  thy  mother's  sake, 

and  tell  me  true. 
Malet.     Then   for  my  mother's  sake, 
and  England's  sake 
That  suffers  in  the  daily  want  of  thee, 
Obey  the   Count's   conditions,   my  good 
friend. 
Harold.     How,  Malet,  if  they  be  not 
honourable  ! 


Malet.     Seem  to  obey  them. 
Harold.  Better  die  than  lie  ! 

Malet.     Choose  therefore  whether  thou 
wilt  have  thy  conscience 
White   as  a  maiden's  hand,  or  whether 

England 
Be  shatter'd  into  fragments. 

Harold.  News  from  England? 

Malet.     Morcar  and  Edwin  have  stirr'd 

up  the  Thanes 

Against  thy  brother  Tostig's  governance; 

And   all    the  North   of  H umber  is    one 

storm. 

Harold.     I  should  be  there,  Malet,  I 

should  be  there  ! 
Malet.     And  Tostig   in  his    own  hall 
on  suspicion 
Hath  massacred  the  Thane  that  was  his 

guest. 
Camel,  the  son  of  Orm  :  and  there  be  more 
As  villainously  slain. 

Harold.  The  wolf !  the  beast ! 

Ill  news  for  guests,  ha,  Malet!     More? 

What  more? 
What  do  they  say?  did  Edward  know  of 
this? 
Alalet.     They  say  his  wife  was  know- 
ing and  abetting. 
Harold.      They   say,   his    wife! — To 
marry  and  have  no  husband 
Makes  the  wife  fool.     My  God,  I  should 

be  there. 
I'll  hack  my  way  to  the  sea. 

Alalet.  Thou  canst  not,  Harold; 

Our  Duke  is  all  between  thee   and   the 

sea. 
Our  Duke  is  all  about  thee  like  a  God; 
All   passes   block'd.      Obey    him,  speak 

him  fair. 
For  he  is  only  debonair  to  those 
That  follow  where  he  leads,  but  stark  as 

death 
To  those  that  cross  him.  —  Look   thou, 

here  is  Wulfnoth  ! 
I  leave  thee  to  thy  talk  with  him  alone; 
How  wan,  poor  lad  !   how  sick  and  sad 
for  home  !  \^Exit  Malet. 

Harold  {fmittering).     Go  not  to  Nor- 
mandy—  go  not  to  Normandy! 

{Enter  WuLFNOTH.) 

Poor  brother  !  still  a  hostage  ! 

Wulfnoth.  Yea,  and  I 


SCENE  11. 


HAROLD. 


649 


Shall  see  the  dewy  kiss  of  dawn  no  more 
Make  blush  the  maiden-white  of  our  tall 

cliffs, 
Nor  mark  the  sea-bird  rouse  himself  and 

hover 
Above  the  windy  ripple,  and  fill  the  sky 
With    free    sea-laughter  —  never  —  save 

indeed 
Thou  canst  make  yield  this  iron-mooded 

Duke 
To  let  me  go. 

Harold.     Why,   brother,   so    he   will; 
But  on  conditions.     Canst  thou  guess  at 

them? 
Wulfnoth.     Draw   nearer,  —  I  was  in 

the  corridor, 
I  saw  him  coming  with  his  brother  Odo 
The  Bayeux  bishop,  and  I  hid  myself. 
Harold.     They   did    thee    wrong  who 

made  thee  hostage;   thou 
Wast   ever    fearful. 

Wulfnoth.  And  he  spoke  —  I 

heard  him  — 
'This  Harold  is  not  of  the  royal  blood, 
Can  have  no  right  to   the    crown,'  and 

Odo  said, 
'Thine  is  the  right,  for  thine  the  might; 

he  is  here, 
And  yonder  is  thy  keep.' 

Harold.  No,  Wulfnoth,  no. 

Wulfnoth.     And  William  laugh'd  and 

swore  that  might  was  right, 
Far  as  he    knew  in  this  poor  world   of 

ours  — 
'  Marry,  the  Saints  must  go  along  with 

us. 
And,  brother,  we  will  find  a  way,'  said 

he-- 
Yea,  yea,  he  would  be  king  of  England. 
Harold.  Never ! 

Wulfnoth.     Yea,  but  thou  must  not  this 

way  answer  him. 
Harold.     Is  it  not  better  still  to  speak 

the  truth? 
Wulfnoth.      Not   here,    or    thou    wilt 

never  hence  nor  I : 
For    in   the  racing   toward    this   golden 

goal 
He  turns  not  right  or  left,  but  tramples 

flat 
Whatever  thwarts  him;   hast  thou  never 

heard 
His  savagery  at  Alen^on  —  the  town 


Hung  out  raw  hides   along  their  walls, 

and  cried, 
'  Work  for  the  tanner.' 

Harold.  That  had  anger'd  me 

Had  I  been  William. 

Wulfnoth.     Nay,  but  he  had  prisoners, 
He  tore  their  eyes  out,  sliced  their  hands 

away, 
And  flung  them  streaming  o'er  the  battle- 
ments 
Upon   the   heads   of  those  who  walk'd 

within  — 
Oh,  speak  him  fair,  Harold,  for  thine  own 
sake. 
Harold.     Your  Welshman  says,  '  The 
Truth  against  the  World,' 
Much  more  the  truth  against  myself. 

Wulfnoth.  Thyself? 

But   for   my   sake,  O   brother !    oh !    for 
my  sake  ! 
Harold.     Poor  Wulfnoth  !   do  they  not 

entreat  thee  well? 
Wulfnoth.     I  see  the  blackness  of  my 
dungeon  loom 
Across  their  lamps  of  revel,  and  beyond 
The  merriest  murmurs  of  their  banquet 

clank 
The  shackles  that  will  bind  me  to   the 
wall. 
Harold.     Too  fearful  still ! 
Wulfnoth.  Oh  no,  no  —  speak 

him  fair ! 
Call  it  to  temporise;   and  not  to  lie; 
Harold,  I  do  not  counsel  thee  to  lie. 
The  man  that  hath  to  foil  a  murderous  aim 
May,  surely,  play  with  words. 

Harold.  Words  are  the  man. 

Not  ev'n  for  thy  sake,  brother,  would  I 
lie. 
Wulfnoth.     Then  for  thine  Edith? 
Harold.  There    thou    prick'st    me 

deep. 
Wulfnoth.     And  for  our  Mother  Eng- 
land? 
Harold.  Deeper  still. 

Wulfnoth.     And  deeper  still  the  deep- 
down  oubliette, 
Down  thirty  feet  below  the  smiling  day  — 
In  blackness — ^  dogs'  food  thrown  upon 

thy  head. 
And  over  thee  the  suns  arise  and  set, 
And  the  lark  sings,  the  sweet  stars  come 
and  go, 


650 


HAROLD. 


ACT    II. 


And  men  are  at  their  markets,  in  their 

fields, 
And  woo  their  loves  and  have  forgotten 

thee; 
And  thou  art  upright  in  thy  living  grave, 
Where  there  is  barely  room  to  shift  thy 

side. 
And  all  thine  England  hath  forgotten  thee ; 
And  he  our  lazy-pious  Norman  King, 
With  all  his  Normans  round  him  once 

again. 
Counts  his  old  beads,  and  hath  forgotten 

thee. 
Harold.     Thou  art  of  my  blood,  and 

so  methinks,  my  boy, 
Thy    fears    infect    me    beyond    reason. 

Peace ! 
Wulfnoth.     And  then  our  fiery  Tostig, 

while  thy  hands 
Are  palsied  here,  if  his  Northumbrians  rise 
And  hurl  him  from  them,  —  I  have  heard 

the  Normans 
Count  upon  this  confusion  —  may  he  not 

make 
A  league  with  William,  so  to  bring  him 

back? 
Harold.     That  lies  within  the  shadow 

of  the  chance. 
Wulfnoth.     And  like  a  river  in  flood 

thro'  a  burst  dam 
Descends  the  ruthless  Norman — our  good 

King 
Kneels  mumbling  some  old  bone  —  our 

helpless  folk 
Are  wash'd  away,  wailing,  in  their  own 

blood  — 
Harold.     Wailing!  not  warring?    Boy, 

thou  hast  forgotten 
That  thou  art  English. 

Wulfnoth.    Then  our  modest  women  — 
I  know  the  Norman  license  —  thine  own 

Edith  — 
Harold.     No  more !    I  will    not   hear 

thee  —  William  comes. 
Wulfnoth.     I    dare  not  well   be  seen 

in  talk  with  thee. 
Make   thou  not    mention    that    I    spake 

with  thee. 
\_Moves  azuay  to  the  hack  of  the  stage. 

Enter  William,  Malki,  and  Okkickk. 

Offi,cer.     We  have  the  man  that  rail'd 
against  thy  Ijirth. 


Williajn.     Tear  out  his  tongue. 
Officer.  He  shall  not  rail  again. 

He   said    that   he  should  see   confusion 

fall 
On  thee  and  on  thine  house. 

William.  Tear  out  his  eyes, 

And  plunge  him  into  prison. 

Officer.  It  shall  be  done. 

\_Exit  Officer. 
William.    Look  not  amazed,  fair  earl  I 
Better  leave  undone 
Than  do  by  halves  —  tongueless  and  eye- 
less, prison'd  — 
Harold.     Better  methinks   have  slain 

the  man  at  once  I 
William.     We  have  respect  for  man's 
immortal  soul. 
We   seldom    take   man's   life,  except    in 

war ; 
It  frights  the  traitor  more  to  maim  and 
blind. 
Harold.     In  mine  own  land  I  should 
have  scorn'd  the  man, 
Or  lash'd  his  rascal  back,  and  let  him  go. 
William.     And  let  him  go?     To  slan- 
der thee  again  ! 
Yet  in  thine  own  land  in  thy  father's  day 
They  blinded  my  young  kinsman,  Alfred 

—  ay, 
Some  said  it  was  thy  father's  deed. 
Harold.  They  lied. 

William.     But  thou  and  he  —  whom 
at  thy  word,  for  thou 
Art  known  a  speaker  of  the  truth,  I  free 
From  this  foul  charge  — 

Harold.        Nay,  nay,  he  freed  himself 
By    oath    and    compurgation    from    the 

charge. 
The  king,  the  lords,  the  people  clear'd 
him  of  it. 
William.     But  thou  and  he  drove  our 
good  Normans  out 
From  Elngland,  and  this  rankles  in  us  yet. 
Archl)ishop   Robert    hardly  scaped  with 
life. 
Harold.     Archbishop  Robert !   Robert 
the  Archbishop  ! 
Robert  of  Jumieges,  he  that  — 

Malet.  (luiet !   quiet ! 

itarold.     Count!    if   there    sat  within 

the  Norman  chair 

A  rulc-r  all   for  England  ^ — one  wlio  lill'd 

All  offices,  all  liishopricks  with  English  — 


SCENE    II. 


HAROLD. 


651 


We  could  not  move  from  Dover  to  the 

Humber 
Saving  thro'  Norman  bishopricks  —  I  say 
Ye    would    applaud    that   Norman   who 

should  drive 
The  stranger  to  the  fiends  I 

Williain.  Why,  that  is  reason  ! 

Warrior  thou  art,  and  mighty  wise  withal ! 
Ay,  ay,  but   many  among  our   Norman 

lords 
Hate  thee  for  this,  and  press  upon  me  — 

saying 
God  and  the  sea  have  given  thee  to  our 

hands  — 
To    plunge   thee   into    life-long    prison 

here :  — 
Yet  I  hold  out  against  them,  as  I  may, 
Yea  —  would   hold   out,   yea,   tho'   they 

should  revolt  — 
For   thou   hast   done    the   battle  in  my 

cause; 
I  am  thy  fastest  friend  in  Normandy. 
Harold.     I  am  doubly  bound  to  thee 

...  if  this  be  so. 
William.     And    I    would    bind    thee 
more,  and  would  myself 
Be  bounden  to  thee  more. 

Harold.  Then  let  me  hence 

With  Wulfnoth  to  King  Edward. 

William.  So  we  will. 

We  hear  he  hath  not  long  to  live. 

Harold.  It  may  be. 

William.     Why  then  the  heir  of  Eng- 
land, who  is  he? 
Harold.     The   Atheling  is  nearest    to 

the  throne. 
William.      But    sickly,    slight,    half- 
witted and  a  child, 
Will  England  have  him  king? 

Harold.  It  may  be,  no. 

William.     And    hath    King    Edward 

not  pronounced  his  heir? 
Harold.     Not  that  I  know. 
William.  When  he  was  here 

in  Normandy, 
He  loved   us  and  we  him,  because  we 

found  him 
A  Norman  of  the  Normans. 

Harold.  So  did  we. 

William.      A    gentle,    gracious,    pure 
and  saintly  man  I 
And  grateful  to  the  hand  that  shielded 
him, 


He  promised  that  if  ever  he  were  king 
In  England,  he  would   give    his    kingly 

voice 
To  me  as  his  successor,     Knowest  thou 
this? 
Harold.  I  learn  it  now. 

William.  Thou  knowest  I  am  his 

cousin, 
And  that  my  wife  descends  from  Alfred? 
Harold.  Ay. 

William.     Who  hath    a  better  claim 
then  to  the  crown 
So  that  ye  will  not  crown  the  Atheling? 
Harold.     None    that    I    know  ...  if 
that  but  hung  upon 
King  Edward's  will. 

William.    Wilt  thoti  uphold  my  claim  ? 

Malet  {aside  to  Harold).     Be  careful 

of  thine  answer,  my  good  friend. 

Wulfnoth    {aside   to    Harold).       Oh! 

Harold,  for  my  sake  and  for  thine 

own ! 

Harold.       Ay  ...  if   the    king   have 

not  revoked  his  promise. 
William.     But  hath  he  done  it  then? 
Harold.  Not  that  I  know. 

William.     Good,  good,  and  thou  wilt 

help  me  to  the  crown? 
Harold.     Ay  ...  if   the    Witan   will 

consent  to  this. 
William.    Thou  art  the  mightiest  voice 
in  England,  man. 
Thy  voice  will  lead  the  Witan  —  shall  I 
have  it? 
Wulfnoth    {aside   to    Harold) .      Oh ! 
Harold,  if  thou  love  thine  Edith, 
ay. 
Harold.     Ay,  if — 
Alalet  {aside  to  Harold).     Thine  '  ifs  ' 

will  sear  thine  eyes  out  —  ay. 
William.     I  ask  thee,  wilt  thou  help 
me  to  the  crown? 
And  I  will  make  thee  my  great  Earl  of 

Earls, 
Foremost  in  England  and  in  Normandy; 
Thou  shalt  be  verily  king — all  but  the 

name  — 
For  I  shall  most  sojourn  in  Normandy; 
And  thou  be  my  vice-king  in  England. 
Speak. 
]Vulfnoth     {aside    to    Harold).      Ay, 
brother  —  for  the  sake  of  England 
—  ay. 


652 


HAROLD. 


ACT    II. 


Harold.     My  lord  — 

Malet  {aside  to  Harold).     Take  heed 

now, 
Harold.        Ay. 

William.  I  am  content, 

For  thou  art  truthful,  and  thy  word  thy 

bond. 

To-morrow   will   we    ride    with    thee    to 

Harfleur.  \^Exit  William. 

Malet.     Harold,  I  am  thy  friend,  one 

life  with  thee. 

And  even  as  I  should  bless  thee  saving 

mine, 
I  thank  thee  now  for  having  saved  thy- 
self. ^Exit  Malet. 
Harold.     For   having    lost    myself  to 
save  myself, 
Said  '  ay '  when  I  meant  '  no,'  lied  like 

a  lad 
That    dreads  the   pendent  scourge,  said 

'  ay  '  for  '  no  ' ! 
Ay!  No! — he  hath  not   bound   me  by 

an  oath  — 
Is  *ay'  an   oath?    is  *ay'  strong  as  an 

oath? 
Or  is  it  the  same  sin  to  break  my  word 
As    break    mine   oath?       He    call'd   my 

word  my  bond ! 
He  is  a  liar  who  knows  I  am  a  liar. 
And  makes  believe  that  he  believes  my 

word  — 
The  crime  be  on  his  head  —  not  bounden 
—  no. 
\_Suddenly  doors  are  Jlung  open.,  dis- 
covering in   an  inner   hall  Count 
William    in  his  slate  robes,  seated 
npon     his     throne,     between      two 
Bishops,    Odo    of    Bayeux    being 
one  :  in  the  centre  of  the  hall  an  ark 
covered  with  cloth   of  gold;  and  on 
either  side  of  it  the  JVor/nan  barons. 

Enter  a  Jailor  before  William's  throne. 

William    {to  Jailor).         Knave,   hast 

thou  let  thy  prisoner  scape? 
Jailor.  Sir  Count, 

He  had  but  one  foot,  he  must  have  hopt 

away, 
Yea,   some    familiar   spirit     must    have 
help'd  him. 
William.     Woe  knave  to  thy  familiar 
and  to  thee  ! 
Give  me  thy  keys.       [  They  fall  clashing. 


Nay  let  them  lie.     Stand  there  and  wait 
my  will. 

[  The  Jailor  stands  aside, 

William    {to    Harold).       Hast    thou 

such  trustless  jailors  in  thy  North? 

Harold.     We    have    few    prisoners  in 

mine  earldom  there. 

So  less  chance  for  false  keepers. 

William.  We  have  heard 

Of  thy  just,  mild,  and  equal  governance  ; 
Honour  to  thee!  thou  art  perfect  in  all 

honour ! 
Thy  naked  word   thy  bond !    confirm  it 

now 
Before  our  gather'd  Norman  baronage. 
For  they  will    not  believe    thee  —  as    I 
believe. 
.  [  Desce  n  ds  from  h  is  th  rone  and  stands 
by  the  ark. 
Let  all  men   here    bear   witness  of  our 
bond  ! 
\_Beckons  to  Harold,  who  advances. 

{Enter  Malet  behind  him.) 

Lay  thou   thy   hand    upon   this   golden 

pall! 
Behold  the  jewel  of  St.  Pancratius 
Woven    into  the  gold.     Swear  thou  on 

this! 
Harold.     What  should  I  swear?    Why 

should  I  swear  on  this? 
William   {savagely).     Swear   thou  to 

help  me  to  the  crown  of  England. 
Malet     {whispering     Harold).        My 

friend,  thou  hast  gone  too  far  to 

palter  now. 
Wnlfnoth  {ivhisperingWzxo\(^.  Swear 

thou  to-day,   to-morrow    is    thine 

own. 
Harold.     I  swear  to  help  thee  to  the 

crown  of  England  .   .  . 
According  as  King  Edward  promises. 
William.      Thou   must    swear    abso- 
lutely, noble  Earl. 
Malet  {ivhispering).     Delay  is  death 

to  thee,  ruin  to  England. 
Wnlfnoth  {whispering).    Swear,  dear- 
est brother,  I  beseech  thee,  swear ! 
Harold    {putting    his    hand    on   the 

jewel).     I  swear  to   help  thee  to 

the  crown  of  England. 
William.      Thanks,  truthful  Earl;    I 

did  not  doubt  thy  word. 


SCENE   II. 


HAROLD. 


653 


But   that   my  barons    might  believe  thy 

word, 
And  that  the  Holy  Saints  of  Normandy 
When  thou  art  home  in  England,  with 

thine  own, 
Might  strengthen  thee  in  keeping  of  thy 

word, 
I    made     thee    swear.  —  Show    him    by 

whom  he  hath  sworn. 
[  The  tiuo  Bishops  advance,  and  raise 

the  cloth  of  gold.      'I  he  bodies  and 

bones  of  saints  a7'e  seen  lying  in 

the  ark. 
The  holy  bones  of  all  the  Canonised 
From  all  the  holiest  shrines  in  Normandy  ! 
Harold.     Horrible  !    \_'rhey  let  the  cloth 

fall  again. 
IVilliam.     Ay,  for  thou  hast  sworn  an 

oath 
Which,    if   not   kept,    would    make    the 

hard  earth  rive 
To  the  very  Devil's  horns,  the  bright  sky 

cleave 
To  the  very  feet  of  God,  and  send  her 

hosts 
Of  injured    Saints   to   scatter  sparks  of 

plague 
Thro'  all  your  cities,  blast  your  infants, 

dash 
The  torch  of  war  among  your  standing 

corn. 
Dabble  your  hearths  with  your  own  blood. 

—  Enough  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  break  it !     I,  the  Count  — 

the  King  — 
Thy  friend  —  am  grateful  for  thine  honest 

oath. 
Not  coming  fiercely  like  a  conqueror,  now. 
But  softly  as  a  bridegroom  to  his  own. 
For  I  shall  rule  according  to  your  laws. 
And   make   your   ever-jarring  Earldoms 

move 
To  music  and  in  order  —  Angle,  Jute, 
Dane,   Saxon,  Norman,  help  to  build  a 

throne 
Out-towering  hers  of  France.  .  .  .     The 

wind  is  fair 
For    England    now.  .    .  .     To-night   we 

will  be  merry. 
To-morrow  will  I  ride  with  thee  to  Har- 

fleur. 
\_Exeunt  William  and  all  the  Nor- 
man barons,  etc. 


Harold.     To-night  we  will  be  merry  — 

and  to-morrow  — 
Juggler  and  bastard  —  bastard  —  he  hates 

that  most  — 
William  the  tanner's   bastard  !      Would 

he  heard  me  ! 

0  God,  that  I  were  in  some  wide,  waste 

field 
With    nothing    but   my   battle-axe    and 

him 
To   spatter  his  brains  !      Why  let  earth 

rive,  gulf  in 
These  cursed  Normans  —  yea  and  mine 

own  self. 
Cleave  heaven,  and  send  thy  saints  that 

I  may  say 
Ev'n    to    their    faces,    '  If  ye   side    with 

W'illiam 
Ye  are  not  noble.'     How  their   pointed 

fingers 
Glared  at  me !     Am  I  Harold,  Harold, 

son 
Of  our  great    Godwin?       Lo !    I    touch 

mine  arms, 
My   limbs  —  they   are   not  mine  —  they 

are  a  liar's  — 

1  mean  to  be  a  liar  —  I  am  not  bound  — 
Stigand    shall    give    me    absolution    for 

it  — 
Did  the  chest  move?    did  it   move?    I 

am  utter  craven ! 
O    Wulfnoth,    Wulfnoth,    brother,    thou 

hast  betray'd  me  ! 
Wulfnoth.       Forgive   me,   brother,    I 

will  live  here  and  die. 

Enter  Page. 

Page.      My   lord !    the    Duke    awaits 
thee  at  the  banquet. 

Harold.     W^here  they  eat  dead  men's 
flesh,  and  drink  their  blood. 

Page.     My  lord  — 

Harold.     I  know  your  Norman  cook- 
ery is  so  spiced, 
It  masks  all  this. 

Page.  My   lord !    thou    art 

white  as  death. 

Harold.     With  looking  on  the  dead. 
Am  I  so  white? 
Thy  duke  will  seem  the  darker.     Hence, 
I  follow.  \_Exeunt. 


654 


HAROLD. 


ACT   III, 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.  —  The  King's  Palace. 
London. 

King  Edward  dying  on  a  conch,  and  by 
him  standing  the  QuEEN,  Harold, 
Archbishop  Stigand,  Gurth,  Leof- 
wiN,  Archbishop  Aldred,  Aldwyth, 
and  Edith. 

Stigand.      Sleeping   or    dying    there? 
If  this  be  death, 
Then    our  great   council  wait    to   crown 

thee  king  — 
Come  hither,  I  have  a  power; 

[  To  Harold. 
They  call  me  near,  for  I  am  close  to  thee 
And  England  —  I,  old  shrivell'd  Stigand, 

I, 

Dry  as  an  old  wood-fungus  on  a  dead 

tree. 
I  have  a  power  ! 

See  here  this  little  key  about  my  neck  ! 
There  lies  a  treasure  buried  down  in  Ely : 
If  e'er    the  Norman  grow  too  hard  for 

thee, 
Ask  me  for  this  at  thy  most  need,  son 

Harold, 
At  thy  most  need  —  not  sooner. 

Harold.  So  I  will. 

Stigand.    Red  gold  —  a  hundred  purses 

—  yea,  and  more  ! 
If  thou  canst  make  a  wholesome  use  of 

these 
To    chink    against    the    Norman,    I    do 

believe 
My  old  crook'd  spine  would  bud  out  two 

young  wings 
To  fly  to  heaven  straight  with. 

Harold.  Thank  thee,  father  ! 

Thou  art  English,  Edward  too  is  English 

now. 
He  hath  clean  repented  of  his  Norman- 

isni. 
Stigand.     Ay,  as  the  libertine  repents 

who  canuDt 
Make  done  undone,  when  thro'  liis  dying 

sense 
Shrills  '  lost  thro'  thee.'     They  have  built 

their  castles  here; 
Our  priories  are  Norman;    the    Norman 

adder 


Hath    bitten   us;    we   are   poison'd :   our 

dear  England 
Is  demi-Norman.     He  !  — 

\_Pointing  to  King  Edward,  sleeping. 
Harold.  ■    I  would  I  were 

As  holy  and  as  passionless  as  he  ! 
That  I  might  rest  as  calmly  !     Look  at 

him — - 
The   rosy  face,  and  long  down-silvering 

beard. 
The    brows    unwrinkled    as    a    summer 

mere. — 
Stigand.     A  summer  mere  with  sudden 

wreckful  gusts 
From  a  side-gorge.     Passionless?     How 

he  flamed 
When    Tostig's   anger'd    earldom    flung 

him,  nay, 
He  fain  had  calcined  all  Northumbria 
To   one   black  ash,  but  that  thy  patriot 

passion 
Siding   with   our   great  Council   against 

Tostig, 
Out-passion'd   his!      Holy?  ay,   ay,   for- 
sooth, 
A  conscience   for  his  own  soul,  not  his 

realm ; 
A    twilight    conscience    lighted   thro'    a 

chink; 
Thine  by  the  sun;  nay,  by  some  sun  to  be. 
When  all  the  world  hath  learnt  to  speak 

the  truth. 
And  lying  were  self-murder  by  that  state 
Which  was  the  exception. 

Harold.     That  sun  may  God  speed  ! 
Stigand.     Come,    Harold,    shake    the 

cloud  off! 
Harold.  Can  I,  father? 

Our  Tostig  parted  cursing  me  and  Eng- 
land ; 
Our  sister  hates  us  for  his  banishment; 
He  hath  gone  to  kindle  Norway  against 

England, 
And  Wulfnoth  is  alone  in  Normandy. 
For  when  I  rode  with  William  down  to 

Harfleur, 
'Wulfnoth  is  sick,'  he  said;    'he  cannot 

follow;' 
Then  with  that  friendiy-fiendly  smile  of 

his, 
'  We  have  learnt  to  love  him,  let  him  a 

little  longer 
Remain  a  hostage  for  the  loyalty 


SCENE    I. 


HAROLD. 


655 


Of  Godwin's  house.'     As  far   as  touclics 

Wulfnoth 
I  that  so  prized  plain  word  and  naked 

truth 
Have  sinn'd  against  it  —  all  in  vain. 

Leofzvin.  Good  brother, 

By  all   the   truths  that   ever  priest   hath 

preach'd, 
Of  all  the  lies  that  ever  men  have  lied, 
Thine  is  the  pardonablest. 

Harold.  May  be  so  1 

I  think  it  so,  I  think  I  am  a  fool 
To  think  it  can  be  otherwise  than  so. 
Stigand.     Tut,    tut,    1   have    absolved 

thee  :  dost  thou  scorn  me, 
Because  I  had  my  Canterbury  pallium, 
From  one  whom  they  dispoped? 

Harold.  No,  Stigand,  no  I 

Stigand.     Is   naked  truth    actable    in 

true  life? 
I    have    heard    a   saying    of    thy    father 

Godwin, 
That,  were  a  man  of  state  nakedly  true. 
Men  would  but  take  him  for  the  craftier 

liar. 
Leo/win.     Be  men    less  delicate  than 

the  Devil  himself? 
I  thought  that  naked  Truth  would  shame 

the  Devil 
The  Devil  is  so  modest. 

Giirth.  He  never  said  it ! 

Leofiuin.     Be  thou  not  stupid-honest, 

brother  Gurth  I 
Harold.     Better  to  be  a  liar's  dog,  and 

hold 
My    master    honest,    than    believe    that 

lying 
And   ruling   men    are    fatal    twins    that 

cannot 
Move   one  without  the   other.     Edward 

wakes !  — 
Dazed —  he  hath  seen  a  vision, 

Edzvard.  The  green  tree  ! 

Then  a  great  Angel  past  along  the  highest 
Crying  '  the  doom   of  England,'  and  at 

once 
He  stood  beside  me,  in  his  grasp  a  sword 
Of  lightnings,  wherewithal  he  cleft  the 

tree 
From  off  the  bearing  trunk,  and  hurl'd  it 

from  him 
Three  fields  away,  and   then  he  dash'd 

and  drench'd, 


He     dyed,    he     soak'd    the    trunk    with 

human  blood, 
And  brought    the    sunder'd    tree    again, 

and  set  it 
Straight  on  the  trunk,  that  thus  baptized 

in  blood 
Grew  ever  high  and  higher,  beyond  my 

seeing, 
And  shot  out  sidelong  boughs  across  the 

deep 
That  dropt  themselves,  and  rooted  in  far 

isles 
Beyond  my  seeing :   and  the  great  Angel 

rose 
And  past  again  along  the  highest  crying 
'  The  doom  of  England  I  '  —  Tostig,  raise 

my  head  I        \^Falls  back  senseless. 
Harold  {j-aisuig  him^.        Let  Harold 

serve  for  Tostig ! 

Queen.  Harold  served 

Tostig  so  ill,  he  cannot  serve  for  Tostig ! 

Ay,  raise  his  head,  for  thou  hast  laid  it  low  ! 

The    sickness    of    our   saintly   king,    for 

whom 
My  prayers  go  up  as  fast  as  my  tears  fall, 
I  well  believe,  hath  mainly  drawn  itself 
From  lack  of  Tostig  —  thou  hast  banish'd 

him. 
Harold.     Xay  —  but  the  council,  and 

the  king  himself. 
Queen.     Thou  hatest  him,  hatest  him. 
Harold  {coldly).  Ay — Stigand, 

unriddle 
This  vision,  canst  thou? 

Stigand.  Dotage ! 

Edzuard  {starting  tip) .      It  is  finish'd. 
I  have  built  the  Lord  a  house  —  the  Lord 

hath  dwelt 
In    darkness.     I  have   built  the  Lord  a 

house  — 
Palms,     flowers,     pomegranates,    golden 

cherubim 
^Yith   twenty-cubit   wings   from   wall  to 

wall  — 
I   have  built  the    Lord  a  house  —  sing, 

Asaph  I   clash 
The  cymbal,  Heman  I  blow  the  trumpet, 

priest ! 
Fall,  cloud,  and  fill  the  house  —  lo  I   my 

two  pillars, 
Jachin  and  Boaz  I  — 

\_Seeing  Harold  awa' Gurth. 
Harold,  Gurth,  —  where  am  I? 


656 


HAROLD. 


ACT   III, 


Where  is  the  charter  of  our  Westminster? 
Stigand.     It    lies    beside    thee,    king, 

upon  thy  bed. 
Edward.     Sign,  sign  at   once  —  take, 
sign  it,  Stigand,  Aldred  ! 
Sign  it,  my  good  son  Harold,  Gurth,  and 

Leofwin, 
Sign  it,  my  queen  ! 

All.  We  have  sign'd  it. 

Edward.  It  is  finish'd  ! 

The     kingliest  Abbey   in    all   Christian 

lands, 
The  lordliest,  loftiest  minster  ever  built 
To  Holy  Peter  in  our  English  isle  ! 
Let  me  be  buried  there,  and  all  our  kings, 
And  all  our  just  and  wise  and  holy  men 
That    shall    be    born   hereafter.      It   is 

finish'd  ! 
Hast  thou  had  absolution  for  thine  oath? 

•     [  To  Harold. 
Harold.     Stigand  hath  given  me  abso- 
lution for  it. 
Edward.     Stigand    is    not    canonical 
enough 
To  save  thee  from  the  wrath  of  Norman 
Saints, 
Stigand.     Norman  enough  !     Be  there 
no  Saints  of  England 
To  help  us  from  their  brethren  yonder? 

Edzvard.  Prelate, 

The  Saints  are  one,  but  those  of  Norman- 
land 
Are  mightier  than  our  own.     Ask  it  of 
Aldred.  [  To  Harold. 

Aldred.     It  shall  be  granted  him,  my 
king;   for  he 
Who  vows  a  vow  to  strangle    his   own 

mother 
Is  guiltier  keeping  this,  than  breaking  it. 
Edward.     O  friends,  I  shall  not  over- 
live the  day. 
Stigand.     Why    then    the    throne    is 
empty.     Who  inherits? 
For  tho'  we  be  not  bound  by  the  king's 

voice 
In   making   of  a   king,   yet    the    king's 

voice 
Is    much    toward    his    making.       Who 

inherits? 
Edgar  the  Atheling? 

Edward.  No,  no,  but  Harold. 

I  love  him :    he  hath  served  me :   none 
but  he 


Can  rule  all  England.     Yet  the  curse  is 

on  him 
For   swearing    falsely    by   those    blessed 

bones; 
He  did  not  mean  to  keep  his  vow. 

Harold.  Not  mean 

To  make  our  England  Norman. 

Edward.  There  spake  Godwin, 

Who  hated  all  the  Normans;   but  their 

Saints 
Have  heard  thee,  Harold. 

Edith.  O  my  lord,  my  king  ! 

He  knew  not  whom  he  sware  by. 

Edward.  Yea,  1  know 

He   knew  not,  but   those  heavenly  ears 

have  heard, 
Their  curse  is  on  him;  wilt  thou  bring 

another, 
Edith,  upon  his  head? 

Edith.  No,  no,  not  I. 

Edzvard.     Why  then,  thou  must  not 

wed  him. 
Harold.  Wherefore,  wherefore? 

Edzvard.     O  son,  when  thou  didst  tell 
me  of  thine  oath, 
I  sorrow'd  for  my  random  promise  given 
To  yon  fox-lion.     I  did  not  dream  then 
I  should  be  king.  —  My  son,  the  Saints 

are  virgins; 
They  love  the  white  rose  of  virginity. 
The  cold,  white  lily  blowing  in  her  cell : 
I    have    been   myself  a   virgin;     and    I 

sware 
To  consecrate  my  virgin  here  to  heaven  — 
The  silent,  cloister'd,  solitary  life, 
A  life  of  life-long  prayer  against  the  curse 
That  lies  on  thee  and  England. 

Harold.  No,  no,  no. 

Edward.     Treble  denial  of  the  tongue 
of  flesh, 
Like  Peter's  when  he  fell,  and  thou  wilt 

have 
To  wail  for  it  like  Peter.     O  my  son  ! 
Are    all    oaths   to    be    broken    then,    all 

promises 
Made  in  our  agony  for  help  from  heaven? 
Son,  there  is  one  who  loves  thee :  and  a 

wife, 
What  matters  who,  so  she  be  serviceable 
In  all  obedience,  as  mine  own  hath  been  : 
God  bless  thee,  wedded  daughter. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  the  (^)ueen's  head. 
Queen.  Bless  thou  too 


SCENE    I. 


HAROLD. 


657 


That   brother  whom  I  love  beyond    the 

rest, 
My  banish'd  Tostig. 

Edward.  All  the  sweet  Saints 

bless  him  I 
Spare    and    forbear    him,   Harold,  if  he 

comes ! 
And   let  him  pass  unscathed;    he   loves 

me,  Harold  I 
Be  kindly  to  the  Normans  left  among  us, 
Who  follow'd  me  for  love  I  and  dear  son, 

swear 
When  thou  art  king,  to  see  my  solemn 

vow 
Accomplished. 

Harold.  Nay,  dear  lord,  for  I  have 

sworn 
Not  to  swear  falsely  twice. 

Edivard.  Thou  wilt  not  swear? 

Harold.     I  cannot. 

Edward.  Then  on  thee  remains 

the  curse, 
Harold,  if  thou  embrace  her :  and  on  thee, 
Edith,  if  thou  abide  it, — 

\_The  King  swoons;  Edith ya/A  and 
kneels  by  the  cotich. 
Stigand.  He  hath  swoon'd  ! 

Death?  .  .  .  no,  as  yet  a  breath. 

Harold.  Look  up  1  look  up  I 

Edith  ! 

Aldred.     Confuse  her  not;    she  hath 
begun 
Her  life-long  prayer  for  thee. 

Aldwyth.  O  noble  Harold, 

I  would  thou  couldst  have  sworn. 

Harold.  For  thine  own  pleasure? 

Aldwyth.     No,  but  to  please  our  dying 
king,  and  those 
Who    make    thy    good    their    own  —  all 
England,  Earl. 
Aldred.     I  would   thou   couldst  have 
sworn.     Our  holy  king 
Hath    given    his  virgin    lamb    to    Holy 

Church 
To  save  thee  from  the  curse. 

Harold.  Alas  I  poor  man, 

His  promise  brought  it  on  me. 

Aldred.  O  good  son  ! 

That  knowledge  made  him  all  the  care- 
fuller 
To  find  a  means  whereby  the  curse  might 

glance 
From  thee  and  England. 

2U 


Harold.  Father,  we  so  loved  — 

Aldred.       The    more     the    love,    the 
mightier  is  the  prayer; 
The  more  the  love,  the  more  acceptable 
The    sacrifice    of    both    your    loves    to 

heaven. 
No   sacrifice    to    heaven,    no    help    from 

heaven; 
That  runs  thro'  all  the  faiths  of  all  the 

world. 
And  sacrifice  there  must  be,  for  the  king 
Is  holy,  and  hath  talk'd  with  God,  and 

seen 
A  shadowing  horror;   there  are  signs  in 
heaven  — 
Harold.      Your  comet  came  and  went. 
Aldred.  And  signs  on  earth  ! 

Knowest  thou  Senlac  hill? 

Harold.  I  know  all  Sussex; 

A    good    entrenchment    for    a   perilous 

hour ! 

Aldred.     Pray    God    that    come    not 

suddenly  !     There  is  one 

Who  passing  by  that    hill  three   nights 

ago  — 
He  shook  so  that  he  scarce  could  out 

with  it  — 
Heard,  heard  — 

Harold.     The  wind  in  his  hair? 
Aldred.  A  ghostly  horn 

Blowing   continually,    and    faint    battle- 
hymns, 
And  cries,  and  clashes,  and  the  groans  of 

men; 
And  dreadful   shadows  strove  upon  the 

hill, 
And   dreadful  lights  crept  up  from  out 

the  marsh  — 
Corpse-candles    gliding    over    nameless 
graves  — 
Harold.     At  Senlac? 
Aldred.  Senlac. 

Edcuard  (waking) .  Senlac  I  Sanguelac, 
The  Lake  of  Blood  ! 

Stigand.     This  lightning  before  death 

Plays   on   the  word,  —  and   Normanises 

too! 

Harold.     Hush,  father,  hush  ! 

Edward.  Thou  uncanonical  fool, 

Wilt  thoti  play  with  the  thunder?    North 

and  South 
Thunder  together,  showers  of  blood  are 
blown 


658 


HAROLD. 


ACT    III, 


Before  a  never  ending  blast,  and  hiss 
Against  the  blaze  they  cannot  quench  — 

a  lake, 
A   sea   of   blood  —  we    are    drown'd    in 

blood  —  for  God 
Has    fill'd   the    quiver,    and    Death    has 

drawn  the  bow  — 
Sanguelac  !    Sanguelac  !   the  arrow  !  the 

arrow !  \^Dies. 

Stigaiid.     It  is  the  arrow  of  death  in 

his  own  heart  — 
And  our  great  council  wait  to  crown  thee 

king. 


SCENE    II.  — In   the    Garden.    The 
King's  House  near  London. 

Edith.      Crown'd,    crown'd    and   lost, 
crown'd  king  —  and  lost  to  me  ! 

(^Singing.^ 

Two  young  lovers  in  winter  weather, 

None  to  guide  them, 
Walk'd  at  night  on  the  misty  heather; 
Night,  as  black  as  a  raven's  feather; 
Both  were  lost  and  found  together, 

None  beside  them. 

That  is  the  burthen  of  it  —  lost  and  found 
Together  in  the  cruel  river  Swale 
A  hundred  years  ago;    and  there's  an- 
other, 

Lost,  lost,  the  light  of  day. 

To  which  the  lover  answers  lovingly, 

*  I  am  beside  thee.' 
Lost,  lost,  we  have  lost  the  way. 

'  Love,  I  will  guide  thee.' 
Whither,  oh,  whither?  into  the  river. 
Where  we  two  may  be  lost  together. 
And  lost  for  ever?     'Oh!    never,  oh! 

never, 
Tho'  we  be  lost  and  be  found  together.' 

Some  think   they  loved  within  the  pale 

forbidden 
By  Holy  Church:  but  who  shall  say?  the 

truth 
Was  lost  in  that  fierce  North,  where  they 

were  lost, 


Where   all  good   things  are  lost,  where 

Tostig  lost 
The    good   hearts  of   his   people.     It   is 

Harold ! 

{Enter  Harold.) 

Harold  the  King ! 

Harold.  Call  me  not  King,  but 

Harold. 
Edith.     Nay,  thou  art  King  ! 
Harold.  Thine,  thine,  or  King 

or  churl ! 
My  girl,  thou  hast  been  weeping :  turn 

not  thou 
Thy  face  away,  but  rather  let  me  be 
King  of  the  moment  to  thee,  and  com- 
mand 
That  kiss  my  due  when   subject,  which 

will  make 
My  kingship  kinglier  to  me  than  to  reign 
King  of  the  world  without  it. 

Edith.  Ask  me  not. 

Lest  I  should   yield  it,  and  the  second 

curse 
Descend  upon  thine  head,  and  thou  be 

only 
King  of  the  moment  over  England. 

Harold.  Edith, 

Tho'  somewhat  less  a  king  to  my  true  self 
Than  ere  they  crown'd  me  one,  for  I  have 

lost 
Somewhat  of  upright  stature  thro'  mine 

oath. 
Yet  thee  I  would  not  lose,  and  sell  not 

thou 
Our    living    passion    for    a    dead    man's 

dream; 
Stigand  believed  he  knew  not  what  he 

spake. 
O  God  !   I  cannot  help  it,  but  at  times 
They  seem  to  me  too    narrow,   all    the 

faiths 
Of  this  grown  world  of  ours,  whose  baby 

eye 
Saw  them  sufficient.     Fool   and  wise,  I 

fear 
This    curse    and    scorn    it.     But   a   little 

light!  — 
And  on  it  falls  the  shadow  of  the  priest; 
Heaven     yield     us     more !     for     better, 

Woden,  all 
Our    cancell'd    warrior-gods,    our    grim 

Walhalla, 


SCENE    II. 


HAROLD. 


659 


Eternal    war,    tlian    that    the    Saints    at 

peace 
The  Huliest  of  our  HoHest  one  should  be 
This  William's  fellow-tricksters;  — better 

die 
Than  credit  this,  for  death  is  death,  or 

else 
Lifts  us  beyond  the  lie.     Kiss  me  —  thou 

art  not 
A  holy  sister  yet,  my  girl,  to  fear 
There  might  be  more  than  brother  in  my 

kiss. 
And  more  than  sister  in  thine  own. 
Edith.  I  dare  not. 

Harold.      Scared     by    the    church  — 
'  Love  for  a  whole  life  long ' 
When  was  that  sung? 

Edith.  Here  to  the  nightingales. 

Ha7'old.     Their  anthems  of  no  church, 
how  sweet  they  are  I 
Nor  kingly  priest,  nor  priestly  king  to 

cross 
Their  billings  ere  they  nest. 

Edith.  They  are  but  of  spring. 

They  fly  the  winter  change  —  not  so  with 

us  — 
No  wings  to  come  and  go. 

Harold.  But  wing'd  souls  flying 

Beyond   all   change  and   in    the   eternal 

distance 
To  settle  on  the  Truth. 

Edith.  They  are  not  so  true. 

They  change  their  mates. 

Harold.     Do  they?  I  did  not  know  it. 
Edith.     They  say  thou  art  to  wed  the 

Lady  Aldwyth. 
Harold.     They  say,  they  say. 
Edith.  If  this  be  politic, 

And  well  for  thee  and  England  —  and  for 

her  — 
Care  not  for  me  who  love  thee. 

Gurth  (^calling).  Harold,  Harold! 

Harold.     The  voice  of  Gurth  !   (^Enter 
Gurth.)     Good   even,  my   good 
brother ! 
Gurth.     Good  even,  gentle  Edith. 
Edith.  Good  even,  Gurth. 

Gurth.     Ill    news    hath    come !      Our 
hapless  brother,  Tostig  — 
He,    and    the    giant    King    of    Norway, 

Harold 
Hardrada  —  Scotland,   Ireland,   Iceland, 
Orkney, 


Are  landed  North  of  I  lumber,  and  in  a 

field 
So  packt  with  carnage  that  the  dykes  and 

brooks 
Were    bridged    and  damm'd  with  dead, 

have  overthrown 
Morcar  and  Edwin. 

Harold.  Well  then,  we  must 

fight. 
How  blows  the  wind? 

Gurth.  Against  St.  Valery 

And  William. 

Harold.  Well  then,  we  will  to  the 

North. 
Gurth.     Ay,    but    worse    news:     this 
W'illiam  sent  to  Rome, 
Swearing    thou    swarest    falsely    by    his 

Saints : 
The  Pope  and  that  Archdeacon  Hilde- 

brand 
His  master,  heard  him,  and  have  sent  him 

back 
A  holy  gonfanon,  and  a  blessed  hair 
Of  Peter,  and  all  France,  all  Burgundy, 
Poitou,  all  Christendom  is  raised  against 

thee; 
He  hath  cursed  thee,  and  all  those  who 

fight  for  thee. 
And  given  thy  realm  of  England  to  the 
bastard. 
Harold.     Ha!  ha! 

Edith.     Oh !  laugh  not !  .  .  .  Strange 
and  ghastly  in  the  gloom 
And  shadowing  of  this  double  thunder- 
cloud 
That  lours  on  England  —  laughter  ! 

Harold.  No,  not  strange  ! 

This  was  old  human  laughter  in  old  Rome 
Before  a  Pope  was  born,  when  that  which 

reign'd 
Call'd  itself  God.  —  A  kindly  rendering 
Of  '  Render  unto  Coesar.'  .  .  .     The  Good 

Shepherd  I 
Take  this,  and  render  that. 

Gurth.  They  have  taken  York. 

Harold.     The  Lord  was  God  and  came 

as  man  —  the  Pope 

Is  man  and  comes  as  God.  —  York  taken? 

Gurth.  Yea, 

Tostig  hath  taken  York  ! 

Harold.  To  York  then.      Edith, 

Hadst   thou  been    braver,   I   had   better 
braved 


66o 


HAROLD. 


ACT    IV. 


All  —  but  I  love  thee  and  thou  me  —  and 

that 
Remains    beyond   all    chances    and    all 

churches, 
And  that  thou  knowest. 

Edith.  Ay,  but  take  back  thy  ring. 
It  burns  my  hand  —  a  curse  to  thee  and  me. 
1  dare  not  wear  it. 

^Proffers  Harold  the  ring,  which  he  takes. 

Harold.     But  I  dare.     God  with  thee  ! 

\_Exeunt  Harold  and  Gvi'^th. 

Edith.     The  King  hath  cursed  him,  if 

he  marry  me; 
The  Pope  hath  cursed  him,  marry  me  or 

no ! 
God  help  me  !  I  know  nothing  —  can  but 

pray 
For  Harold  —  pray,  pray,  pray  —  no  help 

but  prayer, 
A  breath  that  fleets  beyond  this  iron  world, 
And  touches  Him  that  made  it. 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.  —  In  Northumbria. 

Archbishop  Aldred,  Morcar,  Edwin, 
and  Forces.  Enter  Harold.  The 
standard  of  the  golden  Dragon  of  Wes- 
sex  preceding  him. 

Harold.     What !  are  thy  people  sullen 
from  defeat? 
Our   Wessex    dragon    flies    beyond    the 

Humber, 
No  voice  to  greet  it. 

Edwin.  Let  not  our  great  king 

Believe  us  sullen  —  only  shamed  to  the 

quick 
Before    the    king  —  as   having   been    so 

bruised 
By  Harold,  king  of  Norway;  but  our  help 
Is  Harold,  king  of  England.     Pardon  us, 

thou! 
Our  silence  is  our  reverence  for  the  king  ! 
Harold.     Earl  of  the  Mercians!  if  the 
truth  be  gall, 
Cram  me  not  thou  with  honey,  when  our 

good  hive 
Needs  every  sting  to  save  it. 

Voices.  Aldwyth  !   Aldwyth  ! 

Harold.     Why  cry  thy  people  on  thy 
sister's  name? 


Morcar.     She    hath    won    upon    our 
people  thro'  her  beauty. 
And  pleasantness  among  them. 

Voices.  Aldwyth  !  Aldwyth  ! 

Harold.     They   shout   as   they  would 

have  her  for  a  queen. 
Morcar.     She  hath  follow'd  with  our 

host,  and  suffer'd  all. 
Harold.     What  would  ye,  men? 
Voice.  Our  old  Northumbrian 

crown. 
And  kings  of  our  own  choosing. 

Harold.  Your  old  crown 

Were  little  help  without  our  Saxon  carles 
Against  Hardrada. 

Voice.  Little  !  we  are  Danes, 

Who  conquer'd  what  we  walk  on,  our 
own  field. 
Harold.  They  have  been  plotting  here  ! 

\_Aside. 

Voice.  He  calls  us  little  ! 

Harold.     The  kingdoms  of  this  world 

began  with  little, 

A  hill,  a  fort,  a  city  —  that  reach'd  a  hand 

Down  to  the  field  beneath  it,  'Be  thou 

mine,' 
Then  to  the  next,  '  Thou  also ! '  If  the 

field 
Cried  out  '  I  am  mine  own,'  another  hill 
Or  fort,  or  city,  took  it,  and  the  first 
Fell,  and  the  next  became  an  Empire. 

Voice.  Yet 

Thou  art  but  a  West  Saxon  :  7^1?  are  Danes  ! 
Harold.     My  mother  is  a  Dane,  and  I 
am  English; 
There  is  a  pleasant  fable  in  old  books, 
Ye  take  a  stick,  and  break  it;  bind  a  score 
All  in  one  faggot,  snap  it  over  knee, 
Ye  cannot. 

Voice.  Hear  King  Harold  !  he 

says  true  ! 
Harold.     Would  ye  be  Norsemen? 
Voices.  No ! 

Harold.  Or  Norman? 

Voices.  No ! 

Harold.  Snap  not  the  faggot-band  then. 
Voice.  That  is  true  ! 

Voice.     Ay,  but  thou  art   not  kingly, 
only  grandson 
To  Wulfnoth,  a  poor  cow-herd. 

Harold.  This  old  Wulfnoth 

Would  take  me  on  his  knees  and  tell  me 
tales 


SCENE   I. 


HAROLD. 


66i 


Of  Alfred  and  of  Athelstan  the  Great 
Who  drove  you  Danes;  and  yet  he  held 

that  Dane, 
Jute,  Angle,  Saxon,  were  or  should  be  all 
One  England,  for  this  cow-herd,  like  my 

father. 
Who  shook  the  Norman  scoundrels  off 

the  throne. 
Had  in  him  kingly  thoughts  —  a  king  of 

men, 
Not  made  but  born,  like  the  great  king 

of  all, 
A  light  among  the  oxen. 

Voice.  That  is  true  ! 

Voice.     Ay,  and  I  love  him  now,  for 

mine  own  father 
Was  great,  and  cobbled. 

Voice.  Thou  art  Tostig's  brother. 

Who  wastes  the  land. 

Harold.        This  brother  comes  to  save 
Your  land  from  waste;    I  saved  it  once 

before. 
For  when  your  people   banish'd  Tostig 

hence, 
And    Edward  would   have   sent   a   host 

against  you, 
Then  I,  who  loved  my  brother,  bade  the 

king 
Who  doted  on  him,  sanction  your  decree 
Of  Tostig's  banishment,   and  choice  of 

Morcar, 
To  help  the  realm  from  scattering. 

Voice.  King  !   thy  brother. 

If  one  may  dare  to  speak  the  truth,  was 

wrong'd. 
Wild   was   he,  born    so :    but    the    plots 

against  him 
Had  madden'd  tamer  men. 

Morcar.  Thou  art  one  of  those 

Who  brake  into  Lord  Tostig's  treasure- 
house 
And  slew  two  hundred  of  his  following. 
And  now,  when  Tostig  hath  come  back 

with  power, 
Are  frighted  back  to  Tostig. 

Old  Thane.       Ugh  !   Plots  and  feuds  ! 
This  is  my  ninetieth  birthday.     Can  ye 

not 
Be  brethren?     Godwin  still  at  feud  with 

Alfgar, 
And  Alfgar   hates  King   Harold.     Plots 

and  feuds  ! 
This  is  my  ninetieth  birthday ! 


Harold.  Old  man,  Harold 

Hates  nothing;   not  his  fault,  if  our  two 

houses 
Be  less  than  brothers. 

Voices.     Aldwyth,  Harold,  Aldwyth  ! 
Harold.        Again  !     Morcar  !     Edwin  ! 

What  do  they  mean? 
Ediuin.     So  the  good  king  would  deign 
to  lend  an  ear 
Not  overscornful,  we  might  chance  — per- 
chance — 
To  guess  their  meaning. 

Morcar.     Thine  own  meaning,  Harold, 
To  make   all   England   one,  to  close  all 

feuds, 
Mixing  our  bloods,  that  thence  a  king 

may  rise 
Half-Godwin  and  half-Alfgar,  one  to  rule 
All    England    beyond    question,    beyond 
quarrel. 
Harold.     Who   sow'd  this  fancy  here 

among  the  people? 
Morcar.     Who  knows  what  sows  itself 
among  the  people? 
A  goodly  flower  at  times. 

Harold.  The  Queen  of  Wales? 

W^hy,  Morcar,  it  is  all  but  duty  in  her 
To  hate  me;    I  have  heard  she  hates  me. 
Morcar.  No ! 

For  I  can  swear  to  that,  but  cannot  swear 
That  these  will  follow  thee  against  the 

Norseman, 
If  thou  deny  them  this. 

Harold.  Morcar  and  Edwin, 

When  will  ye  cease  to  plot  against  my 
house? 
Edivin.     The  king  can  scarcely  dream 
that  we,  who  know 
His  prowess  in  the  mountains  of  the  West, 
Should  care  to  plot  against  him  in  the 
:Xorth. 
Morcar.     Who  dares  arraign  us,  king, 

of  such  a  plot? 
Harold.     Ye  heard  one  witness  even 

now. 
Morcar.  The  ci-aven  ! 

There  is  a  faction  risen  again  for  Tostig, 
Since  Tostig  came  with  Norway  —  fright 
not  love. 
Harold.     Morcar  and  Edwin,  will  ye, 
if  I  yield. 
Follow  against  the  Norseman? 

Morcar.  Surely,  surely  I 


662 


HAROLD. 


ACT    IV, 


Harold.     Morcar  and  Edwin,  will  ye 
upon  oath, 
Help  us  against  the  Norman? 

Morcar.  With  good  will; 

Yea,  take  the  Sacrament  upon  it,  king. 
Harold.     Where  is  thy  sister? 
Morcar.         Somewhere  hard  at  hand. 
Call  and  she  comes. 

\^One goes  out,  then  enter  Aldwyth. 
Harold.     1  doubt  not  but  thou  knowest 
Why  thou  art  summon'd. 

Aldivyth.     Why?  —  I  stay  with  these. 
Lest  thy  tierce  Tostig  spy  me  out  alone, 
And  flay  me  all  alive. 

Harold.  Canst  thou  love  one 

Who  did  discrown  thine  husband,  unqueen 

thee? 
Didst  thou  not  love  thine  husband? 

Aldwyth.  Oh  !  my  lord, 

The    nimble,    M'ild,    red,    wiry,    savage 

king  — 
That  was,  my  lord,  a  match  of  policy. 

Harold.  Was  it? 

I  knew  him  brave  :   he  loved  his  land : 

he  fain 
Had  made  her  great :  his  finger  on  her 

harp 
(I  heard  him  more  than  once)  had  in  it 

Wales, 
Her  floods,  her  woods,  her  hills  :    had  I 

been  his, 
I  had  been  all  Welsh. 

Aldivyth.     Oh,  ay  —  all  Welsh  —  and 
yet 
I  saw  thee  drive  him  up  his  hills  —  and 

women 
Cling  to  the  conquer'd,  if  they  love,  the 

more ; 
If  not,  they  cannot  hate  the  conqueror. 
We  never  —  oh  !  good  Morcar,  speak  for 

us, 
His  conqueror  conquer'd  Aldwyth. 

Harold.  Goodly  news ! 

Morcar.     Doubt  it  not    thou !     Since 
Griffyth's  head  was  sent 
To  Edward,  she  hath  said  it. 

Harold.  I  had  rather 

She    would    have    loved    her    husband. 

Aldwyth,  Aldwyth, 
Canst  thou  love  me,  thou  knowing  where 
I  love? 
Aldivyth.     I    can,   my   lord,  for    mine 
own  sake,  for  thine. 


For  England,  for  thy  poor  white   dove, 

who  flutters 
Between  thee  and  the  porch,   but   then 

would  iind 
Her  nest  within  the  cloister,  and  be  still. 
Harold.     Canst    thou    love    one    who 

cannot  love  again? 
Aldwyth.     Full  hope  have  I  that  love 

will  answer  love. 
Harold.     Then    in    the    name    of   the 
great  God,  so  be  it ! 
Come,  Aldred,  join  our  hands  before  the 

hosts, 
That  all  may  see. 

[Aldred  joins   the   hands    of  Harold 

and  Aldwyth  and  blesses  them. 
Voices.     Harold,  Harold  and  Aldwyth  I 
Harold.     Set  forth  our  golden  Dragon, 
let  him  flap 
The  wings  that  beat  down  Wales ! 
Advance  our  Standard  of  the  Warrior, 
Dark  among  gems  and  gold;   and  thou, 

brave  banner. 
Blaze  like  a  night  of  fatal  stars  on  those 
Who  read  their  doom  and  die. 
Where  lie  the  Norsemen?   on  the  Der- 

went?  ay 
At  Stamford-bridge. 
Morcar,    collect   thy   men;     Edwin,   my 

friend  — 
Thou  lingerest.  —  Gurth, — 
Last  night  King  Edward  came  to  me  in 

dreams  — 
The  rosy  face   and  long  down-silvering 

beard  — 
He  told  me  I  should  conquer  :  — 
I  am  no  woman  to  put  faith  in  dreams. 

(  To  his  army?) 
Last  night  King  Edward  came  to  me  in 

dreams, 
And  told  me  we  should  conquer. 

Voices.  Forward  !  Forward  ! 

Harold  and  Holy  Cross  ! 

Aldwyth.  The  day  is  won  ! 

SCENE    H.  — A   Plain.     Before  the 
Battle  of   Siamford-briuge. 

Harold  and  his  Guard. 

Harold.     Who    is   it  comes  this  way? 
Tostig?      (^F.nttr   TosTlc;   ivith    a 
small  force.)     O  l)rother, 
What  art  thou  doing  here? 


SCENE    III. 


HAROLD. 


663 


Tostig.  I  am  foraging 

For  Norway's  army. 

Harold.        I  could  take  and  slay  thee. 
Thou  art  in  arms  against  us. 

Tostig.  Take  and  slay  me, 

For  Edward  loved  me. 

Harold.     Edward  bade  me  spare  thee. 
Tostig.     I  hate  King  Edward,  for  he 
join'd  with  thee 
To  drive  me  outlaw'd.     Take    and   slay 

me,  I  say, 
Or  I  shall  count  thee  fool. 

Harold.  Take  thee,  or  free  thee. 

Free  thee  or  slay  thee,  Norway  will  have 

war ; 
No  man  would  strike  with  Tostig,  save 

for  Norway. 
Thou  art  nothing  in  thine  England,  save 

for  Norway, 
Who  loves  not  thee  but  war.     Wiiat  dost 

thou  here, 
Trampling  thy  mother's  bosom  into  blood  ? 
Tostig.     She  hath  wean'd  me  from  it 
with  such  bitterness. 
I    come    from    mine    own    Earldom,  my 

Northumbria; 
Thou  hast  given  it  to  the  enemy  of  our 
house. 
Harold.     Northumbria  threw  thee  off, 
she  will  not  have  thee. 
Thou  hast  misused  her  :  and,  O  crowning 

crime  ! 
Hast  murder'd  thine  own  guest,  the  son 

of  Orm, 
Game],  at  thine  own  hearth. 

Tostig.  The  slow,  fat  fool ! 

He  drawl'd  and  prated  so,  I  smote  him 

suddenly, 
I  knew  not  what  I  did.     He  held  with 

M  or  car.  — 
I  hate  myself  for  all  things  that  I  do. 
Harold.  ■  And  Morcar  holds  with  us. 
Come  back  with  him. 
Know  what  thou  dost;   and  we  may  find 

for  thee. 
So  thou  be  chasten'd  by  thy  banishment, 
Some  easier  earldom. 

Tostig.  What  for  Norway  then? 

He    looks    for    land    among   us,   he   and 
his. 
Harold.     Seven  feet  of  English  land, 
or  something  more, 
Seeing  he  is  a  giant. 


Tostig.  That  is  noble  ! 

That  sounds  of  Godwin, 

Harold.  Come  thou  back,  and  be 

Once  more  a  son  of  Godwin. 

Tostig  {turns  away).  O  brother, 

brother, 

0  Harold  — 

Harold  {laying  his  hand  on  Tostig's 

shoulder').     Nay  then,  come  thou 

back  to  us ! 
Tostig  {after  a  pause  turning  to  hint). 

Never  shall  any  mail  say  that  I, 

that  Tostig 
Conjured  the  mightier  Harold  from  his 

North 
To  do  the  battle  for  me  here  in  England, 
Then  left  him  for  the  meaner  I  thee  !  — 
Thou  hast  no  passion  for  the  House  of 

Godwin  — 
Thou  hast  but  cared  to  make  thyself  a 

king  — 
Thou  hast  sold  me  for  a  cry.  — 
Thou  gavest  thy  voice  against  me  in  the 

Council  — 

1  hate  thee,  and  despise  thee,  and  defy 

thee. 
Farewell  for  ever  !  \^Exit. 

Harold.  On  to  Stamford-bridge  ! 


SCENE  IH. 

After  the  Battle  of  Stamford- 
bridge.     Banquet. 

Harold     and    Aldwyth.  Gurth, 

Leofvvin,     Morcar,     Edwin,     atid 
other  Earls  and  Thanes. 

V^oices.         Hail !    Harold  !    Aldwyth  ! 

hail,  bridegroom  and  bride  ! 
Ahhvyth  {talking  luith  Harold).     An- 
swer them  thou ! 

Is   this    our   marriage-banquet?     Would 
the  wines 

Of  wedding  had   been   dash'd   into   the 
cups 

Of  victory,  and  our  marriage  and  thy  glory 

Been  drunk  together !  these  poor  hands 
but  sew. 

Spin,    broider  —  would    that    they    were 
man's  to  have  held 

The  battle-axe  by  thee  I 

Harold.  There  was  a  moment 


664 


HAROLD. 


ACT   IV. 


When   being  forced   aloof   from   all   my 

guard, 
And  striking  at  Hardrada  and  his  mad- 
men 
I  had  wish'd  for  any  weapon. 

Aldxvyth.  Why  art  thou  sad? 

Harold.      I    have    lost    the    boy   who 

play'd  at  ball  with  me, 
With  whom  I  fought  another  fight  than 

this 
Of  Stamford-bridge. 

Aldwyth.  Ay  !  ay  !  thy  victories 

Over  our  own  poor  Wales,  when  at  thy 

side 
He  conquer'd  with  thee. 

Ha7-old.  No  —  the  childish  fist 

That  cannot  strike  again. 

Aldzvyth.  Thou  art  too  kindly. 

Why  didst  thou  let  so  many  Norsemen 

hence? 
Thy  fierce  forekings  had  clench'd  their 

pirate  hides 
To  the  bleak   church  doors,  like   kites 

upon  a  barn. 
Harold.     Is  there  so  great  a  need  to 

tell  thee  why? 
Aldzvyth.     Yea,  am  I  not  thy  wife  ? 
Voices.  Hail,  Harold,  Aldwyth  ! 

Bridegroom  and  bride  ! 

Aldwyth.    Answer  them  !    [  To  Harold. 

Harold  {to  all).       Earls  and  Thanes  ! 

Full  thanks  for  your  fair  greeting  of  my 

bride  ! 
Earls,  Thanes,  and  all  our  countrymen ! 

the  day. 
Our   day   beside   the  Derwent   will   not 

shine 
Less  than  a  star  among  the   goldenest 

hours 
Of  Alfred,  or  of  Edward  his  great  son. 
Or  Athelstan,  or  English  Ironside 
Who  fought   with    Knut,  or  Knut  who 

coming  Dane 
Died    English.     Every    man    about    his 

king 
Fought  like  a  king;   the  king  like  his  own 

man. 
No  better;   one  for  all,  and  all  for  one. 
One  soul !  and  therefore  have  we  shatter'd 

back 
The  hugest  wave   from  Norseland  ever 

yet 
Surged  on  us,  and  our  battle-axes  broken 


The  Raven's  wing,  and  dumb'd  his  carrion 

croak 
From  the  gray  sea  for  ever.     Many  are 

gone  — 
Drink  to  the  dead  who  died  for  us,  the 

living 
Who  fought  and  would  have  died,  but 

happier  lived. 
If  happier  be  to  live;   they  both  have  life 
In  the  large  mouth  of  England,  till  her 

voice 
Die  with  the  world.     Hail  —  hail ! 

Alorcar.     May  all  invaders  perish  like 

Hardrada  ! 
All  traitors  fail  like  Tostig  ! 

\_All  drink  but  Harold. 
Aldzvyth.  Thy  cup's  full ! 

Harold.     I  saw   the    hand    of  Tostig 

cover  it. 
Our  dear,  dead,  traitor-brother,  Tostig, 

him 
Reverently  we  buried.     Friends,  had  I 

been  here. 
Without  too   large   self-lauding   I   must 

hold 
The   sequel   had   been   other    than    his 

league 
With   Norway,  and   this   battle.     Peace 

be  with  him ! 
He  was  not  of  the  worst.     If  there  be 

those 
At  banquet  in  this  hall,  and  hearing  me  — 
For  there  be  those  I  fear  who  prick'd  the 

lion 
To  make  him  spring,  that  sight  of  Danish 

blood 
Might  serve  an  end  not  English  —  peace 

with  them 
Likewise,  if  they  can  be  at  peace  with 

what 
God  gave  us  to  divide  us  from  the  wolf! 
Aldzvyth  {aside  to  Harold).     Make  not 

our  Morcar  sullen  :  it  is  not  wise. 
Harold.    Hail  to  the  living  who  fought, 

the  dead  who  fell ! 
Voices.     Hail,  hail ! 
First   Thane.     How  ran   that  answer 

which  King  Harold  gave 
To  his  dead   namesake,  when   he  ask'd 

for  England? 
Leofivin.    '  Seven  feet  of  English  earth, 

or  something  more. 
Seeing  he  is  a  giant !  ' 


SCENE   III. 


HAROLD. 


665 


First  Thane.  Then  for  the  bastard 

Six  feet  and  nothing  more  ! 

Leo/win.  Ay,  but  belike 

Thou  hast  not  learnt  his  measure. 

First  Thane.  By  St.  Edmund 

I  over-Hieasure  him.     Sound  sleep  to  the 

man 
Here  by  dead  Norway  without  dream  or 

dawn ! 
Second  Thane.     What !  is  he  bragging 

still  that  he  will  come 
To  thrust  our  Harold's  throne  from  under 

him? 
My  nurse  would  tell  me  of  a  molehill  crying 
To  a  mountain  '  Stand  aside  and  room 

for  me  !  ' 
First  Thane.     Let  him  come  !  let  him 

come.      Here's   to   him,   sink    or 

swim !  [^Drinks. 

Second  Thane.     God  sink  him  ! 
First    Thane.      Cannot    hands  which 

had  the  strength 
To  shove  that  stranded  iceberg  off  our 

shores. 
And  send  the  shatter'd  North  again  to 

sea, 
Scuttle  his  cockle-shell?     What's  Brun- 

anburg 
To  Stamford-bridge?  a  war-crash,  and  so 

hard, 
So  loud,  that,  by  St.   Dunstan,  old   St. 

Thor  — 
By  God,  we  thought  him  dead  —  but  our 

old  Thor 
Heard  his  own  thunder  again,  and  woke 

and  came 
Among  us  again,  and  mavk'd  the  sons  of 

those 
Who  made  this  Britain  England,  break 

the  North  : 

Mark'd  how  the  war-axe  swang. 
Heard  how  the  war-horn  sang, 
Mark'd  how  the  spear-head  sprang. 
Heard  how  the  shield- wall  rang. 
Iron  on  iron  clang, 
Anvil  on  hammer  bang  — 

Second    Thane.       Hammer   on    anvil, 
hammer  on  anvil.     Old  dog. 
Thou  art  drunk,  old  dog  ! 

First  Thane.     Too  drunk  to  fight  with 
thee ! 


Second  Thane.     Fight  thou  with  thine 
own  double,  not  with  me, 
Keep  that  for  Norman  William  ! 

First  Thane.         Down  with  William  ! 

Third   Thane.     The   washerwoman's 
brat! 

Fourth  Thane.     The  tanner's  bastard ! 

Fifth  Thane.     The  Falaise  byblow  ! 

\_Enter  a  Thane, y>'cw  Fevensey,  spat- 
ter''d  with  imid. 

Harold.  Ay,  but  what  late  guest, 

As  haggard  as  a  fast  of  forty  days. 

And  caked  and  plaster'd  with  a  hundred 
mires. 

Hath  stumbled  on  our  cups? 

Thane  from  Fevensey.     My  lord    the 
King ! 

William  the  Norman,  for  the  wind  had 
changed  — 
Harold.     I  felt  it  in  the  middle  of  that 
fierce  fight 

At  Stamford-bridge.  William  hath  landed, 
ha? 
Thatie  from    Fevensey.      Landed    at 
Fevensey —  I  am  from  Fevensey  — 

Hath  wasted  all  the  land  at  Fevensey  — 

Hath  harried  mine  own  cattle  —  God  con- 
found him  ! 

I  have  ridden  night  and  day  from  Feven- 
sey— 

A  thousand  ships  —  a  hundred  thousand 
men  — 

Thousands  of  horses,  like  as  many  lions 

Neighing  and  roaring  as  they  leapt    to 
land  — 
Harold.     How  oft  in  coming  hast  thou 

broken  bread? 
Thane  from  Fevensey.     Some  thrice, 

or  so. 
Harold.  Bring  not  thy  hollowness 

On  our  full  feast.     Famine  is  fear,  were 
it  but 

Of  being  starved.     Sit  down,  sit  down, 
and  eat. 

And,    when    again    red-blooded,    speak 
again; 

(^Aside.)     The  men  that  guarded  Eng- 
land to  the  South 

Were  scatter'd  to  the  harvest.  ...     No 
power  mine 

To  hold  their  force  together.  .  .  .     Many 
are  fallen 


666 


HAROLD. 


ACT   V, 


At    Stamford-bridge    ...    the    people 

stupid-sure 
Sleep  like  their  swine  ...  In  South  and 

North  at  once 
I  could  not  be. 

(^Aloud.)    Gurth,  Leofwin, 

Morcar,  Edwin ! 
(^Pointing  to  the  revellers.^     The  curse  of 

England !    these   are    drown'd   in 

wassail, 
And  cannot  see  the  world  but  thro'  their 

wines ! 
Leave   them !    and   thee    too,    Aldwyth, 

must  I  leave  — 
Harsh  is  the  news !  hard  is  our  honey- 
moon ! 
Thy   pardon.      (  Turning  round  to  his 

attendants.^     Break  the  banquet 

up.  .  .  .     Ye  four  ! 
And  thou,   my    carrier-pigeon   of  black 

news, 
Cram  thy  crop  full,  but  come  when  thou 

art  call'd.  \_Exit  Harold. 


ACT  V. 
SCENE   I. —  A   Tent   on    a  Mound, 

FROM  WHICH   C.\N  BE  SEEN  THE  FlELD 

OF  Senlac. 

Harold  sitting;  by  him  standing  Hugh 
Margot  the  Monk,  Gurth,  Leofv^^in. 

Harold.     Refer  my  cause,  my  crown 

to  Rome  !   .  .  .     The  wolf 
Mudded  the  brook  and  predetermined  all. 
Monk, 
Thou   hast    said    thy   say,   and    had  my 

constant  '  No ' 
For  all   but   instant  battle.     I    hear    no 

more. 
Margot.     Hear  me  again  —  for  the  last 

time.     Arise, 
Scatter   thy  people   home,  descend  the 

hill, 
Lay  hands  of  full  allegiance  in  thy  Lord's 
And  crave  his  mercy,  for  the  Holy  Father 
Hath  given  this  realm  of  England  to  the 

Norman. 
Harold.     Then  for  the  last  time,  monk, 

I  ask  again 
When  had  the  Lateran   and  the   Holy 

Father 


To  do  with  England's  choice  of  her  own 

king? 
Margot.      Earl,     the     first     Christian 

Caesar  drew  to  the  East 
To  leave  the  Pope  dominion  in  the  West. 
He  gave  him  all  the   kingdoms,  of  the 

West. 
Harold.      So  I  —  did    he  ?  —  Earl  —  I 

have  a  mind  to  play 
The  William  with  thine  eyesight  and  thy 

tongue. 
Earl  —  ay  —  thou  art  but  a  messenger  of 

WiUiam. 
I  am  weary  —  go :   make  me  not  wroth 

with  thee  ! 
Margot.     Mock-king,  I  am  the  mes- 
senger of  God, 
His    Norman    Daniel !       Mene,    INIene, 

Tekel ! 
Is  thy  wrath  Hell,  that  I  should  spare  to 

cry, 
Yon  heaven  is  wroth  with  thee?     Hear 

me  again  ! 
Our  Saints  have  moved  the  Church  that 

moves  the  world, 
And  all  the  Heavens  and  very  God  :  they 

heard  — 
They  know  King  Edward's  promise  and 

thine  —  thine. 
Harold.     Should  they  not  know  free 

England  crowns  herself? 
Not  know  that  he  nor  I  had  power  to 

promise? 
Not  know  that  Edward  cancell'd  his  own 

promise? 
And  for  my  part  therein  —  back  to  that 

juggler,  \_J^ising. 

Tell  him  the  Saints  are  nobler  than  he 

dreams, 
Tell  him  that   God  is  nobler   than    the 

Saints, 
And  tell  him  we  stand  arm'd  on  Senlac 

hill. 
And  bide  the  doom  of  God. 

Margot.  Hear  it  thro'  me. 

The  realm  for  which  thou  art  forsworn  is 

cursed. 
The  l)al)e  enwomb'd  and  at  the  breast  is 

cursed, 
The    corpse    thou   whelmest   with    thine 

earth  is  cursed, 
The  soul  who  fighteth    on    thy  side   is 

cursed, 


SCENE    I. 


HAROLD. 


667 


The   seed   thou   sowest    in   thy   field   is 

cursed, 
The  steer  wherewith   thou  plowest    thy 

field  is  cursed, 
The  fowl   that   fleeth    o'er   thy    field   is 

cursed, 
And  thou,  usurper,  liar  — 

Harold.  Out,  beast  monk  ! 

\_Lifting  his   hand   to    strike    him. 

Gurth  stops  the  blow. 
I  ever  hated  monks. 

Margot.  I  am  but  a  voice 

Among  you :   murder,  martyr  me  if  ye 

will  — 
Harold.     Thanks,  Gurth  !    The  simple, 

silent,  selfless  man 
Is  worth  a  world   of  tonguesters.     (  To 

Margot.)     Get  thee  gone  ! 
He  means  the  thing  he  says.     See  him 

out  safe ! 
Leofiviii.     He  hath  blown  himself  as 

red  as  fire  with  curses. 
An  honest  fool !     Follow  me,  honest  fool, 
But  if  thou  blurt  thy  curse  among  our 

folk, 
I  know  not  —  I  may  give  that  egg-bald 

head 
The  tap  that  silences. 

Harold.  See  him  out  safe. 

\_Exeiint  Leofwin  and  Margot. 

Gurth.      Thou   hast   lost    thine    even 

temper,  brother  Harold ! 
Harold.      Gurth,     when     I    past     by 

Waltham,  my  foundation 
For  men  who  serve  the  neighbour,  not 

themselves, 
I  cast  me   down   prone,   praying;    and, 

when  I  rose, 
They  told  me  that  the  Holy  Rood  had 

lean'd 
And  bow'd  above  me ;  whether  that  which 

held  it 
Had  weaken'd,  and  the  Rood  itself  were 

bound 
To  that  necessity  which  binds  us  down; 
Whether  it  bow'd  at  all  but  in  their  fancy; 
Or  if  it  bow'd,  whether  it  symboU'd  ruin 
Or  glory,  who  shall  tell?  but  they  were 

sad. 
And  somewhat  sadden'd  me. 

Gurth.  Yet  if  a  fear, 

Or  shadow  of  a   fear,  lest  the  strange 

Saints 


How  should   the 


And,  Leofwin,  art 


By  whom  thou  swarest,  should  have  power 

to  balk 
Thy  puissance  in  this  fight  with  him,  who 

made 
And  heard  thee  swear  —  brother — /have 

not  sworn  — 
If  the  king  fall,  may  not  the   kingdom 

fall? 
But  if  I  fall,  I  fall,  and  thou  art  king; 
And,  if  I  win,  I  win,  and  thou  art  king; 
Draw    thou    to    London,     there     make 

strength  to  breast 
Whatever  chance,  but  leave  this  day  to 

me. 
Leofwin    (^entering).     And  waste   the 

land  about  thee  as  thou  goest. 
And  be  thy  hand  as  winter  on  the  field, 
To  leave  the  foe  no  forage. 

Harold.  Noble  Gurth  ! 

Best  son  of  Godwin  !     If  I  fall,  I  fall  — 
The   doom    of  God ! 

people  fight 
When  the  king  flies? 

thou  mad? 
How  should  the  King  of  England  waste 

the  fields 
Of  England,  his  own  people  ?  —  no  glance 

yet 
Of    the   Northumbrian 

heath? 
Leofcuin.     No,  but  a 

upon  the  heath. 
And  someone  saw  thy  willy-nilly  nun 
Vying  a  tress  against  our  golden  fern. 
Harold.     Vying  a  tear  with  our  cold 

dews,  a  sigh 
With  these  low-moaning  heavens.     Let 

her  be  fetch'd. 
We  have  parted  from  our  wife  without 

reproach, 
Tho'    we    have    pierced    thro'    all    her 

practices; 
And  that  is  well. 

Leofivin.  I  saw  her  even  now  : 

She  hath  not  left  us. 

Harold.  Naught  of  Morcar  then? 

Gurth.     Nor  seen,  nor  heard ;    thine, 

William's  or  his  own 
As  wind  blows,  or  tide  flows :  belike  he 

watches. 
If  this  war-storm  in  one  of  its  rough  rolls 
Wash  up  that  old  crown  of  Northumber- 
land. 


helmet    on    the 
shoal   of  wives 


668 


HAROLD. 


ACT   V. 


Harold.     I  married  her  for  Morcar  — 

a  sin  against 
The   truth    of  love.     Evil   for   good,    it 

seems, 
Is  oft  as  childless  of  the  good  as  evil 
For  evil. 

Leofwin.     Good  for  good  hath  borne 

at  times 
A  bastard  false  as  William. 

Harold.  Ay,  if  Wisdom 

Pair'd  not  with  Good.     But  I  am  some- 
what worn, 
A  snatch  of  sleep  were  like  the  peace  of 

God. 
Gurth,  Leofwin,  go  once  more  about  the 

hill  — 
What  did  the  dead  man  call  it  —  Sangue- 

lac, 
The  Lake  of  Blood? 

Leofivin.     A  lake  that  dips  in  William 
As  well  as  Harold. 

Harold.     Like  enough.     I  have  seen 
The  trenches  dug,  the  palisades  uprear'd 
And  wattled  thick  with  ash  and  willow- 
wands  ; 
Yea,  wrought  at  them  myself.     Go  round 

once  more; 
See  all  be  sound  and  whole.     No  Norman 

horse 
Can  shatter  England,  standing  shield  by 

shield ; 
Tell  that  again  to  all. 

Gurth.  I  will,  good  brother. 

Harold.      Our    guardsman    hath    but 

toil'd  his  hand  and  foot, 
I   hand,   foot,   heart    and    head.      Some 

wine  !      (  One  pours  wine   into  a 

goblet  ivhich  he  hands  to  Harold.) 

Too  much  ! 
What?  we  must  use  our  battle-axe  to-day. 
Our  guardsmen  have  slept  well,  since  we 

came  in? 
Leofwin.     Ay,  slept  and  snored.    Your 

second-sighted  man 
That  scared  the  dying  conscience  of  the 

king, 
Misheard  their  snores  for  groans.     They 

are  up  again 
And  chanting  that  old  song  of  Brunan- 

burg 
Where  England  conquer'd. 

Harold.     That  is  well.     The  Norman, 
W^hat  is  he  doing? 


Leofivin.  Praying  for  Normandy; 

Our  scouts  have  heard  the  tinkle  of  their 
bells. 
Harold.     And  our  old  songs  are  prayers 
for  England  too  ! 
But  by  all  Saints  — 

L'eofcvin.  Barring  the  Norman ! 

Harold.  Nay, 

Were  the  great  trumpet  blowing  dooms- 
day dawn, 
I    needs    must    rest.       Call    when    the 
Norman  moves  — 

\^Exeunt  all  but  Harold. 
No   horse  —  thousands   of   horses  —  our 

shield  wall — • 
Wall — break  it  not — break  not — break — 

\^Sleeps. 
Vision  of  Edward.     Son  Harold,  I  thy 
king,  who  came  before 
To  tell  thee  thou  shouldst  win  at  Stam- 
ford-bridge, 
Come  yet  once  more,  from  where  I  am 

at  peace. 
Because  I  loved  thee  in  my  mortal  day, 
To  tell  thee   thou  shalt   die  on   Senlac 

hill- 
Sanguelac  ! 

Vision  of  Wulfnoth.     O  brother,  from 
my  ghastly  oubliette 
I  send  my  voice  across  the  narrow  seas  — 
No  more,  no  more,  dear  brother,  never- 
more — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision   of   Tostig.     O   brother,   most 
unbrotherlike  to  me. 
Thou  gavest  thy  voice  against  me  in  my 

life, 
I   give  my  voice   against  thee  from  the 

grave  — 
Sanguelac  ! 

Vision  of  A^orman  Saitits.     O  hapless 
Harold  !   King  but  for  an  hour  ! 
Thou    swarest    falsely    by   our    blessed 

bones, 
We  give  our  voice  against  thee  out  of 

heaven ! 
Sanguelac  !  Sanguelac  !    The  arrow  !  the 
arrow  ! 
Harold    (^starting    tip,    battle-axe    in 
hand).     Away! 
My  battle-axe  against  your  voices.  Peace  ! 
The  king's  last  word  —  *  the  arrow  ! '     I 
shall  die  — 


SCENE   I. 


HAROLD. 


669 


I  die    for  England   then,  who  lived  for 

England  — 
What  nobler?  men  must  die. 
I  cannot  fall  into  a  falser  world  — 
I  have   done   no  man  wrong.      Tostig, 

poor  brother, 
Art  thou  so  anger'd? 
Fain  had  I  kept  thine  earldom  in  thy 

hands 
Save  for  thy  wild  and  violent  will  that 

wrench'd 
All  hearts  of  freemen  from  thee.    I  could 

do 
No  other  than  this  way  advise  the  king 
Against  the  race  of  Godwin.    Is  it  possible 
That  mortal  men  should  bear  their  earthly 

heats 
Into  yon  bloodless  world,  and  threaten  us 

thence 
Unschool'd  of  Death?     Thus  then  thou 

art  revenged  — 
I  left  our  England  naked  to  the  South 
To  meet  thee  in  the  North.     The  Norse- 
man's raid 
Hath  helpt  the  Norman,  and  the  race  of 

Godwin 
Hath  ruin'd  Godwin.     No  —  our  waking 

thoughts 
Suffer  a  stormless  shipwreck  in  the  pools 
Of  sullen  slumber,  and  arise  again 
Disjointed  :    only  dreams  —  where  mine 

own  self 
Takes  part  against  myself!     Why?  for  a 

spark 
Of  self-disdain  born  in  me  when  I  sware 
Falsely  to  him,  the  falser  Norman,  over 
His    gilded    ark    of    mummy-saints,    by 

whom 
I  knew  not  that  I  sware,  —  not  for  my- 
self— 
For  England  —  yet  not  wholly  — 

{Enter  Edith.) 

Edith,  Edith, 
Get  thou  into  thy  cloister  as  the  king 
Will'd  it :  be  safe  :  the  perjury-mongering 

Count 
Hath   made  too   good  an  use  of  Holy 

Church 
To  break   her   close !     There    the    great 

God  of  truth 
Fill  all  thine  hours  with  peace  !  — A  lying 

devil 


Hath    haunted    me  —  mine    oath  —  my 

wife  —  I  fain 
Had   made   my  marriage    not   a  lie;    I 

could  not : 
Thou  art  my  bride  !  and   thou  in  after 

years 
Praying  perchance  for  this  poor  soul  of 

mine 
In  cold,  white  cells  beneath  an  icy  moon  — 
This    memory   to    thee !  —  and    this    to 

England, 
My  legacy  of  war  against  the  Pope 
From  child  to  child,  from  Pope  to  Pope, 

from  age  to  age, 
Till  the  sea  wash  her  level  with  her  shores, 
Or  till  the  Pope  be  Christ's. 

Enter  Aldwyth. 

Aldivyih  {to  Edith).    Away  from  him  ! 
Edith.     I  will  ...  I  have  not  spoken 
to  the  king 
One  word;   and  one  I  must.     Farewell! 

[  Going. 
Harold.  Not  yet. 

Stay. 

Edith.     To  what  use? 
Harold.     The   king    commands   thee, 
woman ! 

(  To  Aldwyth.) 
Have  thy  two  brethren  sent  their  forces 
in? 
Aldwyth.     Nay,  I  fear  not. 
Harold.   Then  there's  no  force  in  thee  ! 
Thou  didst  possess  thyself  of  Edward's  ear 
To  part  me  from  the  woman  that  I  loved  ! 
Thou  didst  arouse  the   fierce   Northum- 
brians ! 
Thou  hast  been  false  to  England  and  to 

me  !  — 
As  ...  in  some  sort  ...  I  have  been 

false  to  thee. 

Leave  me.     No  more  —  Pardon  on  both 

sides  —  Go ! 

Aldwyth.     Alas,  my  lord,  I  loved  thee. 

Harold  {bitterly^.  With  a  love 

Passing  thy  love  for  Griffyth  !  wherefore 

now 
Obey  my  first  and  last  commandment. 
Go! 
Aldioyth.     O  Harold  !  husband.!    Shall 

we  meet  again? 
Harold.     After  the  battle  —  after  the 
battle.     Go. 


670 


HAROLD. 


ACT   V. 


Ahhvyth.    I  go.    {Aside?)    That  I  could 
stab  her  standing  there  ! 

\^Exit  Aldwyth, 
Edith.  Alas,  my  lord,  she  loved  thee. 
Harold.  Never  !  never  ! 

Edith.     I  saw  it  in  her  eyes ! 
Harold.  I  see  it  in  thine. 

And  not  on  thee  —  nor    England  —  fall 
God's  doom  ! 
Edith.     On  thee?  on  me.     And  thou 
art  England  !     Alfred 
Was    England.     Ethelred  was    nothing. 

England 
Is  but  her  king,  and  thou  art  Harold ! 

Harold.  Edith, 

The  sign  in  heaven  —  the  sudden  blast 

at  sea  — 
My  fatal   oath  —  the   dead   Saints  —  the 

dark  dreams  — 
The  Pope's  Anathema  —  the  Holy  Rood 
That  bow'd  to  me  at  Waltham  —  Edith,  if 
I,  the  last  English  king  of  England  — 

Edith.  No, 

First  of  a  line  that  coming  from  the  people, 
And  chosen  by  the  people  — 

Harold.  And  fighting  for 

And  dying  for  the  people  — 

Edith.  Living  !  living  ! 

Harold.     Yea   so,   good   cheer !    thou 
art  Harold,  I  am  Edith  ! 
Look  not  thus  wan  ! 

Edith.  What  matters  how  I  look  ? 

Have  vv^e  not  broken  Wales  and  Norse- 
land?  slain, 
Whose  life  was  all  one  battle,  incarnate 

war. 
Their  giant-king,  a  mightier  man-in-arms 
Than  William? 

Harold.     Ay,   my   girl,    no    tricks    in 
him  — 
No   bastard  he  !    when  all  was  lost,  he 

yell'd, 
And  bit  his  shield,  and  dash'd  it  on  the 

ground, 
And  swaying  his  two-handed  sword  about 

him. 
Two  deaths  at  every  swing,  ran  in  upon  us 
And  died  so,  and  I  loved  him  as  I  hate 
This  liar  who  made   me   liar.     If  Hate 

can  kill, 
And  Loathing  wield  a  Saxon  battle-axe  — 
Edith.     Waste  not  thy  might  before 
the  battle ! 


Harold.  No, 

And  thou  must  hence.     Stigand  will  see 

thee  safe, 
And  so  —  farewell. 

\^He  is  goiftg,  but  turns  back. 
The  ring  thou  darest  not  wear, 
I  have  had  it  fashion'd,  see,  to  meet  my 
hand. 

[Harold  shows  the  ring  zvhich  is  on 
his  finger. 
Farewell ! 

\_He  is  going,  but  turns  back  again. 
I  am  dead  as  Death  this  day  to  aught  of 

earth's 
Save  William's  death  or  mine. 

Edith.  Thy  death  !  —  to-day  ! 

Is  it  not  thy  birthday? 

Harold.  Ay,  that  happy  day ! 

A  birthday  welcome !    happy  days  and 

many ! 
One  —  this  !  [  They  embrace. 

Look,  I  will  bear  thy  blessing  into  the 

battle 
And  front  the  doom  of  God. 

Norman  cries  (Jieard  in  the  distance^. 
Ha  Rou !     Ha  Rou  ! 

Enter  GuRTH. 

Gurth.     The  Norman  moves ! 
Harold.     Harold  and  Holy  Cross ! 

\_Exeunt  Harold  and  Gurth. 

Enter  Stigand. 

Stigand.     Our  Church  in  arms  —  the 

lamb  the  lion  —  not 
Spear  into   pruning-hook  —  the  counter 

way  — 
Cowl,    helm ;     and    crozier,    battle-axe. 

Abbot  Alfwig, 
Leofric,    and   all   the   monks   of   Peter- 

boro' 
Strike  for  the  king;   but  I,  old  wretch, 

old  Stigand, 
With  hands  too  limp  to  brandish  iron  — 

and  yet 
I  have  a  power  —  would  Harold  ask  me 

for  it  — 
I  have  a  power. 

Edith.  What  power,  holy  father? 

Stigand.     Power  now  from  Harold  to 

command  thee  hence 
And  see  thee  safe  from  Senlac. 

Edith.  J  remain ! 


SCENE    I. 


HAROLD. 


671 


Stigand.      Yea,    so    will    I,    daughter, 

until  I  find 
Which   way  the   battle  balance.     I  can 

see  it 
From  where  we  stand  :   and,  live  or  die, 

I  would 
I  were  among  them  ! 

Canons  from  IValtham  {singing  without) . 

Salva  patriam 
Sancte  Pater, 
Salva  Fili, 
Salva  Spiritus, 
Salva  patriam, 
Sancta  Mater. ^ 

Edith.     Are  those  the  blessed  angels 

quiring,  father? 
Stigand.    No,  daughter,  but  the  canons 
out  of  Waltham, 
The  king's  foundation,  that  have  follow'd 
him. 
Edith.     O  God  of  battles,  make  their 
wall  of  shields 
Firm    as    thy     cliffs,    strengthen     their 

palisades ! 
What  is  that  whirring  sound? 

Stigaiid.  The  Norman  arrow  ! 

Edith.     Look  out  upon  the  battle  —  is 

he  safe? 
Stigand.     The  king  of  England  stands 
between  his  banners. 
He  glitters  on  the  crowning  of  the  hill. 
God  save  King  Harold  ! 

Edith.  —  chosen  by  his  people 

And  fighting  for  his  people  ! 

Stigand.  There  is  one 

Come  as  Goliath  came  of  yore — he  flings 
His  brand  in  air  and  catches  it  again. 
He  is  chanting  some  old  war-song. 

Edith.  And  no  David 

To  meet  him? 

Stigand.     Ay,  there  springs  a   Saxon 
on  him. 
Falls  —  and  another  falls. 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigand.     Lo !    our  good  Gurth  hath 

smitten  him  to  the  death. 
Edith.     So  perish  all  the  enemies  of 

Harold ! 
Canons  (^singing). 

^  The  a  throughout  these  Latin  hymns  should 
be  sounded  broad,  as  in  '  father.' 


Hostis  in  Angliam 

Ruit  pnudator, 
lUorum,  I  )omine, 

Scutum  scindatur ! 
Hostis  per  Anglias 

Plagas  bacchatur; 

Casa  crematur, 

Pastor  fugatur 

Grex  trucidatur  — 

Stigand.     Illos  trucida,  Domine. 
Edith.  Ay,  good  father. 

Canons  (^singing) . 

lUorum  scelera 
Poena  sequatur ! 

English  cries.  Harold  and  Holy 

Cross  !     Out !  out ! 
Stigand.  Our  javelins 

Answer  their  arrows.      All  the  Norman 

foot 
Are  storming  up  the  hill.     The  range  of 

knights 
Sit,  each  a  statue  on  his  horse,  and  w^ait. 
English  cries.     Harold   and  God  Al- 
mighty ! 
Norman  cries.         Ha  Rou  !   Ha  Rou  I 
.  Canons  {singing). 

Eques  cum  pedite 

Pra^pediatur ! 
Illorum  in  lacrymas 

Cruor  fundatur  I 
Pereant,  pereant, 

Anglia  precatur. 

Stigand.     Look,  daughter,  look. 
Edith.  Nay,  father,  look  for  7ne  ! 

Stigand.      Our    axes    lighten    with    a 
single  flash 
About  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  heads 
And  arms  are  sliver'd  off  and  splinter'd 

by 
Their  lightning  —  and  they  fly  —  the  Nor- 
man flies. 
Edith.      Stigand,  O    father,  have   we 

won  the  day? 
Stigand.     No,  daughter,  no  —  they  fall 
behind  the  horse  — 
Their    horse   are    thronging  to  the    bar- 
ricades; 
I  see  the  gonfanon  of  Holy  Peter 
Floating  above  their  helmets  —  ha  !  he  is 
down  ! 


672 


HAROLD. 


ACT  V. 


Edith.     He  down  !     Who  down? 
Stigand.     The  Norman  Count  is  down. 
Edith.     So  perish  all  the  enemies  of 

England ! 
Stigand.     No,  no,  he  hath  risen  again 
—  he  bares  his  face  — 
Shouts  something  —  he  points  onward- — ■ 

all  their  horse 
Swallow  the  hill  locust-like,  swarming  up, 
Edith.     O  God    of  battles,  make    his 
battle-axe  keen 
As    thine    own    sharp-dividing    justice, 

heavy 
As  thine  own  bolts  that  fall  on  crimeful 

heads 
Charged    with    the    weight    of    heaven 
wherefrom  they  fall ! 
Canons  {singing'). 

Jacta  tonitrua 

Deus  bellator ! 
Surgas  e  tenebris, 

Sis  vindicator ! 
Fulmina,  fulmina 

Deus  vastator ! 

Edith.     O   God   of  battles,   they   are 
three  to  one, 
Make  thou  one  man  as  three  to  roll  them 
down ! 
Canons  (^singing). 

Equus  cum  equite 

Dejiciatur ! 
Acies,  Acies 

Prona  sternatur ! 
Illorum  lanceas 

Frange  Creator ! 

Stigand.    Yea,  yea,  for  how  their  lances 

snap  and  shiver 
Against  the   shifting  blaze   of   Harold's 

axe  ! 
War-woodman   of  old   Woden,  how  he 

fells 
The  mortal  copse  of  faces !    There  !  And 

there ! 
The  horse  and  horseman  cannot  meet  the 

shield, 
The    blow    that    brains    the    horseman 

cleaves  the  horse, 
The  horse  and  horseman  roll  along  the 

hill, 
They  fly  once  more,  they  fly,  the  Norman 

flies ! 


Equus  cum  equite 
Praecipitatur. 

Edith.     O  God,  the  God  of  truth  hath 
heard  my  cry. 
Follow  them,  follow  them,  drive  them  to 
the  sea ! 

Illorum  scelera 
Poena  sequatur ! 

Stigand.     Truth!    no;    a  lie;    a  trick, 
a  Norman  trick  ! 
They  turn  on  the  pursuer,  horse  against 

foot, 
They  murder  all  that  follow. 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigand.     Hot-headed  fools  —  to  burst 
the  wall  of  shields  ! 
They  have  broken  the  commandment  of 
the  king ! 
Edith.     His  oath  was  broken  —  O  holy 
Norman  Saints, 
Ye   that    are    now   of   heaven,    and   see 

beyond 
Your  Norman  shrines,  pardon  it,  pardon  it, 
That  he  forsware  himself  for  all  he  loved. 
Me,  me   and   all !     Look  out  upon   the 
battle ! 
Stigand.     They   thunder    again    upon 
the  barricades. 
My  sight  is  eagle,  but  the  strife  so  thick  — 
This  is  the  hottest  of  it :   hold,  ash  !  hold, 
willow ! 
English  cries.     Out,  out ! 
Norman  cries.  Ha  Rou  ! 

Stigand.     Ha  !   Gurth  hath  leapt  upon 
him 
And  slain  him  :  he  hath  fallen. 

Edith.  And  I  am  heard. 

Glory  to    God    in    the    Highest !    fallen, 

fallen  ! 

Stigand.       No,    no,    his    horse  —  he 

mounts  another  —  wields 

His  war-club,  dashes  it   on  Gurth,  and 

(jurth. 
Our  nol^le  Gurth,  is  down  ! 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us ! 

Stigand.     And  Leofvvin  is  down  ! 
Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

O  Thou  that  knowest,  let  not  my  strong 

prayer 
Be  weaken'd  in  thy  sight,  because  I  love 
The  husband  of  another  ! 


SCENE  II. 


HAROLD. 


673 


Norman  cries.         Ha  Rou  !   Ha  Rou  1 
Edith.         I  do  not  hear  our  English 

war-cry. 
Stigand.  No. 

Edith.     Look  out  upon  the  battle  —  is 

he  safe? 
Stigand.     He  stands  between  the  ban- 
ners with  the  dead 
So  piled  about  him  he  can  hardly  move. 
Edith  {takes  up  the  war-cry).       Out ! 

out! 
Norman  cries.     Ha  Rou  ! 
Edith  (^cries  out).     Harold  and  Holy 

Cross ! 
Norynan  cries.     Ha  Rou  I   Ha  Rou  ! 
Edith.     What  is  that  whirring  sound  ? 
Stigand.       The     Norman     sends    his 

arrows  up  to  Heaven, 
They  fall  on  those  within  the  palisade  ! 
Edith.     Look  out  upon  the    hill  —  is 

Harold  theire? 
Stigand.       Sanguelac  —  Sanguelac  — 

the  arrow  —  the  arrow  !  —  away  ! 

SCENE   IL  —  Field  of  the  Dead. 
Night. 

Aldw^th  and  EDITH. 

Aldwyth.     O  Edith,  art  thou  here?    O 
Harold,  Harold  — 
Our    Harold  —  we  shall  never   see    him 
more. 
Edith.     For  there  was  more  than  sister 
in  my  kiss, 
And  so  the  Saints  were  wroth.     I  cannot 

love  them. 
For  they  are  Norman  Saints  —  and  yet  I 

should  — 
They  are  so  much  holier  than  their  har- 
lot's son 
With    whom    they    play'd    their    game 
against  the  king ! 
Aldwyth.       The     king    is    slain,    the 

kingdom  overthrown ! 
Edith.     No  matter ! 
Aldwyth.         How  no   matter,  Harold 
slain?  — 
I  cannot  find  his  body.     O  help  me  thou  ! 
O  Edith,  if  I  ever  wrought  against  thee, 
f^orgive  me  thou,  and  help  me  here  ! 
Edith.  No  matter ! 

Aldwyth.    Not  help  me,  nor  forgive  me  ? 

2X 


Edith.  So  thou  saidest. 

Aldwyth.     I  say  it  now,  forgive  me  ! 
Edith.  Cross  me  not ! 

I    am    seeking  one  who  wedded  me   in 

secret. 
Whisper !     God's    angels    only   know  it. 

Ha! 
What    art  thou  doing   here    among   the 

dead? 
They  are  stripping  the  lead  bodies  naked 

yonder. 
And  thou  art  come  to  rob  them  of  their 
rings  ! 
Aldwyth.     O  Edith,  Edith,  I  have  lost 
both  crown 
And  husband. 

Edith.  So  have  I. 

Aldwyth.  I  tell  thee,  girl, 

I  am  seeking  my  dead  Harold. 

Edith.  And  I  mine  ! 

The  Holy  Father  strangled  him  with  a  hair 
Of  Peter,  and  his  brother  Tostig  helpt; 
The  wicked  sister  clapt  her  hands  and 

laugh'd; 
Then  all  the  dead  fell  on  him. 

Aldwyth.  Edith,  Edith  — 

Edith.     What  was  he  like,  this  hus- 
band? like  to  thee? 
Call  not  for  help  from  me,     I  knew  him 

not. 
He  lies  not  here  :  not  close  beside  the 

standard. 
Here  fell  the  truest,  manliest  hearts  of 

England. 
Go  further  hence  and  find  him. 

Aldivyth.  She  is  crazed  ! 

Edith.     That  doth   not  matter  either. 
Lower  the  light. 
He  must  be  here. 

Enter  tzvo  Canons,  OsGOD  and 
Athelric,  with  torches.  They 
turn  over  the  dead  bodies  and 
examine  them  as  they  pass. 

Osgod.     I  think  that  this  is  Thurkill. 

Athelric.     More  likely  Godric. 

Osgod.  I  am  sure  this  body 

Is  Alfwig,  the  king's  uncle. 

Athelric.  So  it  is  ! 

No,  no  —  brave    Gurth,    one    gash    from 
brow  to  knee  ! 

Osgod.     And  here  is  Leofwin. 

Edith.  And  here  is  He  I 


674 


HAROLD. 


ACT   V. 


Aldwyth.     Harold  ?     Oh  no  —  nay,  if 
it  were  —  my  God, 

They  have  so  maim'd  and  murder 'd  all 
his  face 

There  is  no  man  can  swear  to  him. 

Edith.  But  one  woman  ! 

Look  you,  we  never  mean  to  part  again. 

I  have  found  him,  I  am  happy. 

Was  there   not  someone    ask'd    me  for 
forgiveness? 

I  yield  it  freely,  being  the  true  wife 

Of  this  dead  King,  who  never  bore  re- 
venge. 

Enter  Count  William   and  William 
Malet. 

William.     Who    be    these    women? 

And  what  body  is  this? 
Edith.  Harold,  thy  better  ! 
JVilliam.  Ay,  and  what  art  thou? 

Edith.     His  wife  ! 

Malet.     Not  true,  my  girl,  here  is  the 

Queen  !      [^Pointing  out  Aldwyth. 

William    {to   Aldwyth).      W^ast   thou 

his  Queen? 
Aldwyth.     I  was  the  Queen  of  Wales. 
William.     Why     then    of     England. 
Madam,  fear  us  not. 
{To  Malet.)     Knowest  thou  this  other? 
Malet.  When  I  visited  England, 

Some  held  she  was  his  wife  in  secret  — 

some  — 
Well — some  believed  she  was  his  para- 
mour. 
Edith.     Norman,  thou  liest !    liars  all 
of  you. 
Your  Saints   and    all !     /  am    his  wife  ! 

and  she  — 
For  look,  our  marriage  ring ! 

\^She  draws  it  off  the  finger  ^y  Harold. 

I  lost  it  somehow  — 

I  lost  it,  playing  with  it  when  I  was  wild. 

That  bred  the   doubt !   but   I  am   wiser 

now.  .  .  . 
I  am  too  wise.  .  .  .     Will  none  among 

you  all 
Bear   me    true    witness  —  only   for    this 

once  — 
That  I  have  found  it  here  again? 

\^She  puts  it  on. 
And  thou. 
Thy  wife  am  I  for  ever  and  evermore. 

\_Ealls  on  the  body  and  dies. 


William.      Death  !  —  and   enough    of 

death  for  this  one  day. 
The  day  of  St.  Calixtus,  and  the  day, 
My  day  when  I  was  born. 

Malet.  •>      And  this  dead  king's 

Who,  king  or  not,  hath  kinglike  fought 

and  fallen, 
His  l)irthday,  too.   It  seems  but  yestereven 
I  held  it  with  him  in  his  English  halls, 
His   day,   with   all    his    rooftree    ringing 

'  Harold,' 
Before  he  fell  into  the  snare  of  Guy; 
When  all  men  counted  Harold  would  be 

king. 
And  Harold  was  most  happy. 

William.  Thou  art  half  English. 

Take  them  away  ! 

Malet,  I  vow  to  build  a  church  to  God 
Here  on  the  hill  of  battle;   let  our  high 

altar 
Stand   where    their    standard    fell  .  .  . 

where  these  two  lie. 
Take    them  away,  I   do  not  love  to  see 

them. 
Pluck  the  dead  woman  off  the  dead  man, 

Malet ! 
Malet.     Faster  than  ivy.     Must  I  hack 

her  arms  off  ? 
How  shall  I  part  them? 

William.     Leave  them.    Let  them  be! 
Bury  him  and  his  paramour  together. 
He  that  was  false  in  oath  to  me,  it  seems 
Was  false  to  his  own  wife.     We  will  not 

give  him 
A  Christian  burial :  yet  he  was  a  warrior, 
And  wise,  yea  truthful,  till  that  blighted 

vow 
W^hich  God  avenged  to-day. 
Wrap  them  together  in  a  purple  cloak 
And  lay  them  both  upon  the  waste  sea- 
shore 
At  Hastings,  there  to  guard  the  land  for 

which 
He  did  forswear  himself —  a  warrior  —  ay, 
And  but  that  Holy  Peter  fought  for  us, 
And   that  the   false  Northumbrian  held 

aloof, 
And  save  for  that  chance  arrow  which  the 

Saints 
Sharpen'd   and  sent  against  him  —  who 

can  tell?  — 
Three    horses  had   I  slain  beneath  me : 

twice 


SCENE   II. 


HAROLD. 


675 


I    thought    that    all    was   lost.     Since    I 

knew  battle, 
And   that  was  from  my  boyhood,  never 

yet  — 
No,  by  the  splendour   of  God  —  have   I 

fought  men 
Like   Harold  and  his  brethren,  and  his 

guard 
Of  English.     Every  man  about  his  king 
Fell  where  he  stood.      They  loved  him  : 

and,  pray  God 
My  Normans  may  but  move  as  true  with 

me 
To  the  door  of  death.     Of  one  self-stock 

at  first, 


Make  them  again  one  people  — Norman, 

English ; 
And  English,  Norman;   we  should  have 

a  hand 
To  grasp  the  world  with,  and  a  foot  to 

stamp  it  .  .  . 
Flat.     Praise    the    Saints.     It    is    over. 

No  more  blood ! 
I  am  king  of  England,  so  they  thwart  me 

not, 
And  I  will  rule  according  to  their  laws. 
(  To  Aldwyth.)     Madam,  we  will  entreat 

thee  with  all  honour. 
Aldivyth.     My   punishment     is     more 

than  I  can  bear. 


B  E  C  K  E  T. 

To  THE  Lord  Chancellor, 
THE   RIGHT   HONOURABLE   EARL   OF   SELBORNE. 


My  dear  Selborne  —  To  you,  the  honoured  Chancellor  of  our  own  day,  I  dedicate  this  dramatic 
memorial  of  your  great  predecessor; — which,  altho'  not  intended  in  its  present  form  to  meet  the 
exigencies  of  our  modern  theatre,  has  nevertheless  —  for  so  you  have  assured  me  —  won  your  approba- 
tion. —  Ever  yours,  TENNYSON. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONM. 

Henry  II.  {son  of  the  Earl  of  Anjoii). 

Thomas  Becket,  Chancellor  of  Englayid,  afteriuards  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Gilbert  Foliot,  Bishop  of  Lotidon. 

Roger,  A  rchbishop  of  York. 

Bishop  of  Hereford. 

HiL.'VRY,  Bishop  of  Chichester. 

Jocelyn,  Bishop  of  Salisbury. 

John  of  Salisbury      \   j-   ■     v     f  n    u  * 
^^^  _>  \  friends  of  Becket. 

Herbert  of  Bosham  ) 

Walter  Map,  repided  author  of  'Golias,'  Latin  poems  agaitist  the  priesthood. 

King  Louis  of  France. 

Geoffrey,  son  of  Rosainnnd  and  Hetiry. 

Grim,  a  monk  of  Cajnbridge. 

Sir  Reginald  Fitzurse    ] 

Sir  Richard  de  Brito     |   th^  four  knights  of  the  King's  household,  enemies  of  Becket. 


Sir  William  de  Tracy 

Sir  Hugh  de  Morville 

De  Broc  of  Saltwood  Castle. 

Lord  Leicester. 

Philip  de  Eleemosyna.  * 

Two  Knight  Templars. 

John  of  Oxford  {called  the  Swearer). 

Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  Queen  of  England  {divorced from  Louis  of  France'). 

Rosamund  de  Clifford. 

Margery. 

Knights,  Monks,  Beggars,  etc. 


PROLOGUE. 

A  Castle  in  Normandy.  Interior  of  the 
Hall.  Roofs  of  a  City  seen  thro' 
Windows. 

Henry  and  Becket  at  chess. 

Henry.     So  then  our  good  Archbishop 
Theobald 
Lies  dying. 
Becket.        I   am   gii^-ved   to  know  as 

much. 
Henry.     But  we  must  have  a  mightier 
man  than  he 
For  his  successor. 


Becket.  Have  you  thought  of  one? 

Henry.     A  cleric  lately  poison'd    his 
own  mother, 
And  being  brought  before  the  courts  of 

the  Church, 
They  but  degraded  him.     I  hope  they 

whipt  him. 
I  would  have  hang'd  him. 

Becket.  It  is  your  move. 

Henry.  Well  —  there.     \^I\Ioves. 

The  Church  in  the  pell-mell  of  Stephen's 

time 
Hath    climb'd    the    throne     and    almost 

clutch'd  the  crown; 
But  by  the  royal  customs  of  our  realm 


PROLOGUE. 


BECKET. 


677 


The  Church  should  hold  her  baronies  of 

me, 
Like  other  lords  amenable  to  law. 
I'll  have  them  written  down  and  made 
the  law. 
Becket.      My  liege,  I  move  my  bishop. 
Henry.  And  if  I  live. 

No  man  without  my  leave  shall  excom- 
municate 
My  tenants  or  my  household. 

Becket.  Look  to  your  king. 

Henry.     No   man   without   my   leave 
shall  cross  the  seas 
To  set  the  Pope  against  me  —  I  pray  your 
pardon. 
Becket.     Well  —  will  you  move  ? 
Henry.  There.      \^Moves. 

Becket.     Check  —  you  move  so  wildly. 
Henry.     There  then  !  \^]\Ioves. 

Becket.     Why  —  there  then,  for  you  see 
my  bishop 
Hath  brought  your  king  to  a  standstill. 
You  are  beaten. 
Henry  (^kicks  over  the  board).     Why, 
there  then  —  down  go  bishop  and 
king  together. 
I   loathe    being  beaten;    had  I   fixt  my 

fancy 
Upon  the   game  I  should   have   beaten 

thee, 
But  that  was  vagabond. 

Becket.  Where,  my  liege?     With 

Phryne, 
Or  Lais,  or  thy  Rosamund,  or  another? 
Henry.     My    Rosamund    is   no    Lais, 
Thomas  Becket; 
And  yet  she  plagues  me  too  —  no  fault  in 

her  — 
But  that  I  fear  the  Queen  would  have  her 
life. 
Becket.     Put  her  away,  put  her  away, 
my  liege  ! 
Put  her  away  into  a  nunnery ! 
Safe  enough  there  from  her  to  whom  thou 

art  bound 
By  Holy  Church.     And  wherefore  should 

she  seek 
The  life  of  Rosamund  de  Clifford  more 
Than  that  of  other  paramours  of  thine? 
Henry.     How  dost   thou  know  I  am 

not  wedded  to  her? 
Becket.     How  should  I  know? 
Henry.        That  is  my  secret,  Thomas. 


Becket.     State  secrets  should  be  patent 
to  the  statesman 
Who  serves  and  loves  his  king,  and  whom 

the  king 
Loves  not  as  statesman,  but  true  lover 
and  friend. 
Henry.      Come,    come,    thou   art   but 
deacon,  not  yet  bishop. 
No,  nor   archbishop,   nor   my  confessor 

yet. 
I  would  to  God  thou  wert,  for  I  should 

find 
An  easy  father  confessor  in  thee. 

Becket.     St.  Denis,  that  thou  shouldst 
not.     I  should  beat 
Thy  kingship  as  my  bishop  hath  beaten 
it, 
Henry.      Hell  take  thy  bishop   then, 
and  my  kingship  too  ! 
Come,  come,  I  love  thee  and  I  know  thee, 

I  know  thee, 
A  doter  on  white  pheasant-flesh  at  feasts, 
A  sauce-deviser  for  thy  days  of  fish, 
A  dish-designer,  and  most  amorous 
Of  good  old  red  sound  liberal  Gascon 

wine : 
Will   not   thy  body  rebel,  man,  if  thou 
flatter  it? 
Becket.     That   palate  is  insane  which 
cannot  tell 
A  good  dish  from  a  bad,  new  wine  from 
old. 
Henry.     Well,  who    loves  wine  loves 

woman. 
Becket.  So  I  do. 

Men   are   God's   trees,  and  women   are 

God's  flowers; 
And  when  the  Gascon  wine  mounts  to 

my  head. 
The  trees  are  all  the  statelier,  and  the 

flowers 
Are  all  the  fairer. 

Henry.     And  thy  thoughts,  thy  fancies  ? 
Becket.     Good    dogs,    my   liege,    well 
train'd,  and  easily  call'd 
Off  from  the  game. 

Henry.     Save  for  some  once  or  twice, 
When    they   ran    down    the    game    and 
worried  it. 
Becket.     No,  my  liege,  no  !  —  not  once 

—  in  God's  name,  no  ! 
Henry.     Nay,  then,  I  take  thee  at  thy 
word  —  believe  thee 


678 


BECKET. 


TROLOGUE. 


The  veriest  Galahad  of  old  Arthur's  hall. 
And  so  this   Rosamund,  my  true  heart- 
wife, 
Not  Eleanor  —  she  whom  I  love  indeed 
As  a  woman  should  be  loved  —  Why  dost 

thou  smile 
So  dolorously? 

Becket,  My  good  liege,  if  a  man 

Wastes  himself  among  women,  how  should 

he  love 
A  woman,  as  a  woman  should  be  loved? 
Henry.     How    shouldst     thou    know 
that  never  hast  loved  one? 
Come,  I  would  give  her  to  thy  care  in 

England 
When  I  am  out  in  Normandy  or  Anjou. 
Becket.     My  lord,  I  am  your  subject, 

not  your 

Henry.  Pander. 

God's  eyes  !     I  know  all  that  —  not  my 

purveyor 
Of  pleasures,  but  to  save  a  life  —  her  life; 
Ay,  and  the  soul  of  Eleanor  from  hell-tire. 
I  have  built  a  secret  bower  in  England, 

Thomas, 
A  nest  in  a  bush. 

Becket.  And  where,  my  liege? 

Henry  (ivhispers).  Thine  ear. 

Becket.     That's  lone  enough. 
Henry  {laying  paper  on  table) .     This 
chart  here  mark'd  ^Her  Bower^ 
Take,  keep   it,  friend.     See,  first,  a  cir- 
cling wood, 
A  hundred  pathways  running  everyway, 
And  then  a  brook,  a  bridge;   and  after 

that 
This    labyrinthine    brickwork    maze    in 

maze. 
And  then  another  wood,  and  in  the  midst 
A    garden    and   my    Rosamund.     Look, 

this  line  — 
The  rest  you  see  is  colour'd  green  —  but 

this 
Draws  thro'  the  chart  to  her. 

Becket.  This  blood-red  line? 

Henry.     Ay  !  blood,  perchance,  except 

thou  see  to  her. 
Becket.     And  where    is   she?      There 

in  her  English  nest? 
Henry.     Would    (iod  she  were  —  no, 
here  within  the  city. 
We  take  her  from  her  secret  bower  in 
Anjou 


And   pass    her    to    her    secret   bower  in 

England. 
She    is   ignorant    of  all  but  that  I  love 

her. 
Becket.     My  liege,  I  pray  thee  let  me 

hence  :  a  widow 
And  orphan  child,  whom  one  of  thy  wild 

barons 

Henry.     Ay,  ay,  but  swear  to  see  to 

her  in  England. 
Becket.     Well,  well,  I  swear,  but  not 

to  please  myself. 
Henry.     Whatever  come  between  us? 
Becket.  What  should  come 

Between  us,  Henry? 

Henry.     Nay  —  I  know  not,  Thomas. 
Becket.     What    need    then?      Well  — 

whatever  come  between  us. 

[  Going. 
Henry.     A  moment !    thou  didst  help 

me  to  my  throne 
In   Theobald's   time,    and    after   by   thy 

wisdom 
Hast    kept    it    firm   from  shaking;     but 

now  I, 
For  my  realm's  sake,  myself  must  be  the 

wizard 
To   raise  that  tempest  which  will  set  it 

trembling 
Only  to  base  it  deeper.     I,  true  son 
Of  Holy   Church  —  no   croucher  to  the 

Gregories 
That  tread  the  kings  their  children  under- 

heel  — 
Must    curb    her;    and  the  Holy  Father, 

while 
This  Barbarossa  butts  him  from  his  chair, 
Will   need   my  help  —  be    facile   to    my 

hands. 
Now  is  my  time.     Yet  —  lest  there  should 

be  flashes 
And  fulminations  from  the  side  of  Rome, 
An  interdict  on  England  —  I  will  have 
My  young  son  Henry  crown'd  the  King 

of  England, 
That    so    the    Papal    bolt    may   pass    by 

England, 
As  seeming  his,  not  mine,  and  fall  abroad. 
I'll  have  it  done  —  and  now. 

Becket.  Surely  too  young 

Even  for  this  shadow  of  a  crown;   and 

tho' 
I  love  him  heartily,  I  can  spy  already 


PROLOGUE. 


BECKET. 


679 


A  strain  of  hard  and  headstrong  in  him. 

Say, 
The    Queen    should    play    his    kingship 
against  thine  ! 
Heii7'y.     I  will  not  think  so,  Thomas. 
Who  shall  crown  him? 
Canterbury  is  dying. 

Becket.  The  next  Canterbury. 

Hetiry.     And   who    shall    he    be,    my 

friend  Thomas?    Who? 
Becket.     Name  him;   the  Holy  Father 

will  confirm  him. 
Henry    {lays  his  hand   on    Becket's 

shoulder).     Here! 
Becket.         Mock  me  not.     I  am   not 
even  a  monk. 
Thy  jest  —  no  more.     Why  —  look  —  is 

this  a  sleeve 
P^or  an  archbishop? 

Henry.  But  the  arm  within 

Is  Becket's,  who  hath  beaten  down  my 
foes. 
Becket.     A    soldier's,    not    a   spiritual 

arm. 
Henry.     I    lack    a    spiritual    soldier, 
Thomas  — 
A  man  of  this  world  and  the  next  to  boot. 
Becket.     There's  Gilbert  Foliot. 
Henry.  He  I  too  thin,  too  thin. 

Thou  art  the  man  to  fill  out  the  Church 

robe; 
Your  Foliot  fasts  and  fawns  too  much 
for  me. 
Becket.     Roger  of  York. 
Henry.  Roger  is  Roger  of  York. 

King,  Church,  and  State  to  him  but  foils 

wherein 
To  set  that  precious  jewel,  Roger  of  York. 
No. 

Becket.     Henry  of  Winchester? 
He7iry.     Him  who  crown'd  Stephen  — 
King  Stephen's  brother  I     No;   too  royal 

for  me. 
And  I'll  have  no  more  Anselms. 

Becket.  Sire,  the  business 

Of  thy  whole    kingdom   waits    me :    let 
me  go. 
Henry.     Answer  me  first. 
Becket.  Then  for  thy  barren  jest 

Take  thou  mine  answer  in  bare  common- 
place — 
Nolo  episcopari, 

Henry,  Ay,  but  Nolo 


Archiepiscopari.,  my  good  friend, 

Is  quite  another  matter. 

Becket.  A  more  awful  one. 

Make  7fie  archbishop  1     Why,  my  liege, 
I  know 

Some  three  or  four  poor  priests  a  thou- 
sand times 

Fitter  for  this  grand  function.     j\/e  arch- 
bishop ! 

God's  favour  and  king's  favour  might  so 
clash 

That  thou  and  I That  were  a  jest 

indeed ! 
Henry.     Thou  angerest  me,  man :     I 
do  not  jest. 

Enter  Eleanor  and  Sir  Reginald 

FiTZURSE. 

Eleanor  {sijiging).      Over!  the  sweet 
summer  closes. 

The  reign  of  the  roses  is  done 

Heniy  {to  Becket,  'cuho  is  going).    Thou 

shalt  not  go.     I  have  not  ended 

with  thee. 

Eleanor  {seeijtg  chart  on  table) .      This 

chart   with    the    red   line !    her    bower ! 

whose  bower? 

Henry.  The  chart  is  not  mine,  but 
Becket's  :    take  it,  Thomas. 

Eleanor.  Becket  I  O  —  ay  —  and  these 
chessmen  on  the  floor  —  the  king's  crown 
broken !  Becket  hath  beaten  thee  again 
—  and  thou  hast  kicked  down  the  board. 
I  know  thee  of  old. 

Henry.     True  enough,  my  mind    was 

set  upon  other  matters. 
Eleanor.     What  matters?     State  mat- 
ters? love  matters? 
Henry.     My  love  for  thee,  and  thine 

for  me. 
Eleanor.      Over !    the    sweet    summer 
closes, 
The  reign  of  the  roses  is  done; 
Over  and  gone  with  the  roses. 
And  over  and  gone  with  the  sun. 

Here;  but  our  sun  in  Aquitaine  lasts 
longer.  I  would  I  were  in  Aquitaine 
again  —  your  north  chills  me. 

Over  !   the  sweet  summer  closes,    ■ 
And  never  a  flower  at  the  close; 

Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 
And  winter  again  and  the  snows. 


68o 


BECKET. 


PROLOGUE, 


That  was  not  the  way  I  ended  it  first  — 
but  unsymmetrically,  preposterously,  illog- 
ically,  out  of  passion,  without  art  —  Hke 
a  song  of  the  people.  Will  you  have 
it?  The  last  Parthian  shaft  of  a  for- 
lorn Cupid  at  the  King's  left  breast, 
and  all  left-handedness  and  under-hand- 
edness. 

And  never  a  flower  at  the  close, 
Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 
Not  over  and  gone  with  the  rose. 

True,  one  rose  will  outblossom  the  rest, 
one  rose  in  a  bovver.  I  speak  after  my 
fancies,  for  1  am  a  Troubadour,  you 
know,  and  won  the  violet  at  Toulouse; 
but  my  voice  is  harsh  here,  not  in  tune, 
a  nightingale  out  of  season ;  for  marriage, 
rose  or  no  rose,  has  killed  the  golden 
violet. 

Becket.     Madam,  you  do  ill  to  scorn 
wedded  love. 

Eleanor.  So  I  do.  Louis  of  France 
loved  me,  and  I  dreamed  that  I  loved 
Louis  of  France :  and  I  loved  Henry  of 
England,  and  Henry  of  England  dreamed 
that  he  loved  me;  but  the  marriage-gar- 
land withers  even  with  the  putting  on, 
the  bright  link  rusts  with  the  breath  of 
the  first  after-marriage  kiss,  the  harvest 
moon  is  the  ripening  of  the  harvest,  and 
the  honeymoon  is  the  gall  of  love;  he 
dies  of  his  honeymoon.  I  could  pity 
this  poor  world  myself  that  it  is  no  better 
ordered. 

Henry.  Dead  is  he,  my  Queen? 
What,  altogether?  Let  me  swear  nay  to 
that  by  this  cross  on  thy  neck.  God's 
eyes  !  what  a  lovely  cross  !  what  jewels  ! 

Eleanor.  Doth  it  please  you?  Take 
it  and  wear  it  on  that  hard  heart  of  yours 
—  there.  [  Gives  it  to  him. 

Henry  {puis  it  on).    C3n  this  left  breast 
before  so  hard  a  heart. 
To  hide  the  scar  left  by  thy  Parthian  dart. 

Eleajtor.  Has  my  simple  song  set 
you  jingling?  Nay,  if  I  took  and  trans- 
lated that  hard  heart  into  our  Provencal 
facilities,  I  could  so  play  about  it  with 
the  rhyme 

Henry.  That  the  heart  were  lost  in 
the  rhyme  and  the  matter  in  the  metre. 


May  we  not  pray  you.  Madam,  to  spare 
us  the  hardness  of  your  facility? 

Eleanor.  The  wells  of  Castaly  are 
not  wasted  upon  the  desert.  We  did 
but  jest. 

Henry.  There's  no  jest  on  the  brows 
of  Herbert  there.     What  is  it,  Herbert? 

Enter  Herbert  of  Bosham. 

Herbert.  My  liege,  the  good  Arch- 
bishop is  no  more. 

Henry.  Peace  to  his  soul ! 
Herbert.  I  left  him  with  peace  on  his 
face  —  that  sweet  other-world  smile,  which 
will  be  reflected  in  the  spiritual  body 
among  the  angels.  But  he  longed  much 
to  see  your  Grace  and  the  Chancellor 
ere  he  past,  and  his  last  words  were  a 
commendation  of  Thomas  Becket  to  your 
Grace  as  his  successor  in  the  archbishop- 
rick. 

Henry.      Ha,    Becket !    thou   remem- 

berest  our  talk  ! 
Becket.     My  heart  is  full  of  tears  —  I 

have  no  answer. 
Henry.  Well,  well,  old  men  must 
die,  or  the  world  would  grow  mouldy, 
would  only  breed  the  past  again.  Come 
to  me  to-morrow.  Thou  hast  but  to 
hold  out  thy  hand.  Meanwhile  the 
revenues  are  mine.  A-hawking,  a-hawk- 
ing  !     If  I  sit,  I  grow  fat. 

\_Leaps  over  the  table,  and  exit. 

Becket.      He    did    prefer    me    to    the 

chancellorship. 

Believing  I  should  ever  aid  the  Church  — 

But  have  I  done  it  ?     He  commends  me 

now 
From  out  his  grave  to  this  archbishop- 
rick. 
Herbert.     A    dead    man's  dying   wish 

should  be  of  weight. 
Becket.     His  should.     Come  with  me. 
Let  me  learn  at  full 
The  manner  of  his  death,  and  all  he  said. 
[^Exeunt  Herbert  a]id  Becket. 
Eleanor.     Fitzurse,  that  chart  with  the 
red  line  —  thou  sawest  it  —  her  bower. 
Fitzurse.     Rosamund's? 
Eleanor.     Ay — there  lies  the  secret  of 
her  wherealiouts,  and  the  King  gave  it  to 
his  Chancellor. 


PROLOGUE. 


BECKET. 


68 1 


Fitzurse'.  To  this  son  of  a  London 
merchant  —  how  your  Grace  must  hate 
him ! 

Eleanor.  Hate  him?  as  brave  a 
soldier  as  Henry  and  a  goodUer  man : 
but  thou  —  dost  thou  love  this  Chancellor, 
that  thou  hast  sworn  a  voluntary  alle- 
giance to  him? 

Fitziii'se.  Not  for  my  love  toward 
him,  but  because  he  had  the  love  of  the 
King.  How  should  a  baron  love  a 
beggar  on  horseback,  with  the  retinue  of 
three  kings  behind  him,  outroyalling 
royalty?  Besides,  he  holp  the  King  to 
break  down  our  castles,  for  the  which  I 
hate  him. 

Eleanor.  For  the  which  I  honour 
him.  Statesman  not  Churchman  he. 
A  great  and  sound  policy  that:  I  could 
embrace  him  for  it :  you  could  not  see 
the  King  for  the  kinglings. 

Fitzurse.  Ay,  but  he  speaks  to  a 
noble  as  tho'  he  were  a  churl,  and  to  a 
churl  as  if  he  were  a  noble. 

Eleanor.     Pride  of  the  plebeian  ! 

Fitzurse.  And  this  plebeian  like  to  be 
Archbishop  1 

Eleanor.  True,  and  I  have  an  in- 
herited loathing  of  these  black  sheep  of 
the  Papacy.  Archbishop?  I  can  see 
further  into  a  man  than  our  hot-headed 
Henry,  and  if  there  ever  come  feud 
between  Church  and  Crown,  and  I  do 
not  then  charm  this  secret  out  of  our 
loyal  Thomas,  I  am  not  Eleanor. 

Fitzurse.  Last  night  I  followed  a 
woman  in  the  city  here.  Her  face  was 
veiled,  but  the  back  methought  was 
Rosamund  —  his  paramour,  thy  rival.  I 
can  feel  for  thee. 

Eleanor.  Thou  feel  for  me  !  —  para- 
mour—  rival!  King  Louis  had  no  para- 
mours, and  I  loved  him  none  the  more. 
Henry  had  many,  and  I  loved  him  none 
the  less  —  now  neither  more  nor  less  — 
not  at  all;  the  cup's  empty.  I  would  she 
were  but  his  paramour,  for  men  tire  of 
their  fancies;  but  I  fear  this  one  fancy 
hath  taken  root,  and  borne  blossom  too, 
and  she,  whom  the  King  loves  indeed,  is 
a  power  in  the  State.  Rival !  —  ay,  and 
when  the  King  passes,  there  may  come  a 
crash  and  embroilment  as   in   Stephen's 


time;  and  her  children —  canst  thou  not 
—  that  secret  matter  which  would  heat 
the  King  against  thee  {luhispers  him  and 
he  starts).  Xay,  that  is  safe  with  me  as 
with  thyself:  but  canst  thou  not  —  thou 
art  drowned  in  debt  —  thou  shalt  have  our 
love,  our  silence,  and  our  gold  —  canst 
thou  not  —  if  thou  light  upon  her  —  free 
me  from  her? 

Fitzurse.     Well,  Madam,  I  have  loved 
her  in  my  time. 

Eleanor.  No,  my  bear,  thou  hast  not. 
My  Courts  of  Love  would  have  held 
thee  guiltless  of  love  —  the  fine  attrac- 
tions and  repulses,  the  delicacies,  the 
subtleties. 

Fitzurse.  Madam,  I  loved  accord- 
ing to  the  main  purpose  and  intent  of 
nature. 

Eleanor.  I  warrant  thee !  thou 
wouldst  hug  thy  Cupid  till  his  ribs 
cracked  —  enough  of  this.  Follow  me 
this  Rosamund  day  and  night,  whither- 
soever she  goes;  track  her,  if  thou  canst, 
even  into  the  King's  lodging,  that  I  may 
(^clenches  her  fist)  —  may  at  least  have 
my  cry  against  him  and  her,  —  and  thou 
in  thy  way  shouldst  be  jealous  of  the 
King,  for  thou  in  thy  way  didst  once, 
what  shall  I  call  it,  affect  her  thine  own 
self. 

Fitzurse.  Ay,  but  the  young  colt 
winced  and  whinnied  and  flung  up  her 
heels;  and  then  the  King  came  honey- 
ing about  her,  and  this  Becket,  her 
father's  friend,  like  enough  staved  us 
from  her. 

Eleanor.     Us ! 

Fitzurse.  Yea,  by  the  Blessed  Virgin  ! 
There  were  more  than  I  buzzing  round 
the  blossom  —  De  Tracy  —  even  that 
flint  De  Brito. 

Eleanor.  Carry  her  off  among  you; 
run  in  upon  her  and  devour  her,  one  and 
all  of  you;  make  her  as  hateful  to  her- 
self and  to  the  King,  as  she  is  to  me. 

Fitzurse.  I  and  all  would  be  glad  to 
wreak  our  spite  on  the  rosefaced  minion 
of  the  King,  and  bring  her  to  the  level 
of  the  dust,  so  that  the  King 

Eleanor.  Let  her  eat  it  like  the  ser- 
pent, and  be  driven  out  of  her  para- 
dise. 


682 


BECKET. 


ACT    I. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  —  Becket's  House  in  Lon- 
don. 

Chamber  barely  furnished.  Becket 
unrobing.  HERBERT  OF  Bosham  and 
Servant. 

Servant.     Shall  I  not  help  your  lord- 
ship to  your  rest? 
Becket.     Friend,  am  I  so  much  better 
than  thyself 
That  thou  shouldst  help  me?     Thou  art 

wearied  out 
With  this  day's  work,  get  thee  to  thine 

own  bed. 
Leave  me  with  Herbert,  friend. 

[  Exit  Servant. 
Help  me  off,    Herbert,  with  this  —  and 
this. 
Herbert.     Was  not  the  people's  bless- 
ing as  we  past 
Heart-comfort     and    a    balsam    to    thy 
blood? 
Becket.    The  people  know  their  Church 
a  tower  of  strength, 
A  bulwark  against  Throne  and  Baronage. 
Too    heavy    for   me,    this;     off  with   it, 
Herbert ! 
Herbert.     Is  it  so  much  heavier  than 

thy  Chancellor's  robe? 
Becket.     No;  but  the  Chancellor's  and 
the  Archbishop's 
Together   more    than    mortal    man    can 
bear. 
Herbert.       Not     heavier    than    thine 

armour  at  Thoulouse? 
Becket.      O    Herbert,   Herbert,  in  my 
chancellorship 
I  more  than  once  have  gone  against  the 
Church. 
Herbert.     To  please  the  King? 
Becket.         Ay,  and  the  King  of  kings. 
Or  justice;   for  it  seem'd  to  me  but  just 
The  Church  should  pay  her  scutage  like 

the  lords. 
But  hast  thou  heard  this  cry  of  Gilbert 

Foliot 
That    I    am    not    the    man    to    be   your 

Primate, 
For  Henry  could  not  work  a  miracle  — 
Make  an  Archbishop  of  a  soldier? 


Herbert.  Ay, 

For  Gilbert  Foliot  held  himself  the  man. 

Becket.     Am  I  the  man  ?     My  mother, 

ere  she  bore  me, 
Dream'd  that  twelve  stars  fell  glittering 

out  of  heaven 
Into  her  bosom. 

Herbert.  Ay,  the  fire,  the  light, 

The  spirit  of  the  twelve  Apostles  enter'd 
Into  thy  making. 

Becket.  And  when  I  was  a  child, 

The  Virgin,  in  a  vision  of  my  sleep. 
Gave    me  the  golden  keys  of  Paradise. 

Dream, 
Or  prophecy,  that? 

Herbert.     Well,  dream  and  prophecy 

both. 
Becket.   And  when  I  was  of  Theobald's 

household,  once  — 
The  good  old  man  would  sometimes  have 

his  jest  — 
He  took  his  mitre  off,  and  set  it  on  me. 
And  said,  '  My  young  Archbishop  —  thou 

wouldst  make 
A  stately  Archbishop  ! '   Jest  or  prophecy 

there? 
Herbert.     Both,  Thomas,  both. 
Becket.       Am  I  the  man?     That  rang 
Within  my  head  last  night,  and  when  I 

slept 
Methought  I  stood  in  Canterbury  Min- 
ster, 
And  spake  to  the  Lord   God,  and  said, 

'O  Lord, 
I  have  been  a  lover  of  wines,  and  deli- 
cate meats. 
And  secular  splendours,  and  a  favourer 
Of  players,  and  a  courtier,  and  a  feeder 
Of  dogs  and  hawks,  and  apes,  and  lions, 

and  lynxes. 
Am  /  the  man?  '    And  the  Lord  answer'd 

me, 
'  Thou  art  the  man,  and  all  the  more  the 

man.'- 
And  then  I  ask'd  again, '  O  Lord  my  God, 
Henry  the  King  hath  been  my  friend,  my 

brother. 
And    mine    uplifter    in    this    world,  and 

chosen  me 
For    this  thy  great   archbishoprick,   be- 
lieving 
That  I    should   go    against    the    Church 

with  liim. 


SCENE   I. 


BECKET. 


683 


And  I   shall   go    against  him    with    the 

Church, 
And  I  have  said  no  word  of  this  to  him  : 
Am  /  the  man  ?  '  And  the  Lord  answer'd 

me, 

*  Thou  art  the  man,  and  all  the  more  the 

man.' 
And   thereupon,    methought,    He    drew 

toward  me, 
And  smote  me  down  upon  the  Minster 

floor. 
I  fell. 

Herbert.     God  make  not  thee,  but  thy 

foes,  fall. 
Becket.     I  fell.     Why  fall?     Why  did 

He  smite  me?     What? 
Shall  I  fall  off — to  please  the  King  once 

more? 
Not  fight  —  tho'  somehow  traitor  to  the 

King  — 
My   truest   and    mine    utmost    for    the 

Church? 
Herbert.      Thou  canst    not    fall    that 

way.     Let  traitor  be; 
For  how  have  fought  thine  utmost  for  the 

Church, 
Save  from  the  throne  of  thine  archbishop- 
rick? 
And  how  been  made  Archbishop  hadst 

thou  told  him, 

*  I  mean  to  fight  mine   utmost   for   the 

Church, 
Against  the  King'? 

Becket.     But  dost  thou  think  the  King 
Forced  mine  election? 

Herbert.  I  do  think  the  King 

Was   potent   in    the    election,    and  why 

not? 
Why  should  not  Heaven  have  so  inspired 

the  King? 
Be  comforted.     Thou  art  the  man  —  be 

thou 
A  mightier  Anselm. 

Becket.     I  do  believe   thee,  then.      I 

am  the  man. 
And  yet   I    seem   appall'd  —  on  such  a 

sudden 
At  such  an  eagle-height  I  stand  and  see 
The  rift  that  runs  between  me  and  the 

King. 
I  served  our  Theobald  well  when  I  was 

with  him; 
I  served  King  Henry  well  as  Chancellor; 


I  am  his  no  more,  and  I  must  serve  the 

Church. 
This  Canterbury  is  only  less  than  Rome, 
And  all  my  doubts  I  fling  from  me  like 

dust. 
Winnow  and  scatter  all  scruples  to  the 

wind, 
And  all  the  puissance  of  the  warrior, 
And  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Chancellor, 
And  all  the  heap'd  experiences  of  life, 
I  cast  upon  the  side  of  Canterbury  — 
Our  holy  mother  Canterbury,  who  sits 
With  tatter'd  robes.     Laics  and  barons 

thro' 
The  random  gifts  of  careless  kings,  have 

graspt 
Her    livings,    her    advowsons,    granges, 

farms, 
And    goodly  acres  —  we   will  make  her 

whole ; 
Not  one  rood  lost.     And  for  these  Royal 

customs, 
These  ancient  Royal  customs  —  they  are 

Royal, 
Not  of  the  Church  —  and   let  them  be 

anathema. 
And  all  that  speak  for  them  anathema. 
Herbert.     Thomas,  thou  art  moved  too 

much. 
Becket.  O  Herbert,  here 

I  gash  myself  asunder  from  the  King, 
Tho'  leaving  each,  a  wound;   mine  own, 

a  grief 
To  show  the  scar  for  ever  —  his,  a  hate 
Not  ever  to  be  heal'd. 

E7tter   Rosamund    de    Clifford,  Jly- 

ing   from    SiR    REGINALD     FiTZURSE. 

Drops  her  veil. 

Becket.  Rosamund  de  Clifford  ! 

Rosamund.     Save  me,  father,  hide  me 
—  they  follow  me  —  and  I  must  not  be 
known. 
Becket.     Pass  in  with  Herbert  there. 
\_Exeunt  Rosamund  and  Herbert  by 
side  door. 

Enter  FiTZURSE. 

Fitziirse.     The  Archbishop  ! 

Becket.  Ay  !  what  wouldst  thou,  Regi- 
nald ? 

Fitzurse.  Why  —  why,  my  lord,  I  fol- 
low'd  —  foUow'd  one 


684 


BECKET. 


ACT  I. 


Becket.     And  then  what  follows?     Let 

me  follow  thee. 
Fitziirse.    It  much  imports  me  I  should 

know  her  name. 
Becket.     What  her? 
Fitzio'se.     The  woman  that  I  follow'd 

hither. 
Becket.     Perhaps   it   may  import   her 
all  as  much 
Not  to  be  known. 

Fitzurse.       And  what  care  I  for  that? 
Come,  come,  my  lord  Archbishop;   I  saw 

that  door 
Close  even  now  upon  the  woman. 

Becket.  Well? 

Fitzw'se  {jiiaking fo7'  the  door).     Nay, 
let  me  pass,  my  lord,  for  I  must 
know. 
Becket.     Back,  man ! 
Fitzurse.  Then  tell  me  who 

and  what  she  is. 
Becket.     Art   thou  so  sure    thou   fol- 
lowedst  anything? 
Go    home,  and   sleep   thy  wine  off,    for 

thine  eyes 
Glare  stupid-wild  with  wine. 

Fitzurse  (jjiaking to  the  door).     I  must 
and  will. 
I  care  not  for  thy  new  archbishoprick. 
Becket.      Back,    man,    I     tell     thee ! 
What! 
Shall  I  forget  my  new  archbishoprick 
And  smite  thee  with  my  crozier  on  the 

skull? 
'Fore  God,   I    am  a  mightier  man  than 
thou. 
Fitzurse.     It  well  befits  thy  new  arch- 
bishoprick 
To    take    the    vagabond    woman  of   the 

street 
Into  thine  arms ! 

Becket.  O  drunken  ribaldry  ! 

Out,  beast !  out,  bear  ! 

Fitzurse.  I  shall  remember  this. 

Becket.     Do,  and  begone  ! 

\^Exit  Fitzurse. 

[  Going  to  the  door,  sees  De  Tracy. 

Tracy,  what  dost  thou  here? 

De  Tracy.  My   lord,    I    follow'd 

Reginald  Fitzurse. 
Becket.     Follow  him  out ! 
De  Tracy.  I  shall  remember  this 

Discourtesy.  \_Exit. 


Becket.  Do.  These  be  those  baron- 
brutes 

That  havock'd  all  the  land  in  Stephen's 
day. 

Rosamund  de  Clifford. 

Re-enter  ROSAMUND  and  Herbert. 

Rosamund.  Here  am  I. 

Becket.  Why  here? 

We  gave  thee  to  the  charge  of  John  of 

Salisbury, 
To    pass   thee    to   thy  secret   bower   to- 
morrow. 
Wast  thou  not  told  to  keep  thyself  from 

sight? 
Rosamund.     Poor  bird  of  passage  !  so 

I  was;   but,  father, 
They  say  that   you   are  wise   in  winged 

things, 
And  know  the  ways  of  Nature.     Bar  the 

bird 
From    following   the    fled    summer  —  a 

chink  — he's  out, 
Gone !     And  there  stole  into  the  city  a 

breath 
Full  of  the  meadows,  and  it  minded  me 
Of  the  sweet  woods  of  Clifford,  and  the 

walks 
Where  I  could  move  at  pleasure,  and  I 

thought 
Lo  !  I  must  out  or  die. 

Becket.  Or  out  and  die. 

And    what    hast    thou   to    do    with    this 

Fitzurse? 
Rosaumnd.     Nothing.     He    sued   my 

hand.     I  shook  at  him. 
He    found   me  once  alone.     Nay  —  nay 

I  cannot 
Tell  you :  my  father  drove  him  and  his 

friends, 
De  Tracy  and  De  Brito,  from  our  castle. 
I  was  but  fourteen  and  an  April  then. 
I  heard  him  swear  revenge. 

Becket.  Why  will  you  court  it 

By  self-exposure?  flutter  out  at  night? 
Make  it  so  hard  to  save  a  moth  from  the 

Hre? 
Rosa?nund.      I   have   saved   many   of 

'em.     You  catch  'em,  so, 
Softly,   and    lling  them  out    to  the    free 

air. 
They  burn  themselves  7c>i thin-door. 

Becket.  Our  good  John 


SCENE   I. 


BECKET. 


685 


Must  speed  you  to  your  bower  at  once. 

The  child 
Is  there  already. 

Rosanumd.         Yes  —  the  child  —  the 
child  — 
O  rare,  a  whole  long  day  of  open  field. 
Becket.     Ay,  but  you  go  disguised. 
Rosamund.  O  rare  again  ! 

We'll    baffle    them,    I   warrant.      What 

shall  it  be? 
I'll  go  as  a  nun. 
Becket.  No. 

Rosamund.       What,  not  good  enough 
Even  to  play  at  nun? 

Becket.  Dan  John  with  a  nun, 

That  Map,  and  these  new  railers  at  the 

Church 
May  plaister  his  clean  name  with  scur- 
rilous rhymes ! 
No! 

Go  like  a  monk,  cowling  and  clouding  up 
That   fatal   star,    thy  Beauty,    from   the 

squint 
Of    lust    and    glare    of    malice.     Good 
night !  good  night ! 
Rosamund.     Father,  I    am  so    tender 
to  all  hardness ! 
Nay,  father,  first  thy  blessing. 

Becket.  Wedded? 

Rosamund.  Father ! 

Becket.     Well,  well !    I  ask  no  more. 

Heaven  bless  thee  !  hence  ! 
Rosamund.     O  holy  father,  when  thou 
seest  him  next, 
Commend  me  to  thy  friend. 

Becket.  What  friend  ? 

Rosamund.  The  King. 

Becket.     Herbert,  take  out  a  score  of 
armed  men 
To  guard    this   bird    of  passage  to   her 

cage; 
And  watch    Fitzurse,  and   if  he    follow 

thee, 
Make  him  thy  prisoner.     I  am  Chancel- 
lor yet. 

[^Exeunt  Herbert  and  Rosamund. 
Poor  soul !  poor  soul ! 
My    friend,    the    King!    .  .  .     O    thou 

Great  Seal  of  England, 
Given  me  by  my  dear  friend   the  King 

of  England  — 
We    long   have  wrought   together,  thou 
and  I  — 


Now  must    I    send    thee    as    a   common 

friend 
To  tell  the  King,  my  friend,  I  am  against 

him. 
We  are   friends   no  more :    he  will   say 

that,  not  I. 
The  worldly  bond  between  us  is  dissolved, 
Not  yet  the  love  :  can  I  be  under  him 
As  Chancellor?  as  Archbishop  over  him? 
Go   therefore   like   a  friend  slighted   by 

one 
That  hath  climb'd  up  to  nobler  company. 
Not  slighted  —  all  but  moan'd  for  :  thou 

must  go. 
I  have  not  dishonour'd  thee  —  I  trust  I 

have  not; 
Not   mangled  justice.      May   the    hand 

that  next 
Inherits  thee  be  but  as  true  to  thee 
.As  mine  hath  been  !     O  my  dear  friend, 

the  King ! 

0  brother  !  —  I  may  come  to  martyrdom. 

1  am   martyr  in   myself  already.  —  Her- 

bert ! 
Herbert  (^re-entering).     My  lord,  the 
town  is  quiet,  and  the  moon 

Divides  the  whole  long  street  with  light 
and  shade. 

No  footfall  —  no  Fitzurse.    We  have  seen 
her  home. 
Becket.     The  hog  hath  tumbled  him- 
self into  some  corner. 

Some  ditch,  to  snore  away  his  drunken- 
ness 

Into     the    sober     headache,  —  Nature's 
moral 

Against  excess.     Let  the  Great  Seal  be 
sent 

Back  to  the  King  to-morrow. 

Herbert.  Must  that  be? 

The  King  may  rend  the  bearer  limb  from 
limb. 

Think  on  it  again. 

Becket.  Against  the  moral  excess 

No  physical  ache,  but  failure  it  may  be 

Of  all  we  aim'd  at.     John  of  Salisbury 

Flath   often   laid    a   cold    hand    on   my 
heats, 

And    Herbert    hath    rebuked    me    even 
now. 

I  will  be  wise  and  wary,  not  the  soldier 

As  Foliot  swears  it.  —  John,  and  out  of 
breath  ! 


686 


BECKET. 


ACT   I, 


Enter  John  of  Salisbury. 

John  of  Salisbury.     Thomas,  thou  wast 

not  happy  taking  charge 
Of  this  wild   Rosamund   to    please    the 

King, 
Nor  am  I  happy  having  charge  of  her  — 
The  included  Danae  has  escaped  again 
Her  tower,  and  her  Acrisius  —  where  to 

seek? 
I  have  been  about  the  city. 

Becket.  Thou  wilt  find  her 

Back  in  her  lodging.     Go  with  her  —  at 

once  — 
To-night  —  my  men  will   guard   you  to 

the  gates. 
Be  sweet  to  her,  she  has  many  enemies. 
Send  the  Great  Seal  by  daybreak.    Both, 

good  night ! 

SCENE  II.  —  Street  in  Northampton 

LEADING   to   THE   CaSTLE. 

Eleanor's  Retainers  and  Becket's 
Retainers  fightUig.  Enter  Eleanor 
and  Becket  yr<?w  opposite  streets. 

Eleanor.     Peace,  fools ! 

Becket.  Peace,  friends  !  what  idle 

brawl  is  this? 
Retainer  of  Becket.      They  said  —  her 
Grace's       people  —  thou       wast 
found  — 
Liars  !   I  shame  to  quote  'em  —  caught, 

my  lord. 
With  a  wanton    in    thy   lodging  —  Hell 
requite  'em ! 
Retainer  of  Eleanor.      My  liege,  the 
Lord  Fitzurse  reported  this 
In  passing  the  Castle  even  now. 

Retainer  of  Becket.     And    then   they 
mock'd  us  and  we  fell  upon  'em. 
For  we  would  live  and  die  for  thee,  my 

lord. 
However  kings  and  queens  may  frown 
on  thee. 
Becket  to  his  Retainers.     Go,  go  —  no 

more  of  this ! 
Eleanor  to  her  Retainers.     Away  !  — 

(^Exeunt  Retainers)  Fitzurse 

Becket.     Nay,  let  him  be. 
Eleanor.  No,  no,  my  Lord 

Archbishop, 


'Tis    known    you   are   midwinter    to    all 

women, 
But    often    in    your    chancellorship    you 

served 
The  follies  of  the  King. 

Becket.  No,  not  these  follies  ! 

Eleanor.      My   lord,    Fitzurse    beheld 

her  in  your  lodging. 
Becket.     Whom  ? 
Eleanor.  Well  —  you  know  —  the 

minion,  Rosamund. 
Becket.     He  had  good  eyes  ! 
Eleanor.        Then  hidden  in  the  street 
He  watch'd  her  pass  with  John  of  Salis- 
bury 
And  heard  her  cry  '  Where  is  this  bower 
of  mine? ' 
Becket.     Good  ears  too  ! 
Eleanor.     You  are  going  to  the  Castle, 
Will  you  subscribe  the  customs? 

Becket.  I  leave  that. 

Knowing  how  much  you  reverence  Holy 

Church, 
My  liege,  to  your  conjecture. 

Eleanor.  I  and  mine  — 

And    many   a   baron   holds   along   with 

me  — 
Are   not   so   much   at   feud   with    Holy 

Church 
But  we  might  take  your  side  against  the 

customs  — 
So  that  you  grant  me  one  slight  favour. 
Becket.  What? 

Eleanor.     A  sight  of  that  same  chart 
which  Henry  gave  you 
With  the  red  line  — '  her  bower.' 

Becket.  And  to  what  end? 

Eleanor.  That  Church  must  scorn 

herself  whose  fearful  Priest 

Sits  winking  at  the  license  of  a  king, 

Altho'  we  grant  when  kings  are  dangerous 

The  Church  must  play  into  the  hands  of 

kings; 
Look  !  I  would  move  this  wanton  from 

his  sight 
And  take  the  Church's  danger  on  myself. 
Becket.     For  which  she  should  be  duly 

grateful. 
FJeanor.  True ! 

Tho'   she  that    Innds  the   bond,   herself 

should  see 
riiat  kings  are  faithful  to  their  marriage 
vow. 


SCENE    III. 


BECKET. 


687 


Becket,     Ay,  Madam,  and  queens  also. 

Eleanor.  And  queens  als(j  I 

What  is  your  drift? 

Becket.  My  drift  is  to  the  Castle, 

Where  I  shall  meet  the  Barons  and  my 

King.  \^Exit. 

De  Broc,  De  Tracy,  De  Brito, 
De  Morville  {passing). 

Eleanor.     To  the  Castle  ? 
De  Broc.  Ay  ! 

Eleanor.    Stir  up  the  King,  the  Lords  I 
Set  all  on  lire  against  him ! 

De  Brito.  Ay,  good  Madam  I 

\_Exeiint. 
Eleanor.       Fool !     I    will    make    thee 
hateful  to  thy  King. 
Churl  I    I  will   have    thee    frighted   into 

France, 
And  I  shall  live  to  trample  on  thy  grave. 


SCENE   III.  — The  Hall   in  North- 
ampton Castle. 

On  one  side  of  the  stage  the  doors  of  an 
inner  Coiaicil-chamber,  half-ope^i. 
At  the  bottovi,  the  great  doors  of  the 
Hall.  Roger  Archbishop  of  York, 
FoLioT  Bishop  of  London,  Hilary 
OF  Chichester,  Bishop  of  Here- 
ford, Richard  de  Hastings  (  Grand 
Prior  of  Templars),  Philip  de  Elee- 
MOSYNA  {the  Pope^s  Almoner),  and 
others.  De  Broc,  Fitzurse,  De  Brito, 
De  Morville,  De  Tracy,  and  other 
Barons  asse?nbled — a  table  before 
them.  John  of  Oxford,  President 
of  the  Council. 

Enter  Becket  and  Herbert  of 
Bosham. 

Becket.     W^here  is  the  King? 
Roger  of  York.  Gone  hawking  on 

the  Nene, 

His  heart  so  gall'd   with   thine   ingrati- 
tude. 

He  will  not  see  thy  face  till  thou  hast 
sign'd 

These  ancient  laws  and  customs  of  the 
realm. 

Thy  sending  back  the  Great  Seal  mad- 
den'd  him, 


my 


He    all    but    pluck'd    the    bearer's   eyes 

away. 
Take  heed,  lest  he  destroy  thee  utterly. 
Becket.     Then  shall  thou  step  into  my 

place  and  sign. 
Roger  of  York.    Didst  thou  not  promise 

Henry  to  obey 
These  ancient  laws  and  customs  of  the 

realm? 
Becket.     Saving    the    honour    of 

order  —  ay. 
Customs,  traditions,  —  clouds  that  come 

and  go; 
The  customs  of  the  Church  are  Peter's 

rock. 
Roger  of  York.     Saving  thine  order ! 

But  King  Henry  svvare 
That,    saving    his    King's    kingship,    he 

would  grant  thee 
The  crown    itself.     Saving  thine    order, 

Thomas, 
Is  black  and  white  at  once,  and  comes 

to  naught. 
O    bolster'd    up    with    stubbornness  and 

pride, 
Wilt  thou  destroy  the  Church  in  fighting 

for  it. 
And  bring  us  all  to  shame? 

Becket.  Roger  of  York, 

When  1  and  thou  were  youths  in  Theo- 
bald's house. 
Twice  did  thy  malice  and  thy  calumnies 
Exile  me  from  the  face  of  Theobald. 
Now  I  am  Canterbury  and  thou  art  York. 
Roger  of  York.     And  is  not  York  the 

peer  of  Canterbury? 
Did  not  Great  Gregory  bid  St.  Austin  here 
Found  two  archbishopricks,  London  and 

York? 
Becket.     W^hat    came    of   that?      The 

first  archbishop  fled, 
And  York  lay  barren  for  a  hundred  years. 
Whv,  by  this  rule,  Foliot  mav  claim  the 

pall 
For  London  too. 

Foliot.  And  with  good  reason  too, 

For  London  had  a  temple  and  a  priest 
W^hen  Canterbury  hardly  bore  a  name. 
Becket.     The  pagan  temple  of  a  pagan 

Rome  ! 
The   heathen    priesthood    of  a    heathen 

creed  ! 
Thou  goest  beyond  thyself  in  petulancy ! 


688 


BECKET. 


ACT   I. 


Who    made    thee    London?      Who,  but 

Canterbury? 
JoJni  of  Oxford.  Peace,  peace,  my 

lords  !  these  customs  are  no  longer 
As    Canterbury   calls    them,    wandering 

clouds, 
But  by  the  King's  command  are  written 

down. 
And  by  the  King's  command  I,  John  of 

Oxford, 
The  President  of  this  Council,  read  them. 
Becket.  Read ! 

John  of  Oxfoi'd  (^reads').  '  All  causes 
of  advowsons  and  presentations,  whether 
between  laymen  or  clerics,  shall  be  tried 
in  the  King's  court.' 

Becket.     But  that  I   cannot  sign  :   for 

that  would  drag 
The  cleric  before  the  civil  judgment-seat. 
And  on  a  matter  wholly  spiritual. 

John  of  Oxford.  '  If  any  cleric  be 
accused  of  felony,  the  Church  shall  not 
protect  him;  but  he  shall  answer  to  the 
summons  of  the  King's  court  to  be  tried 
therein.' 

Becket.     And  that  I  cannot  sign. 
Is  not  the  Church  the  visible  Lord   on 

earth? 
Shall  hands  that  do  create  the  Lord  be 

bound 
Behind  the  back  like  laymen-criminals? 
The  Lord  be  judged  again  by  Pilate?  No  ! 
John  of  Oxford.  '  When  a  bishoprick 
falls  vacant,  the  King,  till  another  be 
appointed,  shall  receive  the  revenues 
thereof.' 

Becket.     And  that  I  cannot  sign.     Is 

the  King's  treasury 
A  fit  place  for  the  monies  of  the  Church, 
That  be  the  patrimony  of  the  poor? 

John  of  Oxford.  *  And  when  the  va- 
cancy is  to  be  filled  up,  the  King  shall 
summon  the  chapter  of  that  church  to 
court,  and  the  election  shall  be  made  in 
the  Chapel  Royal,  with  the  consent  of  our 
lord  the  King,  and  by  the  advice  of  his 
(Government.' 

Becket.     And  that  I  cannot  sign  :   for 

that  would  make 
Our  island-Church  a  schism  from  Chris- 
tendom, 
And  weight  down  all  free  choice  beneath 

the  throne. 


Foliot.     And  was  thine   own  election 
so  canonical, 
Good  father? 

Becket.     If  it  were  not,  Gilbert  Foliot, 
I  mean  to  cross  the  sea  to  France,  and  lay 
My  crozier  in  the  Holy  Father's  hands. 
And  bid  him  re-create  me,  Gilbert  Foliot. 

Foliot.     Nay;   by  another  of  these  cus- 
toms thou 
Wilt  not  be  suffer'd  so  to  cross  the  seas 
Without  the  license  of  our  lord  the  King. 

Becket.     That,  too,  I  cannot  sign. 

De  Broc,  De  Brito,  De  Tracy,  Fitz- 
URSE,  De  Morville,  start  tip  —  a  clash 
of  szvords. 

Sign  and  obey ! 

Becket.     My  lords,  is  this  a  combat  or 

a  council? 

Are  ye  my  masters,  or  my  lord  the  King? 

Ye  make  this  clashing  for  no  love  o'  the 

customs 
Or  constitutions,  or  whate'er  ye  call  them. 
But  that  there  be  among  you  those  that 

hold 
Lands  reft  from  Canterbury. 

De  Broc.         And  mean  to  keep  them. 
In  spite  of  thee  ! 

Lords  {shouting).     Sign,  and  obey  the 

crown ! 
Becket.     The  crown?     Shall  I  do  less 
for  Canterbury 
Than  Henry  for  the  crown?     King  Ste- 
phen gave 
Many  of  the  crown  lands  to  those  that 

helpt  him; 
So  did  Matilda,  the  King's  mother.   Mark, 
When  Henry  came  into  his  own  again. 
Then  he  took  back  not  only  Stephen's 

gifts. 
But    his  own    mother's,  lest   the    crown 

should  be 
Shorn  of  ancestral  splendour.     This  did 

Henry. 
Shall  I  do  less  for  mine  own  Canterbury? 
And   thou,  De  Broc,   that  holdest  Salt- 
wood  Castle 


De  Broc.    And  mean  to  hold  it,  or 

Becket.  To  have  my  life. 

De  Broc.     The  King  is  quick  to  anger; 

if  thou  anger  him, 
We  wait  hut  the  King's  word  to  strike 

thee  dead. 


SCENE   III. 


BECKET. 


689 


Becket.     Strike,  and  I  die  the  death  of 

martyrdom; 
Strike,  and  ye  set  these  customs  by  my 

death 
Ringing  their  own  death-knell  thro'  all 

the  realm. 
Herbert.     And  I  can  tell  you,  lords,  ye 

are  all  as  like 
To  lodge  a  fear  in  Thomas  Becket's  heart 
As  find  a  hare's  form  in  a  lion's  cave. 
John  of  Oxford.  Ay,  sheathe  your 

swords,  ye  will  displease  the  King. 
De  Broc.     Why  down  then  thou  !  but 

an  he  come  to  Saltwood, 
By  God's  death,  thou  shalt  stick  him  like 

a  calf!  {^Sheathing his  szuord. 

Hilary.     O  my  good  lord,  I  do  entreat 

thee  —  sign. 
Save  the  King's  honour  here  before  his 

barons. 
He  hath  sworn  that  thou  shouldst  sign, 

and  now  but  shuns 
The  semblance  of  defeat;   I  have  heard 

him  say 
He  means  no  more;   so  if  thou  sign,  my 

lord. 
That  were  but  as"  the  shadow  of  an  assent. 
Becket.      'Twould   seem    too   like    the 

substance,  if  I  sign'd. 
Philip  de  Eleemosyna.     My  lord,  thine 

ear !     I  have  the  ear  of  the  Pope. 
As  thou  hast  honour  for   the  Pope  our 

master, 
Have  pity  on  him,  sorely  prest  upon 
By  the  fierce  Emperor  and  his  Antipope. 
Thou   knowest  he  was  forced  to  fly  to 

France ; 
He  pray'd  me  to  pray  thee  to  pacify 
Thy    King;    for   if  thou   go  against  thy 

King, 
Then  must  he   likewise    go  against  thy 

King, 
And  then  thy  King  might  join  the  Anti- 
pope, 
And  that  would  shake  the  Papacy  as  it 

stands. 
Besides,  thy  King  swore  to  our  cardinals 
He  meant  no  harm  nor  damage  to  the 

Church. 
Smooth  thou  his  pride  —  thy  signing  is 

but  form; 
Nay,  and  should  harm  come  of  it,  it  is 

the  Pope 
2Y 


\Yill  be  to  blame  —  not  thou.     Over  and 

over 
He    told    me    thou   shouldst   pacify   the 

King, 
Lest  there  be  battle  between  Heaven  and 

Earth, 
And  Earth  should  get  the  better  —  for  the 

time. 
Cannot   the    Pope  absolve  thee  if  thou 

sign? 
Becket.     Have    I    the    orders   of    the 

Holy  Father? 
Philip    de   Eleemosyna.      Orders,   my 

lord  —  why,  no;  for  what  am  I? 
The  secret  whisper  of  the  Holy  Father. 
Thou,  that  hast  been  a  statesman,  couldst 

thou  always 
Blurt  thy  free  mind  to  the  air? 

Becket.     If  Rome  be  feeble,  then  should 

1  be  firm. 
Philip.     Take  it  not  that  way  —  balk 

not  the  Pope's  will. 
When  he  hath  shaken  off  the  Emperor, 
He  heads  the  Church  against  the  King 

with  thee. 
Richard    de      Hastings      (Jzneeling). 

Becket,  I  am   the   oldest  of  the 

Templars; 
I  knew  thy  father;  he  would  be  mine  age 
Had  he  lived  now;   think  of  me  as  thy 

father ! 
Behold    thy    father    kneeling    to    thee, 

Becket. 
Submit;    I  promise  thee  on  my  salvation 
That   thou   wilt    hear   no    more    o'    the 

customs. 
Becket.  What ! 

Hath  Henry  told  thee?  hast  thou  talk'd 

with  him? 
Another  Templar  (^kneeling).    Father, 

I  am  the   youngest  of  the  Tem- 
plars, 
Look  on  me  as  I  were  thy  bodily  son. 
For,  like  a  son,  I  lift  my  hands  to  thee. 
Philip.     Wilt  thou  hold  out  for  ever, 

Thomas  Becket? 
Dost  thou  not  hear? 

Becket  {signs') .     Why  —  there  then  — 

there  —  I  sign, 
And  swear  to  obey  the  customs. 

Foliot.  Is  it  thy  will, 

My  lord  Archbishop,  that  we  too  should 

sign? 


690 


BECKET. 


ACT   I. 


Becket.       O     ay,     by    that     canonical 
obedience 
Thou  still  hast  owed  thy  father,  Gilbert 
Foliot. 
Foliot.     Loyally  and  with  good  faith, 

my  lord  Archbishop? 
Becket.     O    ay,    with    all   that   loyalty 
and  good  faith 
Thou  still  hast  shown  thy  primate,  Gilbert 
Foliot, 
[Becket  draws  apart  with  Herbert. 
Herbert,    Herbert,    have  I  betray'd   the 

Church? 
I'll  have  the  paper  back  —  blot  out  my 
name. 
Herbert.     Too  late,  my  lord :  you  see 

they  are  signing  there. 
Becket.     False  to  myself  —  it  is  the  will 
of  God 
To  break  me,  prove  me  nothing  of  my- 
self! 
This  Almoner  hath  tasted  Henry's  gold. 
The  cardinals  have  finger'd  Henry's  gold. 
And  Rome  is  venal  ev'n  to  rottenness. 
I  see  it,  1  see  it. 

I  am  no  soldier,  as  he  said  —  at  least 
No  leader.      Herbert,  till  I  hear  from  the 

Pope 
I  will  suspend  myself  from  all  my  func- 
tions. 
If     fast     and     prayer,     the     lacerating 

scourge 

Foliot    {from    the    table).      My    lord 

Archbishop,  thou  hast  yet  to  seal. 

Becket.     First,  Foliot,  let  me  see  what 

I  have  sign'd.     [Goes  to  the  table. 

What,  this  !  and  this  !  —  what  I  new  and 

old  together ! 
Seal?     If  a  seraph  shouted  from  the  sun. 
And  bade  me  seal  against  the  rights  of 

the  Church, 
I  would  anathematise  him.    I  will  not  seal. 
[Exit  with  Herbert. 

Enter  King  Henry. 

Henry.     Where's   Thomas?    hath    he 
sign'd?  show  me  the  papers! 
Sign'd  and  not  seal'd  !     How's  that  ? 

John  of  Oxford.     He  would  not  seal. 
And  when  he  sign'd,  his  face  was  stormy- 
red — 
Shame,   wrath,  I  know    not  what.     He 
sat  down  there 


And   (iropt  it  in   his  hands,  and    then  a 

paleness, 
Like  the  wan  twilight  after  sunset,  crept 
Up  even  to  the  tonsure,  and  he  groan'd, 
*  False  to  myself!    It  is  the  will  of  God  ! ' 
Henry.     God's   will    be   what    it   will, 

the  man  shall  seal. 
Or  I  will  seal  his  doom.     My  burgher's 

son  — 
Nay,  if  I  cannot  break  him  as  the  prelate, 
I'll  crush  him  as  the  subject.     Send  for 

him  back.  [Sits  on  his  throne. 

Barons  and  bishops  of  our  realm  of  Eng- 
land, 
After    the    nineteen    winters    of    King 

Stephen  — 
A  reign  which  was  no  reign,  when  none 

could  sit 
By  his  own  hearth  in  peace;   when  mur- 
der common 
As  nature's  death,  like  Egypt's  plague, 

had  fill'd 
All  things  with  blood ;   when  every  door- 
way blush'd, 
Dash'd  red  with  that  unhallow'd  passover; 
When  every  baron  ground  his  blade  in 

blood; 
The    household  dough  was  kneaded  up 

with  blood ; 
The   mill    wheel    turn'd   in   blood;    the 

wholesome  plow 
Lay  rusting  in  the  furrow's  yellow  weeds, 
Till  famine    dwarft    the  race  —  I    came, 

your  King ! 
Nor  dwelt  alone,  like  a  soft  lord  of  the 

East, 
In    mine    own    hall,  and   sucking   thro' 

fools'  ears 
The  flatteries  of  corruption  —  went  abroad 
Thro'  all  my  counties,  spied  my  people's 

ways; 
Yea,  heard  the  churl  against  the  baron 

—  yea. 
And  did  him  justice;    sat  in  mine  own 

courts 
Judging    my  judges,    that    had    found    a 

King 
Who  ranged  confusions,  made  the  twilight 

day. 
And  struck  a  shape  from  out  tfhe  vague, 

and  law 
From    madness.     And    the    event  —  our 

fallows  till'd, 


SCENE   III. 


BECKET. 


691 


Much    corn,    repeopled    towns,   a    realm 

again. 
So    far    my   course,    albeit    not    glassy- 
smooth, 
Had  prosper'd  in  the  main,  but  suddenly 
Jarr'd  on  this  rock.     A  cleric  violated 
The  daughter  of  his  host,  and  murder'd 

him. 
Bishops  —  York,     London,     Chichester, 

Westminster  — 
Ye  haled  this  tonsured   devil  into    your 

courts; 
But  since  your  canon  will  not  let  you  take 
Life  for  a  life,  ye  but  degraded  him 
Where  I  had  hang'd  him.     What  doth 

hard  murder  care 
For    degradation?    and    that    made    me 

muse, 
Being  bounden  by  my  coronation  oath 
To   do   men   justice.     Look  to  it,  your 

own  selves ! 
Say  that  a  cleric  murder'd  an  archbishop. 
What  could  ye  do?     Degrade,  imprison 

him  — 
Not  death  for  death. 
John    of  Oxford.      But    I,    my   liege, 
could  swear, 
To  death  for  death. 

Henry.  And,  looking  thro'  my  reign, 
I  found  a  hundred  ghastly  murders  done 
By    men,    the   scum    and    offal    of    the 

Church ; 
Then,    glancing    thro'   the  story  of  this 

realm, 
I  came  on  certain  wholesome  usages. 
Lost  in  desuetude,  of  my  grandsire's  day. 
Good  royal  customs  —  had  them  written 

fair 
For  John  of  Oxford  here  to  read  to  you. 
John   of  Oxford.     And    I    can    easily 
swear  to  these  as  being 
The  King's  will  and  God's  will  and  justice ; 

yet 
I    could    but    read    a   part   to-day,    be- 
cause   

Fitzurse.     Because  my  lord  of  Canter- 
bury  

De  Tracy.         Ay, 


This  lord  of  Canterbury 

De  Brito.  As  is  his  wont 

Too  much  of  late  whene'er  your  royal 

rights 
Are  mooted  in  our  councils — 


Fitzurse.  —  made  an  uproar. 

Henry.     And   Becket  had  my  bosom 

on  all  this; 
If  ever  man  by  bonds  of  gratefulness  — 
I   raised    him    from   the    puddle    of  the 

gutter, 
I  made  him  porcelain  from  the  clay  of 

the  city  — 
Thought    that    I    knew  him,   err'd  thro' 

love  of  him. 
Hoped,    were     he     chosen    archbishop, 

Church  and  Crown, 
Two  sisters  gliding  in  an  equal  dance, 
Two  rivers  gently  flowing  side  by  side  — 
But  no  ! 
The  bird  that  moults  sings  the  same  song 

again, 
The  snake  that  sloughs  comes  out  a  snake 

again. 
Snake  —  ay,  but  he  that  lookt  a  fangless 

one. 
Issues  a  venomous  adder. 
For  he,  when  having  dofft  the  Chancellor's 

robe  — 
Flung  the  Great  Seal  of  England  in  my 

face  — 
Claim'd   some    of  our  crown  lands    for 

Canterbury  — 
]\Iy  comrade,  boon   companion,  my  co- 
reveller. 
The  master    of  his    master,   the    King's 

king.  — 
God's  eyes !     I  had  meant  to  make  him 

all  but  king. 
Chancellor-Archbishop,    he    might    well 

have  sway'd 
All    England    under    Henry,   the    young 

King, 
W^hen  I  was  hence.    What  did  the  traitor 

say? 
False  to  himself,  but  ten-fold  false  to  me  ! 
The  will   of  God  —  why,  then  it  is  my 

will  — 
Is  he  coming? 

Messenger  (^entering).     With  a  crowd 

of  worshippers, 
And  holds  his  cross  before  him  thro'  the 

crowd, 
As  one  that  puts  himself  in  sanctuary. 
Henry.     His  cross ! 
Roger  of  York.     His  cross !  I'll  front 

him,  cross  to  cross. 

\_Exit  Roger  of  York. 


692 


BECKET. 


ACT  I. 


Heniy.     His  cross !    it  is  the    traitor 
that  imputes 
Treachery  to  his  King  ! 
It  is  not  safe  for  me  to  look  upon  him. 
Away  —  with  me  ! 

\_Goes  in  with  his  Barons  to  the 
Council- Chamber,  the  door  of 
which  is  left  open. 

Enter  Becket,  holding  his  cross  of  silver 
before  him.  The  Bishops  come  round 
him. 

Hereford.     The   King  will   not  abide 
thee  with  thy  cross. 
Permit  me,  my  good  lord,  to  bear  it  for 

thee, 
Being  thy  chaplain. 

Becket.  No  :  it  must  protect  me. 

Herbert.     As  once  he  bore  the  stand- 
ard of  the  Angles, 
So  now  he  bears  the   standard   of  the 
angels. 
Foliot.     I  am  the  Dean  of  the  province  : 
let  me  bear  it. 
Make  not  thy  King  a  traitorous  murderer. 
Becket.     Did    not   your    barons    draw 
their  swords  against  me? 

Enter  Roger  of  York,  zvith  his  cross, 
advancing  to  Becket, 

Becket.     Wherefore  dost  thou  presume 
to  bear  thy  cross, 
Against  the  solemn  ordinance  from  Rome, 
Out  of  thy  province? 

Roger  of  York.        Why  dost  thou  pre- 
sume, 
Arm'd  with  thy  cross,  to  come  before  the 

King? 
If  Canterbury  bring  his  cross  to  court, 
Let  York  bear  his  to  mate  with  Canter- 
bury. 
Foliot  {seizing  hold  of  Becket's  cross). 
Nay,  nay,  my  lord,  thou  must  not 
brave  the  King. 
Nay,  let  me  have  it.     I  will  have  it ! 
Becket.  A\\'ay ! 

{^Flinging  him  off. 
Foliot.     He  fasts,  they  say,  this  mitred 
Hercules ! 
He  fast!   is  that  an  arm  of  fast?     My 

lord, 
Hadst  thou  not  sign'd,  I  had  gone  along 
with  thee; 


But  thou  the  shepherd  hast  betray'd  the 

sheep, 
And  thou  art  perjured,  and  thou  wilt  not 

seal. 
As    Chancellor   thou   wast    against    the 

Church, 
Now   as   Archbishop    goest    against   the 

King; 
For,  like  a  fool,  thou  knowst  no  middle 

way. 
Ay,  ay  !   but  art  thou  stronger  than  the 

King? 
Becket.      Strong  —  not   in   mine    own 

self,  but  Heaven;   true 
To  either  function,  holding  it;   and  thou 
Fast,    scourge    thyself,   and    mortify  thy 

flesh. 
Not  spirit  —  thou  remainest  Gilbert  Foliot, 
A  worldly  follower  of  the  worldly  strong. 
I,  bearing  this  great  ensign,  make  it  clear 
Under  what  Prince  I  fight. 

Foliot.  My  lord  of  York, 

Let  us  go  in  to  the  Council,  where  our 

bishops 
And  our  great  lords  will  sit  in  judgment 

on  him. 
Becket.     Sons  sit  in  judgment  on  their 

father !  —  then 
The  spire  of  Holy  Church  may  prick  the 

graves  — 
Her  crypt  among  the  stars.     Sign?  seal? 

I  promised 
The  King  to  obey  these  customs,  not  yet 

written, 
Saving  mine  order;   true  too,  that  when 

written 
I  sign'd  them  —  being  a  fool,  as  Foliot 

call'd  me. 
I  hold  not  by  my  signing.     Get  ye  hence, 
Tell  what  I  say  to  the  King. 

\^Exennt  Hereford,  Foliot,  and  other 

Bishops. 
Roger  of  York.  The  Church 

will  hate  thee.  {^Exit. 

Becket.     Serve    my    best    friend    and 

make  him  my  worst  foe; 
Fight  for  the  Church,  and  set  the  Church 

against  me  ! 
Herbert.     To  be   honest  is   to  set  all 

knaves  against  thee. 
Ah  !  Thomas,  excommunicate  them  all ! 
Hereford     {re-entering).       I     cannot 

brook  the  turmoil  thou  hast  raised. 


SCENE   III. 


BECKET. 


693 


I  would,  my  lord  Thomas  of  Canterbury, 
Thou  wert  plain  Thomas  and  not  Canter- 
bury, 
Or  that  thou  wouldst  deliver  Canterbury 
To  our  King's  hands  again,  and  be  at 
peace. 
Hilary  (re-entering).     For  hath  not 
thine  ambition  set  the  Church 
This  day  between  the  hammer  and  the 

anvil  — 
Fealty  to  the  King,  obedience  to  thyself? 
Herbert.     What  say  the  bishops? 
Hilary.     Some  have  pleaded  for  him. 
But  the  King  rages  —  most  are  with  the 

King; 
And  some  are  reeds,  that  one  time  sway 

to  the  current. 
And  to  the  wind  another.     But  we  hold 
Thou    art   forsworn;     and    no    forsworn 

Archbishop 
Shall  helm  the  Church.     We  therefore 

place  ourselves 
Under  the  shield  and  safeguard  of  the 

Pope, 
And  cite  thee  to  appear  before  the  Pope, 
And   answer   thine   accusers.  .  .  .     Art 
thou  deaf? 
Becket.     I  hear  you.     [  Clash  of  arms. 
Hilary.    Dost  thou  hear  those  others? 
Becket.  Ay ! 

Roger   of   York    (re-entering').      The 
King's  '  God's  eyes  !  '   come  now 
so  thick  and  fast. 
We  fear  that  he  may  reave  thee  of  thine 

own. 
Come  on,  come  on  !  it  is  not  fit  for  us 
To  see  the  proud  Archbishop  mutilated. 
Say  that  he  blind  thee  and  tear  out  thy 
tongue. 
Becket.     So  be  it.     He  begins  at  top 
with  me : 
They  crucified  St.  Peter  downward. 

Roger  of  York.  Nay, 

But  for  their  sake  who  stagger  betwixt 

thine 
Appeal,  and  Henry's  anger,  yield. 

Becket.  Hence,  Satan  ! 

\^Exit  Roger  of  York. 

Fitzurse  (re-entering).     My  lord,  the 

King     demands     three    hundred 

marks, 

Due  from  his  castles  of  Berkhamstead  and 

Eye 


When  thou  thereof  wast  warden. 

Becket.  Tell  the  King 

I  spent  thrice  that  in  fortifying  his  castles. 

De Tracy  (re-entering).     My  lord,  the 

King     demands    seven    hundred 

marks. 

Lent  at  the  siege  of  Thoulouse  by  the 

King. 

Becket.     I  led  seven  hundred  knights 

and  fought  his  wars. 
De  Brito  (re-entering).     My  lord,  the 
King  demands  five  hundred  marks. 
Advanced   thee   at    his   instance    by  the 

Jews, 
For  which  the  King  was  bound  security. 
Becket.     1    thought    it   was    a  gift;    I 
thought  it  was  a  gift. 

Enter  Lord  Leicester  (followed  by 
Barons  atid  Bishops). 

Leicester,     My  lord,  I  come  unwillingly. 
The  King 
Demands   a   strict   account  of  all  those 

revenues 
From  all  the  vacant  sees  and  abbacies, 
Which  came  into  thy  hands  when  Chan- 
cellor. 
Becket.    How  much  might  that  amount 

to,  my  lord  Leicester? 
Leicester.      Some    thirty  —  forty  thou- 
sand silver  marks. 
Becket.     Are  these  your  customs?     O 
my  good  lord  Leicester, 
The  King  and   I  were  brothers.     All  1 

had 
I  lavish'd  for  the  glory  of  the  King; 
I  shone  from  him,  for  him,  his  glory,  his 
Reflection  :  now  the  glory  of  the  Church 
Hath  swallow'd  up  the  glory  of  the  King; 
I  am  his  no  more,  but  hers.     Grant  me 

one  day 
To  ponder  these  demands. 

Leicester.  Hear  first  thy  sentence  ! 

The  King  and  all  his  lords 

Becket.  Son,  first  hear  7ne  ! 

Leicester.     Nay,  nay,  canst  thou,  that 
boldest  thine  estates 
In  fee  and  barony  of  the  King,  decline 
The  judgment  of  the  King? 

Becket.  The  King  I  I  hold 

Nothing  in  fee  and  barony  of  the  King. 
Whatever  the  Church  owns  —  she  holds 
it  in 


694 


BECKET. 


ACT   I. 


Free  and  perpetual  alms,  unsubject  to 
One  earthly  sceptre. 

Leicester.    Nay,  but  hear  thy  judgment. 

The  King  and  all  his  barons 

Becket.  Judgment !   Barons  ! 

Who  but  the  bridegroom  dares  to  judge 

the  bride, 
Or  he  the  bridegroom  may  appoint?    Not 

he 
That  is  not  of  the  house,  but  from  the 

street 
Stain'd  with  the  mire  thereof. 

I  had  been  so  true 
To  Henry  and  mine  office  that  the  King 
Would  throne   me    in   the    great   Arch- 

bishoprick : 
And  I,  that  knew  mine  own  infirmity. 
For  the  King's  pleasure  rather  than  God's 

cause 
Took  it  upon  me  —  err'd  thro'  love  of 

him. 
Now  therefore  God  from  me  withdraws 

Himself, 
And  the  King  too. 

What !  forty  thousand  marks  ! 
Why    thou,    the    King,    the    Pope,    the 

Saints,  the  world. 
Know  that  when  made  Archbishop  I  was 

freed, 
Before  the  Prince  and  chief  Justiciary, 
From  every  bond  and  debt  and  obligation 
Incurr'd  as  Chancellor. 

Hear  me,  son. 

As  gold 
Outvalues    dross,    light    darkness,    Abel 

Cain, 
The  soul  the  body,  and  the  Church  the 

Throne, 
I  charge  thee,  upon  pain  of  mine  anath- 
ema, 
That  thou  obey,  not  me,  but  God  in  me. 
Rather  than  Henry.     I  refuse  to  stand 
By  the  King's  censure,  make  my  cry  to 

the  Pope, 
By  whom  I  will  be  judged;   refer  myself, 
The  King,  these  customs,  all  the  Church, 

to  him. 
And  under  his  authority  —  I  depart. 

[  Going. 

[Leicester  looks  at  him  doubtingly. 
Am  I  a  prisoner? 

Leicester.  By  -St.  Lazarus,  no  ! 

I  am  confounded  by  thee.     Go  in  peace. 


De  Broc.     In  peace  now  —  but  after. 
Take  that  for  earnest. 

Saplings  a  bone  at  him  from  the  rushes. 

De  Brito,  Fitzurse,  De  Tracy,  and 
others  (^flinging  wisps  of  rushes') .  Ay, 
go  in  peace,  caitiff,  caitiff!  And  that 
too,  perjured  prelate  —  and  that,  turncoat 
shaveling  !  There,  there,  there  !  traitor, 
traitor,  traitor ! 

Becket.     Mannerless  wolves ! 

[  Turning  and  facing  them. 

LJerbert.       Enough,  my  lord,  enough  ! 

Becket.      Barons  of   England    and    of 
Normandy, 
When  what  ye  shake  at  doth  but  seem  to 

fly, 

True  test  of  coward,  ye  follow  with  a  yell. 
But  I  that  threw  the  mightiest  knight  of 
France, 

Sir  Engelram  de  Trie, 

Herbert.  Enough,  my  lord. 

Becket.     More  than  enough.      I  play 
the  fool  again. 

Enter  HERALD. 

Herald.      The  King   commands   you, 
upon  pain  of  death. 
That  none  should  wrong  or  injure  your 
Archbishop. 
Foliot.     Deal  gently  with   the   young 
man  Absalom. 
[  Great  doors  of  the  Hall  at  the  back 
open,  and  discover  a  crowd.     They 
shout  : 
Blessed  is  he  that  cometh  in  the  name  of 
the  Lord ! 


SCENE  IV.  —  Refectory  of  the 
Monastery  at  Northampton. 

A  banquet  on  the  Tables. 

Enter  Becket.      Becket's  Retainers. 

1st  Retainer.     Do  thou  speak  first. 

7.nd  Retainer.  Nay,  thou !  Nay, 
thou !  Hast  not  thou  drawn  the  short 
straw? 

\st  Retainer.  My  lord  Archbishop, 
wilt  thou  permit  us 

Becket.  To  speak  without  stammering 
and  like  a  free  man?     Ay. 

\st  Retainer.  My  lord,  permit  us  then 
to  leave  thy  service. 


SCENE   IV. 


BECKET. 


695 


Becket.     When? 

\st  Retaijier.     Now. 

Becket.     To-night? 

\st  Retainer.     To-night,  my  lord. 

Becket.     And  why? 

\st  Retainer.  My  lord,  we  leave  thee 
not  without  tears. 

Becket.  Tears?  Why  not  stay  with 
me  then? 

\st  Retainer.  My  lord,  we  cannot 
yield  thee  an  answer  altogether  to  thy 
satisfaction. 

Becket.  I  warrant  you,  or  your  own 
either.  Shall  I  find  you  one?  The 
King  hath  frowned  upon  me. 

\st  Retainer.  That  is  not  altogether 
our  answer,  my  lord. 

Becket.  No;  yet  all  but  all.  Go, 
go !  Ye  have  eaten  of  my  dish  and 
drunken  of  my  cup  for  a  dozen  years. 

15/  Retainer.  And  so  we  have.  W^e 
mean  thee  no  wrong.  W^ilt  thou  not 
say,  '  God  bless  you,'  ere  we  go  ? 

Becket.  God  bless  you  all !  God 
redden  your  pale  blood  I  But  mine  is 
human-red;  and  when  ye  shall  hear  it  is 
poured  out  upon  earth,  and  see  it  mount- 
ing to  Heaven,  my  God  bless  you,  that 
seems  sweet  to  you  now,  will  blast  and 
blind  you  like  a  curse. 

\st  Retainer.  We  hope  not,  my  lord. 
Our  humblest  thanks  for  your  blessing. 
Farewell  I  \_Exeunt  Retainers. 

Becket.  Farewell,  friends  I  farewell, 
swallows  I  I  wrong  the  bird;  she  leaves 
only  the  nest  she  built,  they  leave  the 
builder.  Why?  Am  I  to  be  murdered 
to-night?  \^Knocking  at  the  door. 

Attendant.  Here  is  a  missive  left  at 
the  gate  by  one  from  the  castle. 

Becket.  Cornwall's  hand  or  Leices- 
ter's:  they  write  marvellously  alike. 

[  Reading. 

*  Fly  at  once  to  France,  to  King  Louis 
of  France :  there  be  those  about  our 
King  who  would  have  thy  blood.' 

Was  not  my  lord  of  Leicester  bidden 
to  our  supper? 

Attendant.  Ay,  my  lord,  and  divers 
other  earls  and  barons.  But  the  hour 
is  past,  and  our  brother.  Master  Cook, 


he  makes  moan  that  all  be  a-getting 
cold. 

Becket.  And  I  make  my  moan  along 
with  him.  Cold  after  warm,  winter  after 
summer,  and  the  golden  leaves,  these 
earls  and  barons,  that  clung  to  me, 
frosted  off  me  by  the  first  cold  frown  of 
the  King.  Cold,  but  look  how  the  table 
steams,  like  a  heathen  altar;  nay,  like 
the  altar  at  Jerusalem.  Shall  God's  good 
gifts  be  wasted?  None  of  them  here! 
Call  in  the  poor  from  the  streets,  and  let 
them  feast. 

Herbert.  That  is  the  parable  of  our 
blessed  Lord. 

Becket.  And  why  should  not  the 
parable  of  our  blessed  Lord  be  acted 
again?  Call  in  the  poor!  The  Church 
is  ever  at  variance  with  the  kings,  and 
ever  at  one  wath  the  poor.  I  marked  a 
group  of  lazars  in  the  marketplace  —  half- 
rag,  half-sore  —  beggars,  poor  rogues 
(Heaven  bless  'em)  who  never  saw  nor 
dreamed  of  such  a  banquet.  I  will 
amaze  them.  Call  them  in,  I  say. 
They  shall  henceforward  be  my  earls  and 
barons  —  our  lords  and  masters  in  Christ 
Jesus.  \^Exit  Herbert. 

If  the  King  hold  his  purpose,  I  am 
myself  a  beggar.  Forty  thousand  marks  ! 
forty  thousand  devils  —  and  these  craven 
bishops ! 

Enter  a  Poor  Man  with  his  dog. 

Man.  My  lord  Archbishop,  may  I 
come  in  with  my  poor  friend,  my  dog? 
The  King's  verdurer  caught  him  a-hunt- 
ing  in  the  forest,  and  cut  off  his  paws. 
The  dog  followed  his  calling,  my  lord.  I 
ha'  carried  him  ever  so  many  miles  in  my 
arms,  and  he  licks  my  face  and  moans 
and  cries  out  against  the  King. 

Becket.  Better  thy  dog  than  thee. 
The  King's  courts  would  use  thee  worse 
than  thy  dog  —  they  are  too  bloody. 
Were  the  Church  king,  it  would  be 
otherwise.  Poor  beast  I  poor  beast ! 
set  him  down.  I  ^^■ill  bind  up  his 
wounds  with  my  napkin.  Give  him  a 
bone,  give  him  a  bone  !  Who  misuses 
a  dog  xvould  misuse  a  child  — they  cannot 
speak  for  themselves.  Past  help !  his 
paws  are  past  help.     God  help  him ! 


696 


BECKET. 


ACT   I. 


Enter  the  Beggars  {^and  seat  themselves 
at  the  Tables^.  Becket  and  Her- 
bert wait  upon  them. 

\st  Beggar.  Swine,  sheep,  ox  — 
here's  a  French  supper.  When  thieves 
fall  out,  honest  men 

2nd  Beggar.  Is  the  Archbishop  a 
thief  who  gives  thee  thy  supper? 

\st  Beggar.  Well,  then,  how  does  it 
go?  When  honest  men  fall  out,  thieves 
—  no,  it  can't  be  that. 

2.nd  Beggar.  Who  stole  the  widow's 
one  sitting  hen  o'  Sunday,  when  she  was 
at  mass? 

\st  Beggar.  Come,  come !  thou 
hadst  thy  share  on  her.  Sitting  hen ! 
Our  Lord  Becket's  our  great  sitting-hen 
cock,  and  we  shouldn't  ha'  been  sitting 
here  if  the  barons  and  bishops  hadn't 
been  a-sitting  on  the  Archbishop. 

Becket.  Ay,  the  princes  sat  in  judg- 
ment against  me,  and  the  Lord  hath 
prepared  your  table  —  Sederunt principes, 
ederunt  pauper  es. 

A  voice.     Becket,  beware  of  the  knife  ! 

Becket.     Who  spoke? 

yd  Beggar.  Nobody,  my  lord. 
What's  that,  my  lord? 

Becket.     Venison. 

yd  Beggar.     Venison? 

Becket.     Buck;   deer,  as  you  call  it. 

yd  Beggar.  King's  meat !  By  the 
Lord,  won't  we  pray  for  your  lordship  ! 

Becket.  And,  my  children,  your 
prayers  will  do  more  for  me  in  the  day 
of  peril  that  dawns  darkly  and  drearily 
over  the  house  of  God  —  yea,  and  in  the 
day  of  judgment  also,  than  the  swords  of 
the  craven  sycophants  would  have  done 
had  they  remained  true  to  me  whose 
bread  they  have  partaken.  I  must  leave 
you  to  your  banquet.  Feed,  feast,  and 
be  merry.  Herbert,  for  the  sake  of  the 
Church  itself,  if  not  for  my  own,  I  must 
fly  to  France  to-night.  Come  with  me. 
\_Exit  with  Herbert. 

yd  Beggar.  Here  —  all  of  you  — 
my  lord's  health  {they  drink).  Well  — 
if  that  isn't  goodly  wine 

\st  Beggar.  Then  there  isn't  a  goodly 
wench  to  serve  him  with  it :  they  were 
fighting  for  her  to-day  in  the  street. 


yd  Beggar.     Peace  ! 

\st   Beggar.     The  black  sheep  baaed 
to  the  miller's  ewe-lamb. 

The  miller's  away  for  to-night. 
Black  sheep,  quoth  she,  too  black  a  sin 
for  me. 

And  what  said  the  black  sheep,  my 
masters? 

We  can  make  a  black  sin  white. 

yd  Beggar.     Peace  ! 

1st  Beggar.     '  Ewe    lamb,  ewe    lamb, 
I  am  here  by  the  dam.' 

But  the  miller  came  home  that  night. 
And  so  dusted  his  back  with  the  meal  in 
his  sack. 

That  he  made  the  black  sheep  white. 

yd  Beggar.  Be  we  not  of  the  family? 
be  we  not  a-supping  with  the  head  of  the 
family?  be  we  not  in  my  lord's  own 
refractory?  Out  from  among  us;  thou 
art  our  black  sheep. 

Enter  the  four  Knights. 

Fitziirse.  Sheep,  said  he  ?  And  sheep 
without  the  shepherd,  too.  Where  is  my 
lord  Archbishop?  Thou  the  lustiest  and 
lousiest  of  this  Cain's  brotherhood,  answer. 

yd  Beggar.  With  Cain's  answer,  my 
lord.  Am  I  his  keeper?  Thou  shouldst 
call  him  Cain,  not  me. 

Fitzurse.  So  I  do,  for  he  would 
murder  his  brother  the  State. 

yd  Beggar  (rising  and  advancing). 
No,  my  lord;  but  because  the  Lord  hath 
set  his  mark  upon  him  that  no  man  should 
murder  him. 

Fitzurse.     Where  is  he?  where  is  he? 

yd  Beggar.  With  Cain  belike,  in 
the  land  of  Nod,  or  in  the  land  of  France 
for  aught  I  know. 

Fitzurse.  France  !  Ha  !  De  Morville, 
Tracy,  Brito  —  fled  is  he  ?  Cross  swords 
all  of  you !  swear  to  follow  him ! 
Remember  the  Queen  ! 

[  The  four  Knights  cross  their  swords. 

De  Brito.  They  mock  us;  he  is  here. 
\^All  the  Beggars  rise  and  advance 
upon  them. 

Fitzurse.  Come,  you  filthy  knaves,  let 
us  pass. 

yd  Beggar.  Nay,  my  lord,  let  us 
pass.  We  be  a-going  home  after  our 
supjier  in  all  humbleness,  my  lord;    for 


SCENE    IV 


BECKET. 


697 


the  Archbishop  loves  humbleness,  my 
lord;  and  though  we  be  fifty  to  four,  we 
daren't  hght  you  with  our  crutches,  my 
lord.  There  now,  if  thou  hast  not  laid 
hands  upon  me  !  and  my  fellows  know 
that  I  am  all  one  scale  like  a  fish.  I 
pray  God  I  haven't  given  thee  my  leprosy, 
my  lord. 

\Y'\\.z\!iX%t  shrinks  from  him  and  another 
presses  tipon  De  Brito. 

De  Brito.     Away,  dog  ! 

4^■/^  Beggar.  And  I  was  bit  by  a  mad 
dog  o'  Friday,  an'  I  be  half  dog  already 
by  this  token,  that  tho'  I  can  drink  wine 
I  cannot  bide  water,  my  lord;  and  I 
want  to  bite,  I  want  to  bite,  and  they  do 
say  the  very  breath  catches. 

De  Brito.  Insolent  clown !  Shall  I 
smite  him  with  the  edge  of  the  sword? 

De  Morville.  No,  nor  with  the  flat  of 
it  either.  Smite  the  shepherd  and  the 
sheep  are  scattered.  Smite  the  sheep 
and  the  shepherd  will  excommunicate 
thee. 

De  Brito.  Yet  my  fingers  itch  to  beat 
him  into  nothing. 

^th  Beggar.  So  do  mine,  my  lord.  I 
was  born  w'ith  it,  and  sulphur  won't  bring 
it  out  o'  me.  But  for  all  that  the  Arch- 
bishop washed  my  feet  o'  Tuesday.  He 
likes  it,  my  lord. 

dth  Beggar.  And  see  here,  my  lord, 
this  rag  fro'  the  gangrene  i'  my  leg.  It's 
humbling  —  it  smells  o'  human  natur'. 
Wilt  thou  smell  it,  my  lord?  for  the 
Archbishop  likes  the  smell  on  it,  my  lord; 
for  I  be  his  lord  and  master  i'  Christ,  my 
lord. 

De  Morville.  Faugh  I  we  shall  all  be 
poisoned.     Let  us  go. 

[  They  draw  back,  'Qegg2iX%follozui7tg. 

']th  Beggar.  My  lord,  I  ha'  three 
sisters  a-dying  at  home  o'  the  sweating 
sickness.  They  be  dead  while  I  be  a- 
supping. 

^th  Beggar.  And  I  ha'  nine  darters  i' 
the  spital  that  be  dead  ten  times  o'er  i' 
one  day  wi'  the  putrid  fever;  and  I  bring 
the  taint  on  it  along  wi'  me,  for  the 
Archbishop  likes  it,  my  lord. 

[^Pressing  upon  the  Knights  till  they 
disappear  thro''  the  door. 

^rd Beggar.     Crutches,  and  itches,  and 


leprosies,  and  ulcers,  and  gangrenes,  and 
running  sores,  praise  ye  the  Lord,  for 
to-night  ye  have  saved  our  Archbishop  ! 

\st  Beggar.  I'll  go  back  again.  I 
hain't  half  done  yet. 

Herbert  of  Bosham  (^e7itering^ .  My 
friends,  the  Archbishop  bids  you  good 
night.  He  hath  retired  to  rest,  and 
being  in  great  jeopardy  of  his  life,  he 
hath  made  his  bed  between  the  altars, 
from  whence  he  sends  me  to  bid  you 
this  night  pray  for  him  who  hath  fed  you 
in  the  wilderness. 

yd  Beggar.  So  we  will  —  so  we  will, 
I  warrant  thee.  Becket  shall  be  king, 
and  the  Holy  Father  shall  be  king,  and 
the  world  shall  live  by  the  King's  venison 
and  the  bread  o'  the  Lord,  and  there 
shall  be  no  more  poor  for  ever.  Hurrah  ! 
Vive  le  Roy  I     That's  the  English  of  it. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.  —  Rosamund's  Bower. 

A  Garden  of  Floivers.  hi  the  ?nidst  a 
bank  of  wild-flowers  with  a  bench  be- 
fore it. 

Voices  heard  sijiging  among  the  trees. 

Duet. 


Is  it  the  wind  of  the  dawn  that  I  hear 

in  the  pine  overhead? 
No;   but  the  voice  of  the  deep  as  it 

hollows  the  cliffs  of  the  land. 
Is  there  a  voice  coming  up  with  the 

voice  of  the  deep  from  the  strand, 
One  coming  up  with  a  song  in  the 

flush  of  the  glimmering  red? 
Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  coming 

up  with  the  sun  from  the  sea. 
Love  that  can  shape  or  can  shatter  a 

life  till  the  life  shall  have  fled? 
Nay,  let  us  welcome  him,  Love  that 

can  lift  up  a  life  from  the  dead. 
Keep  him  away  from  the  lone  little 

isle.     Let  us  be,  let  us  be. 
Nay,  let  him  make  it  his  own,  let  him 

reign  in  it  —  he,  it  is  he, 
Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  coming 

up  with  the  sun  from  the  sea. 


2. 


2. 


698 


BECKET. 


ACT   II. 


Enter  Henry  and  Rosamund. 

Rosamund.     Be  friends  with  him  again 

—  I  do  beseech  thee. 
Henry.     With    Becket?      I  have   but 
one  hour  with  thee  — 
Sceptre   and   crozier   clashing,   and  the 

mitre 
Grapphng  the  crown  —  and  when  I  flee 

from  this 
For   a   gasp    of  freer   air,  a   breathing- 
while 
To    rest    upon    thy    bosom    and    forget 

him  — 
Why  thou,  my  bird,  thou  pipest  Becket, 

Becket  — 
Yea,  thou  my  golden  dream  of  Love's 

own  bower, 
Must  be  the  nightmare  breaking  on  my 

peace 
With  '  Becket.' 

Rosamund.     O    my  life's    life,  not    to 
smile 
Is  all    but    death   to  me.       My  sun,  no 

cloud  ! 
Let  there  not  be  one  frown  in  this  one 

hour. 
Out  of  the  many  thine,  let  this  be  mine  ! 
Look  rather  thou  all-royal  as  when  first 
I  met  thee. 

Henry.     Where  was  that? 
Rosamund.  Forgetting  that 

Forgets  me  too. 

Hetiry.  Nay,  I  remember  it  well. 

There  on  the  moors. 

Rosafnund.         And  in  a  narrow  path. 
A  plover  flew  before  thee.     Then  I  saw 
Thy  high  black  steed  among  the  flaming 

furze, 
Like  sudden  night  in  the  main  glare  of 

day. 
And   from   that   height    something   was 

said  to  me 
I  knew  not  what. 

Henry.  I  ask'd  the  way. 

Rosamund.  I  think  so. 

So  I  lost  mine. 

Henry.  Thou  wast  too  shamed  to 

answer. 
Rosa?nund.     Too  scared — so  young! 
Henry.     The  rosebud  of  my  rose  !  — 
Well,  well,  no  more  of  hi;?i  —  I  have  sent 
his  folk, 


His  kin,  all  his  belongings,  overseas; 
Age,  orphans,  and  babe-breasting  mothers 

—  all 
By   hundreds    to    him  —  there    to    beg, 

starve,  die  — 
So  that  the  fool  King  Louis  feed  them 

not. 
The  man  shall  feel  that  I  can  strike  him 
yet. 
Rosamund.     Babes,  orphans,  mothers  ! 

is  that  royal.  Sire? 
Henry.     And    I    have   been    as    royal 
with  the  Church. 
He  shelter'd  in  the  Abbey  of  Pontigny. 
There  wore  his  time  studying  the  canon 

law 
To  work    it   against   me.     But  since  he 

cursed 
My  friends  at  Veselay,  I  have  let  them 

know. 
That  if  they  keep  him  longer  as  their 

guest, 
I  scatter  all  their  cowls  to  all  the  hells. 
Rosamund.      And  is  that   altogether 

royal? 
Henry.  Traitress ! 

Rosamund.     A  faithful  traitress  to  thy 

royal  fame. 
Henry.     Fame  !  what  care  I  for  fame? 
Spite,  ignorance,  envy, 
Yea,  honesty  too,  paint  her  what  way 

they  will. 
Fame  of  to-day  is  infamy  to-morrow; 
Infamy  of  to-day  is  fame  to-morrow; 
And    round    and    round    again.      What 

matters  ?     Royal  — 
I  mean  to  leave  the  royalty  of  my  crown 
Unlessen'd  to  mine  heirs. 

Rosamund.  Still  —  thy  fame  too: 

I  say  that  should  be  royal. 

Henry.  And  I  say, 

I  care  not  for  thy  saying. 

Rosanuind.  And  I  say, 

I   care    not    for    thy  saying.     A    greater 

•      King 
Than  thou  art,  Love,  who  cares  not  for 

the  word, 
Makes  '  care  not '  —  care.     There  have  1 
spoken  true? 
Ilcnry.     Care  dwell  with  me  for  ever, 
when  I  cease 
Ti)  care  for  thee  as  ever  ! 
Rosamund.     No  need !  no  need  !  .  .  ■ 


SCENE   I. 


BECKET. 


699 


There  is  a  bench.     Come,  wilt  thou  sit? 

.  .  .  My  bank 
Of  wild-flowers  {Jie  sits) .     At  thy  feet ! 

\^She  sits  at  his  feet. 
Henry.  I  bade  them  clear 

A  royal  pleasaunce  for  thee,  in  the  wood, 
Not  leave  these  countryfolk  at  court. 

Rosamund.  I  brought  them 

In  from  the  wood,  and  set  them  here.     I 

love  them 
More  than  the  garden  flowers,  that  seem 

at  most 
Sweet  guests,  or  foreign  cousins,  not  half 

speaking 
The  language  of  the  land.     I  love  them 

too, 
Yes.     But,  my  liege,  I   am   sure,  of  all 

the  roses  — 
Shame  fall  on  those  who  gave  it  a  dog's 

name  — 
This  wild  one  (^picking  a  briar-rose^  — 

nay,  I  shall  not  prick  myself  — 
Is  sweetest.     Do  but  small ! 

Henry.  Thou  rose  of  the  world  ! 

Thou  rose  of  all  the  roses  !      \_Muttering. 
I   am    not  worthy  of  her  —  this   beast- 
body 
That  God  has  plunged  my  soul  in  —  I, 

that  taking 
The  Fiend's  advantage  of  a  throne,  so 

long 
Have  wander'd  among  women,  —  a  foul 

stream 
Thro'  fever-breeding  levels,  —  at  her  side, 
Among  these   happy  dales,  run  clearer, 

drop 
The  mud  I  carried,  like  yon  brook,  and 

glass 

The  faithful  face  of  heaven 

\_Looking  at  her,  and  tinconsciously  aloud, 

—  thine  !   thine  I 

Rosamund.  I  know  it. 

Henry  {inuttering) .     Not   hers.     We 

have  but  one  bond,  her  hate  of 

Becket. 
Rosamund  {half  hear i tig).   Nay  !  nay  I 

what  art  thou  muttering?     /hate 

Becket? 
Henry     {muttering).       A     sane     and 

natural  loathing  for  a  soul 
Purer,  and  truer  and  nobler  than  herself; 
And  mine  a  bitterer  illegitimate  hate, 
A  bastard  hate  born  of  a  former  love. 


Rosamund.     My  fault   to  name   him  I 
O  let  the  hand  of  one 
To  whom  thy  voice  is  all  her  music,  stay  it 
But  for  a  breath. 

\^Puts  her  hand  before  his  lips. 

Speak  only  of  thy  love. 

Why  there  —  like  some  loud  beggar  at 

thy  gate  — 
The  happy  boldness  of  this  hand  hath 

won  it 
Love's  alms,  thy  kiss  {looking  at  her  hand) 
—  Sacred  !     I'll  kiss  it  too. 

\^Kissing  it. 
There  !  wherefore  dost  thou  so  peruse  it? 

Nay, 
There  may  be  crosses  in  my  line  of  life. 
Henry.     Not  half  her  hand  —  no  hand 
to  mate  with  her. 
If  it  should  come  to  that. 

Rosamund.        With  her?  with  whom? 
Henry.     Life   on  the    hand   is   naked 
gipsy-stuff; 
Life  on  the  face,  the  brows  —  clear  inno- 
cence ! 
Vein'd  marble  —  not  a  furrow  yet  —  and 
hers  \_Muttei'ing. 

Crost  and   recrost,  a  venomous  spider's 

web 

Rosam  tind  {springing  up) .     Out  of  the 
cloud,  my  Sun  —  out  of  the  eclipse 
Narrowing  my  golden  hour  ! 

Henry.  O  Rosamund, 

I  would  be  true  —  would  tell  thee  all  — 

and  something 
I  had  to  say  —  I  love  thee  none  the  less  — 
Which  will  so  vex  thee. 

Rosamund.     Something  against  me? 
Henry.     No,  no,  against  myself. 
Rosamujtd.  I  will  not  hear  it. 

Come,  come,  mine  hour  !     I  bargain  for 

mine  hour. 
I'll  call  thee  little  Geoffrey. 

Henry.  Call  him ! 

Rosamund.  Geoffrey! 

Enter  GEOFFREY. 

Henry.     How  the  boy  grows  ! 
Rosamund.     Ay,    and    his    brows   are 

thine; 
The    mouth    is   only   Clifford,    my    dear 

father. 
Geoffrey.     My  liege,   what   hast  thou 

brought  me? 


700 


BECKET. 


ACT   II. 


Henry.  Venal  imp  ! 

What  say'st  thou  to  the  Chancellorship  of 
England? 
Geoffrey.     O  yes,  my  liege. 
Henry.  '  O  yes,  my  liege  !  '     He 

speaks 
As  if  it  were  a  cake  of  gingerbread. 

Dost  thou  know,  my  boy,  what  it  is  to 
be  Chancellor  of  England? 

Geoffrey.  Something  good,  or  thou 
wouldst  not  give  it  me. 

Henry.  It  is,  my  boy,  to  side  with 
the  King  when  Chancellor,  and  then  to 
be  made  Archbishop  and  go  against  the 
King  who  made  him,  and  turn  the  world 
upside  down. 

Geoffrey.  I  won't  have  it  then.  Nay, 
but  give  it  me,  and  I  promise  thee  not  to 
turn  the  world  upside  down. 

Henry  {giving  him  a  ball).     Here  is  a 

ball,  my  boy,  thy  world,  to  turn  anyway 

and  play  with  as  thou  wilt  —  which  is  more 

than  I  can  do  with  mine.     Go  try  it,  play. 

\_Exit  Geoffrey. 

A  pretty  lusty  boy. 

Rosaimind.  So  like  to  thee; 

Like  to  be  liker. 

Henry.  Not  in  my  chin,  I  hope  ! 

That  threatens  double. 
Rosamund.  Thou  art  manlike 

perfect. 
Henry.     Ay,  ay,  no  doubt;   and  were 
I  humpt  behind, 
Thou'dst  say  as  much  —  the  goodly  way 

of  women 
Who  love,  for  which  1  love  them.     May 

God  grant 
No  ill  befall  or  him  or  thee  when  I 
Am  gone. 

Rosamund.     Is  he  thy  enemy? 
Henry.  He?  who?  ay! 

RosajHund.     Thine  enemy  knows  the 

secret  of  my  bovver. 
Henry.     And  I  could  tear  him  asunder 
with  wild  horses 
Before  he  would  betray  it.  Nay  —  no  fear  ! 
More  like  is  he  to  excommunicate  me. 
Rosajfiund.     And  I  would  creep,  crawl 
over  knife-edge  flint 
Barefoot,  a  hundred  leagues,  to  stay  his 

hand 
Before  he  flash'd  the  bolt. 

Henry.  And  when  he  flash'd  it 


Shrink  from  me,  like  a  daughter  of  the 
Church. 
Rosamund.     Ay,  but  he  will  not. 
Henry.  Ay!  but  if  he  did? 

Rosamund.      O    then !     O    then !       I 
almost  fear  to  say 
That  my  poor  heretic   heart  would  ex- 
communicate 
His  excommunication,  clinging  to  thee 
Closer  than  ever. 

Henry  {raising  Rosamund  a7id  kissing 
her).         My  brave-hearted  Rose  ! 
Hath  he  ever  been  to  see  thee? 

Rosamund.  Here?  not  he. 

And  it  is  so  lonely  here  —  no  confessor. 
Henry.     Thou    shalt    confess   all    thy 

sweet  sins  to  me. 
Rosamund.     Besides,  we    came    away 
in  such  a  heat, 
I  brought  not  ev'n  my  crucifix. 

Henry.  Take  this. 

\_Giving  her  the  Crucifix  which  YAtdi- 
r\ox  gave  him. 
Rosamund.     O  beautiful !     May  I  have 
it  as  mine,  till  mine 
Be  mine  again? 

Henry  {throwing  it  round  her  neck). 

Thine  —  as  I  am  —  till  death  ! 
Rosamund.     Death?  no!     I'll  have  it 
with  me  in  my  shroud. 
And  wake  with  it,  and  show  it  to  all  the 
Saints. 
Henry.     Nay  —  I  must  go;   but  when 
thou  layest  thy  lip 
To  this,  remembering  One  who  died  for 

thee. 
Remember  also  one  who  lives  for  thee 
Out  there  in  France;    for  I  must  hence 

to  brave 
The  Pope,  King  Louis,  and  this  turbu- 
lent priest. 
Rosamund  {kneeling).     O  by  thy  love 
for  me,  all  mine  for  thee. 
Fling  not  thy  soul  into  the  flames  of  hell : 
I   kneel   to  thee  —  be   frientls  with  him 
again. 
Henry.     Look,  look  !  if  little  Geoffrey 
have  not  tost 
His  ball  into  the  brook  !  makes  after  it  too 
To  find  it.     Why,  the  child  will  drown 
himself. 
Rosamund.     Geoffrey !  Geoffrey  ! 

\^Exeunt. 


SCENE    II, 


BECKET. 


701 


SCENE    II.  — MONTMIRAIL. 

'  The  Meeting  of  the  Kings'  John  of 
Oxford  and  Henry.  Crozvd  in  the 
distance. 

John  of  Oxford.    You  have  not  crown'd 

young  Henry  yet,  my  liege? 
Henry.     Crown'd  !   by  God's  eyes,  we 
will  not  have  him  crown'd. 
I  spoke  of  late  to  the  boy,  he  answer'd 

me, 
As  if  he  wore  the  crown  already  —  No, 
We  will  not  have. him  crown'd. 
'Tis  true  what  Becket  told  me,  that  the 

mother 
Would    make    him    play    his    kingship 
against  mine. 
John    of    Oxford.       Not     have     him 

crown'd  ? 
Henry.  Not  now  —  not  yet !  and 

Becket  — 
Becket  should  crown  him  were  he  crown'd 

at  all : 
But,  since  we  would  be  lord  of  our  own 

manor. 
This  Canterbury,  like  a  wounded  deer, 
Has  fled  our  presence  and  our  feeding- 
grounds. 
John   of  Oxford.      Cannot    a   smooth 
tongue  lick  him  whole  again 
To  serve  your  will? 

Henry.  He  hates  my  will,  not  me. 

John    of  Oxford.     There's   York,  my 

liege. 
Henry.  But  England  scarce  would 

hold 
Young  Henry  king,  if  only  crown'd  by 

York, 
And  that  would  stilt  up  York  to  twice 

himself. 
There    is    a   movement    yonder    in    the 

crowd  — 
See  if  our  pious  —  what  shall  I  call  him, 

John?  — 
Husband-in-law,  our  smooth-shorn  suze- 
rain. 
Be  yet  within  the  field. 
John  of  Oxford.  I  will.         \_Exit. 

Hejvy.  Ay !     Ay ! 

Mince  and  go  back  !  his  politic  Holiness 
Hath  all  but  climb'd  the  Roman  perch 
again, 


And  we  shall  hear  him  presently  with 
clapt  wing 

Crow  over  Barbarossa  —  at  last  tongue- 
free 

To  blast  my  realms  with  excommunication 

And  interdict.    I  must  patch  up  a  peace  — 

A  piece  in  this  long-tugged-at,  threadbare- 
worn 

Quarrel  of  Crown  and  Church  —  to  rend 
again. 

His  Holiness  cannot  steer  straight  thro' 
shoals. 

Nor  I.  The  citizen's  heir  hath  conquer'd 
me 

For  the  moment.  So  we  make  our 
peace  with  him. 

Enter  Louis. 

Brother  of  France,  what  shall  be  done 

with  Becket? 
Louis.     The  holy  Thomas !     Brother, 

you  have  traftick'd 
Between    the    Emperor   and    the    Pope, 

between 
The    Pope    and    Antipope  —  a   perilous 

game 
For  men  to  play  with  God. 

Henry.  Ay,  ay,  good  brother, 

They  call  you  the  Monk-King. 

Louis.  Who  calls  me?  she 

That   was   my  wife,    now   yours?      You 

have  her  Duchy, 
The  point  you  aim'd  at,  and  pray  God 

she  prove 
True  wife  to  you.     You   have    had   the 

better  of  us 
In  secular  matters. 

Henry.     Come,  confess,  good  brother, 
You  did  your  best  or  worst  to  keep  her 

Duchy. 
Only  the  golden  Leopard  printed  in  it 
Such   hold-fast   claws  that  you  perforce 

again 
Shrank  into  France.     Tut,  tut !    did  we 

convene 
This    conference  but   to  babble  of  our 

wives  ? 
They  are  plagues  enough  in-door. 

Louis.  We  fought  in  the  East, 

And  felt  the  sun  of  Antioch  scald  our 

mail. 
And    push'd    our   lances    into    Saracen 

hearts. 


702 


BECKET. 


ACT   II. 


We  never  hc^unded  on  the  vState  at  home 
To  spoil  the  Church. 

Henry.  How  should  you  see  this 

rightly? 
Louis.     Well,  well,  no    more !     I  am 

proud  of  my  *  Monk-King,' 
Whoever  named  me;   and,  brother,  Holy 

Church 
May  rock,  bnt  will  not  wreck,  nor  our 

Archbishop 
Stagger  on  the  slope  decks  for  any  rough 

sea 
Blown  by  the  breath  of  kings.     We  do 

forgive  you 
For  aught  you  wrought  against  us, 

\_Henry  holds  up  his  hand. 

Nay,  I  pray  you. 

Do   not   defend   yourself.     You  will  do 

much 
To  rake  out  all  old  dying  heats,  if  you, 
At  my  requesting,  will  but  look  into 
The  wrongs  you  did  him,  and  restore  his 

kin. 
Reseat  him  on  his  throne  of  Canterbury, 
Be,  both,  the  friends  you  were, 

Henry.  The  friends  we  were  ! 

Co-mates  we  were,  and   had    our    sport 

together, 
Co-kings  we  were,  and   made  the  laws 

together. 
The  world  had  never  seen  the  like  before. 
You  are  too  cold  to  know  the  fashion  of  it. 
Well,  well,  we  will  be  gentle  with  him, 

gracious  — 
Most  gracious. 

Enter  Becket,  after  him,  John  of 
Oxford,  Roger  of  York,  Gilbert 
FoLiOT,  De  Broc,  Fitzurse,  etc. 

Only  that  the  rift  he  made 
May  close  between  us,  here  I  am  wholly 

king, 
The  word  should  come  from  him. 

Becket  (^kneeling) .  Then,  my  dear  liege, 
I  here  deliver  all  this  controversy 
Into  your  royal  hands. 

Henry.  Ah,  Thomas,  Thomas, 

Thou  art  thyself  again,  Thomas  again, 

Becket  (^rising).  Saving  God's  honour  ! 

Henry.  Out  upon  thee,  man  ! 

Saving  the  Devil's  honour,  his  yes  and  no. 

Knights,    bishops,    earls,    this     London 

spawn  —  by  Mahound, 


I  had  sooner  have  been  born  a  Mussul- 
man— 
Less  clashing  with  their  priests  — 
*  I  am  half-waydown  the  slope  —  will  no 

man  stay  me? 
I  dash  myself  to  pieces  —  I  stay  myself — 
Puft" — it  is  gone.     You,  Master  Becket, 

you 
That  owe  to  me  your  power  over  me  — 
Nay,  nay  — 
Brother    of    France,   you    have    taken, 

cherish'd  him 
Who  thief-like  fled  from  his  own  church 

by  night, 
No   man    pursuing.     I  would    have  had 

him  back. 
Take  heed  he  do  not  turn  and  rend  you 

too : 
For  whatsoever  may  displease  him  —  that 
Is  clean  against  God's  honour  —  a  shift,  a 

trick 
Whereby  to  challenge,  face  me  out  of  all 
My  regal   rights.     Yet,  yet  —  that   none 

may  dream 
I  go  against  God's  honour  —  ay,  or  him- 
self 
In  any  reason,  choose 
A   hundred    of    the    wisest   heads    from 

England, 
A    hundred,    too,    from   Normandy   and 

Anjou : 
Let  these  decide  on  what  was  customary 
In  olden    days,   and   all   the  Church   of 

France 
Decide  on  their  decision,  I  am  content. 
More,  what  the  mightiest  and  the  holiest 
Of  all  his  predecessors  may  have  done 
Ev'n   to   the    least  and   meanest  of  my 

own, 
Let  him  do  the  same  to  me  —  I  am  con- 
tent, 
Louis.     Ay,    ay !     the    King   humbles 

himself  enough, 
Becket.       (^Aside.)     Words!     he    will 

wriggle  out  of  them  like  an  eel 
When  the   time    serves,     {Aioud.)     My 

lieges  and  my  lords. 
The  thanks  of  Holy  Church  are  due  to 

those 
That  went  before  us  for  their  work,  which 

we 
Inheriting      reap      an     easier      harvest. 

Vet 


SCENE   II. 


BECKET. 


703 


Louis.     My  lord,  will  you  be  greater 

than  the  Saints, 
More  than  St.  Peter?  whom what  is 

it  you  doubt? 
Behold  your  peace  at  hand. 

Becket.  I  say  that  those 

Who  went  before  us  did  not  wholly  clear 
The  deadly  growths  of  earth,  which  Hell's 

own  heat 
So  dwelt  on  that  they  rose  and  darken'd 

Heaven. 
Yet   they  did  much.     Would  God  they 

had  torn  up  all 
By  the  hard  root,  which    shoots  again; 

our  trial 
Had  so  been  less ;  but,  seeing  they  were 

men 
Defective  or  excessive,  must  we  follow 
All  that  they  overdid  or  underdid? 
Nay,  if  they  were  defective  as  St.  Peter 
Denying    Christ,    who    yet    defied    the 

tyrant, 
We  hold  by  his  defiance,  not  his  defect. 

0  good  son  Louis,  do  not  counsel  me, 
No,  to  suppress  God's  honour  for  the  sake 
Of   any    king   that   breathes.     No,  God 

forbid  ! 
Hemy.     No  I    God   forbid !    and  turn 

me  Mussulman  ! 
No  God  but  one,  and   Mahound   is  his 

prophet. 
But  for   your  Christian,  look    you,   you 

shall  have 
None  other  God  but  me  —  me,  Thomas, 

son 
Of   Gilbert    Becket,    London    merchant. 

Out! 

1  hear  no  more.  \_Exit. 
Louis.     Our  brother's  anger  puts  him. 

Poor    man,    beside    himself — not   wise. 

My  lord. 
We  have  claspt  your  cause,  believing  that 

our  brother 
Had   wrong'd    you;     but    this    day    he 

profifer'd  peace. 
You  will  have  war;    and  tho'  we  grant 

the  Church 
King    over    this   world's    kings,  yet,  my 

good  lord, 
We  that  are  kings  are  something  in  this 

world. 
And  so  we  pray  you,  draw  yourself  from 

under 


The  wings  of  France.     We  shelter  you 
no  more.  \^Exit. 

John   of  Oxford.         I    am    glad    that 
France  hath  scouted  him  at  last : 
I  told  the  Pope  what  manner  of  man  he 
was.  \^Exit. 

Roger  of  York.     Yea,  since  he  flouts 
the  will  of  either  realm. 
Let   either   cast  him   away  like   a   dead 
dog !  \_Exit. 

Foliot.     Yea,  let  a  stranger  spoil  his 
heritage. 
And  let  another  take  his  bishoprick  I 

lExit. 
De  Broc.     Our    castle,    my   lord,    be- 
longs to  Canterbury. 
I  pray  you  come  and  take  it.  \^Exit. 

Fitzurse.  When  you  will.     \^Exit. 

Becket.     Cursed  be   John    of  Oxford, 
Roger  of  York, 
And    Gilbert    Foliot  I    cursed   those    De 

Brocs 
That  hold  our  Saltwood  Castle  from  our 

see ! 
Cursed  Fitzurse,  and  all  the  rest  of  them 
That  sow  this  hate  between  my  lord  and 
me  I 
Voices  from  the  Crowd.  Blessed  be 
the  Lord  Archbishop,  who  hath  with- 
stood two  Kings  to  their  faces  for  the 
honour  of  God. 

Becket.     Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes 
and  sucklings,  praise  ! 
I  thank  you,  sons;   when  kings  but  hold 

by  crowns. 
The  crowd  that  hungers  for  a  crown  in 

Heaven 
Is  my  true  king. 

Herbert.     Thy  true  King  bade  thee  be 

A  fisher  of  men;   thou  hast  them  in  thy 

net. 

Becket.     I  am  too  like  the  King  here; 

both  of  us 

Too  headlong  for  our  office.     Better  have 

been 
A  fisherman  at  Bosham,  my  good  Herbert, 
Thy     birthplace  —  the     sea-creek  —  the 

petty  rill 
That  falls  into  it  —  the  green  field  —  the 

gray  church  — 
The     simple     lobster-basket,     and     the 

mesh  — 
The  more  or  less  of  daily  labour  done  — 


704 


BECKET. 


ACT   II. 


The  pretty  gaping  bills  in  the  home-nest 
Piping  for  bread  —  the  daily  want  sup- 
plied— 
The  daily  pleasure  to  supply  it. 

Herbert.  Ah,  Thomas, 

You  had  not  borne  it,  no,  not  for  a  day. 

Becket.     Well,  maybe,  no. 

Herbert.     But  bear  with  Walter  Map, 
For  here  he  comes  to  comment  on  the 
time. 

Enter  Walter  Map. 

Walter  Map.  Pity,  my  lord,  that  you 
have  quenched  the  warmth  of  France  to- 
ward you,  tho'  His  Holiness,  after  much 
smouldering  and  smoking,  be  kindled 
again  upon  your  quarter. 

Becket.     Ay,  if  he  do  not  end  in  smoke 
again. 

Walter  Map.  My  lord,  the  fire,  when 
first  kindled,  said  to  the  smoke,  '  Go  up, 
my  son,  straight  to  Heaven.'  And  the 
smoke  said, '  I  go;  '  but  anon  the  North- 
east took  and  turned  him  South-west, 
then  the  South-west  turned  him  North- 
east, and  so  of  the  other  winds;  but  it 
was  in  him  to  go  up  straight  if  the  time 
had  been  quieter.  Your  lordship  affects 
the  unwavering  perpendicular;  but  His 
Holiness,  pushed  one  way  by  the  Em- 
pire and  another  by  England,  if  he 
move  at  all,  Heaven  stay  him,  is  fain  to 
diagonalise. 

Herbert.    Diagonalise  !  thou  art  a  word- 
monger. 
Our  Thomas  never  will  diagonalise. 
Thou  art  a  jester  and  a  verse-maker. 
Diagonalise  ! 

Walter  Map.  Is  the  world  any  the 
worse  for  my  verses  if  the  Latin  rhymes 
be  rolled  out  from  a  full  mouth  ?  or  any 
harm  done  to  the  people  if  my  jest  be  in 
defence  of  the  Truth? 

Becket.     Ay,  if  the  jest  be  so  done  that 
the  people 
Delight  to  wallow  in  the  grossness  of  it, 
Till   Truth    herself  be    shamed   of    her 

defender. 
Non  defensoribus  istis,  Walter  Map. 

Walter  Map.  Is  that  my  case?  so  if 
the  city  be  sick,  and  I  cannpt  call  the 
kennel  sweet,  your  lordship  would  sus- 
pend me  from  verse-writing,  as  you  sus- 


pended yourself  after  sub-writing  to  the 
customs. 

Becket.  I  pray  God  pardon  mine  in- 
firmity. 
Walter  Map.  Nay,  my  lord,  take 
heart;  for  tho'  you  suspended  yourself, 
the  Pope  let  you  down  again;  and  tho' 
you  suspend  Foliot  or  another,  the  Pope 
will  not  leave  them  in  suspense,  for  the 
Pope  himself  is  always  in  suspense,  like 
Mahound's  coffin  hung  between  heaven 
and  earth  —  always  in  suspense,  like  the 
scales,  till  the  weight  of  Germany  or  the 
gold  of  England  brings  one  of  them 
down  to  the  dust  —  always  in  suspense, 
like  the  tail  of  the  horologe  —  to  and 
fro  —  tick-tack  —  we  make  the  time,  we 
keep  the  time,  ay,  and  we  serve  the 
time;  for  I  have  heard  say  that  if  you 
boxed  the  Pope's  ears  with  a  purse,  you 
might  stagger  him,  but  he  would  pocket 
the  purse.  No  saying  of  mine  —  Jocelyn 
of  Salisbury.  But  the  King  hath  bought 
half  the  College  of  Redhats.  He  warmed 
to  you  to-day,  and  you  have  chilled  him 
again.  Yet  you  both  love  God.  Agree 
with  him  quickly  again,  even  for  the  sake 
of  the  Church.  My  one  grain  of  good 
counsel  which  you  will  not  swallow.  I 
hate  a  split  between  old  friendships  as  I 
hate  the  dirty  gap  in  the  face  of  a  Cis- 
tercian monk,  that  will  swallow  anything. 
Farewell.  \_Exit. 

Becket.     Map  scoffs  at  Rome.     I  all 
but  hold  with  Map. 
Save  for  myself  no   Rome  were  left  in 

England, 
All   had   been    his.      Why   should    this 

Rome,  this  Rome, 
Still  choose    Barabbas  rather   than    the 

Christ, 
Absolve  the  left-hand  thief  and  damn  the 

right? 
Take    fees   of   tyranny,   wink    at    sacri- 
lege, 
Which  even  Peter  had  not  dared?  con- 
demn  ■' 
The  blameless  exile?  — 

Herbert.         Thee,  thou  holy  Thomas  ! 
I  would  that  thou  hadst  been  the  Holy 
Father. 
Becket.     I  would  have  done  my  most 
to  keep  Rome  holy, 


SCENE   II. 


BECKET. 


705 


I  would  have  made  Rome  know  she  still 

is  Rome  — 
Who  stands  aghast  at  her  eternal  self 
And  shakes  at  mortal  kings  —  her  vacilla- 
tion, 
Avarice,  craft  —  O  God,  how  many  an 

innocent 
Has  left  his  bones  upon  the  way  to  Rome 
Unwept,    uncared    for.     Yea  —  on   mine 

own  self 
The  King  had  had  no  power  except  for 

Rome. 
'Tis  not  the  King  who  is  guilty  of  mine 

exile, 
But  Rome,  Rome,  Rome  ! 

Herbert.  My  lord,  I  see  this  Louis 

Returning,  ah  !    to  drive  thee   from  his 

realm. 
Becket.       He    said    as    much    before. 

Thou  art  no  prophet, 
Nor  yet  a  prophet's  son. 

Herbert.  Whatever  he  say, 

Deny  not  thou  God's  honour  for  a  king. 
The  King  looks  troubled. 

Re-enter  King  Louis. 

Louis.  My  dear  lord  Archbishop, 

I  learn  but  now  that  those  poor  Poitevins, 
That   in  thy   cause   were   stirr'd  against 

King  Henry, 
Have  been,  despite  his  kingly  promise 

given 
To  our  own  self  of  pardon,  evilly  used 
And  put  to  pain.     I  have  lost  all  trust  in 

him. 
The  Church  alone  hath  eyes  —  and  now 

I  see 
That  I  was  blind  —  suffer  the  phrase  — 

surrendering 
God's  honour  to  the  pleasure  of  a  man. 
Forgive  me  and  absolve  me,  holy  father. 

\_Kneels. 
Becket.      Son,  I  absolve  thee  in  the 

name  of  God. 
Louis  {rising).     Return  to  Sens,  where 

we  will  care  for  you. 
The  wine  and  wealth  of  all  our  France 

are  yours; 
Rest  in  our  realm,  and  be  at  peace  with 

all.  \^Exeunt. 

Voices  from  the  Croivd.  Long  live 
the  good  King  Louis !  God  bless  the 
great  Archbishop  ! 

2  Z      . 


Re-enter  Henry  and  John  of  Oxford. 

Llenry  {looking  after  King  Louis  and 
Becket).  Ay,  there  they  go  —  both 
backs  are  turn'd  to  me  — 

Why  then  I  strike  into  my  former  path 

For  England,  crown  young  Henry  there, 
and  make 

Our  waning  Eleanor  all  but  love  me ! 

•John, 

Thou   hast   served   me    heretofore   with 
Rome  —  and  well. 

They  call  thee  John  the  Swearer. 
JoJui  of  Oxford.  For  this  reason. 

That,  being  ever  duteous  to  the  King, 

I  evermore  have  sworn  upon  his  side. 

And  ever  mean  to  do  it. 

Henry    {claps  him    on    the   shoulder). 
Honest  John  ! 

To  Rome  again  !  the  storm  begins  again. 

Spare  not  thy  tongue  !  be  lavish  with  our 
coins, 

Threaten  our  junction  with  the  Emperor 
—  flatter 

And  fright  the  Pope  —  bribe  all  the  Car- 
dinals—  leave 

Lateran  and  Vatican  in  one  dust  of  gold  — 

Swear  and  unswear,  state   and   misstate 
thy  best ! 

I  go  to  have  young  Henry  crown'd  by 
York. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.  — The  Bower. 

Henry  and  Rosamund. 

Henry.     All  that  you  say  is  just.     I 
cannot  answer  it. 
Till    better    times,    when    I    shall    put 

away 

Rosamund.     What  will  you  put  away? 

Henry.  That  which  you  ask  me 

Till   better    times.     Let   it   content   you 

now 
There  is  no  woman  that  I  love  so  well. 
Rosamund.     No  woman  but  should  be 

content  with  that 

Henry.     And  one  fair  child  to  fondle  ! 
Rosamund.  O  yes,  the  child 

We  waited  for  so  long  — heaven's  gift  at 
last  — 


7o6 


BECKET. 


ACT    III. 


And  how  you  doted  on  him  then  !     To- 
day 
I  ahnost  fear'd  your  kiss  was   colder  — 

yes  — 
But  then  the  child  is  such  a  child.     What 

chance 
That  he  should  ever  spread  into  the  man 
Here  in  our  silence?     I  have  done  my 

best. 
I  am  not  learn'd. 

Henry.  I  am  the  King,  his  father, 

And  I  will  look  to  it.     Is  our  secret  ours? 
Have  you  had  any  alarm?  no  stranger? 

Rosamund.  No. 

The   warder    of  the    bower    hath   given 

himself 
Of  late  to  wine.     I  sometimes  think  he 

sleeps 
When  he  should  watch;    and  yet  what 

fear?  the  people 
Believe   the  wood  enchanted.      No  one 

comes, 
Nor  foe  nor  friend;    his  fond  excess  of 

wine 
Springs  from  the  loneliness  of  my  poor 

bower. 
Which  weighs  even  on  me. 

Henry.  Yet  these  tree-towers. 

Their  long  bird-echoing  minster-aisles,  — 

the  voice 
Of  the    perpetual   brook,    these   golden 

slopes 
Of  Solomon-shaming  flowers  —  that  was 

your  saying, 
All  pleased  you  so  at  first. 

Rosamzmd.  .      Not  now  so  much. 

My  Anjou  bower  was  scarce  as  beautiful. 
But  you  were  oftener  there.     1  have  none 

but  you. 
The  brook's  voice  is  not  yours,  and  no 

flower,  not 
The  sun  himself,  should  he  be  changed 

to  one. 
Could  shine  away  the  darkness  of  that  gap 
Left  by  the  lack  of  love. 

Henry.  The  lack  of  love  ! 

Rosa??iund.     Of  one  we  love.     Nay,  I 

would  not  be  bold, 

Yet  hoped  ere  this  you  might 

\_Looks  earnestly  at  him. 
Henry.  Anything  further? 

Rosamund.       Only    my    best    bower- 
maiden  died  of  late. 


And  that  old  priest  whom  John  of  Salis- 
bury trusted 
Hath  sent  another. 

Henry.  Secret  ? 

Rosaf/iund.  I  but  ask'd  her 

One    question,    and    she    primm'd    her 

mouth  and  put 
Her  hands  together — thus — and  said, 

God  help  her. 
That  she  was  sworn  to  silence. 

Henry.  What  did  you  ask  her? 

Rosamund.       Some  daily  something- 
nothing. 
Henry.  Secret,  then? 

Rosamund.     I  do  not  love  her.     Must 
you  go,  my  liege, 
So  suddenly? 

Henry.  I  came  to  England  suddenly, 
And  on  a  great  occasion  sure  to  wake 

As  great  a  wrath  in  Becket 

Rosafuund.  Always  Becket ! 

He  always  comes  between  us. 

Henry.  — And  to  meet  it 

I  needs  must  leave  as  suddenly.     It  is 

raining, 
Put  on  your   hood  and  see  me  to   the 
bounds.  \_Exetint. 

Margery  {singing  behind  scene). 

Babble  in  bower 

Under  the  rose  ! 
Bee  mustn't  Inizz, 

Whoop  —  but  he  knows. 

Kiss  me,  little  one. 

Nobody  near ! 
Grasshopper,  grasshopper, 

Whoop  —  you  can  hear. 

Kiss  in  the  bower. 

Tit  on  the  tree  ! 
Bird  mustn't  tell, 

Whoop  —  he  can  see. 

Enter  Margery. 

T  ha'  been  but  a  week  here  and  I  ha' 
seen  what  I  ha'  seen,  for  to  be  sure  it's 
no  more  than  a  week  since  our  old 
Father  Philip  that  has  confessed  our 
mother  for  twenty  years,  and  she  was 
hard  put  to  it.  and  to  speak  truth,  nigh 
at  the  end  of  our  last  crust,  and  that 
mouldy,  and  she  cried  out  on  him  to  jiut 


SCENE    I. 


BECKET. 


707 


me  forth  in  the  world  and  to  make  me  a 
woman  of  the  world,  and  to  win  my  own 
bread,  whereupon  he  asked  our  mother 
if  I  could  keep  a  quiet  tongue  i'  my  head, 
and  not  speak  till  I  was  spoke  to,  and  I 
answered  for  myself  that  I  never  spoke 
more  than  was  needed,  and  he  told  me 
he  would  advance  me  to  the  service  of  a 
great  lady,  and  took  me  ever  so  far  away, 
and  gave  me  a  great  pat  o'  the  cheek  for 
a  pretty  wench,  and  said  it  was  a  pity  to 
blindfold  such  eyes  as  mine,  and  such  to 
be  sure  they  be,  but  he  blinded  'em  for 
all  that,  and  so  brought  me  no-hows  as 
I  may  say,  and  the  more  shame  to  him 
after  his  promise,  into  a  garden  and  not 
into  the  world,  and  bade  me  whatever  I 
saw  not  to  speak  one  word,  an'  it  'ud  be 
well  for  me  in  the  end,  for  there  were 
great  ones  who  would  look  after  me,  and 
to  be  sure  I  ha'  seen  great  ones  to-day  — 
and  then  not  to  speak  one  word,  for 
that's  the  rule  o'  the  garden,  tho'  to  be 
sure  if  I  had  been  Eve  i'  the  garden  I 
shouldn't  ha'  minded  the  apple,  for  what's 
an  apple,  you  know,  save  to  a  child,  and 
I'm  no  child,  but  more  a  woman  o'  the 
world  than  my  lady  here,  and  I  ha'  seen 
what  I  ha'  seen  —  tho'  to  be  sure  if  I 
hadn't  minded  it  we  should  all  on  us 
ha'  had  to  go,  bless  the  Saints,  wi'  bare 
backs,  but  the  backs  'ud  ha'  counte- 
nanced one  another,  and  belike  it  'ud  ha' 
been  always  summer,  and  anyhow  I  am 
as  well-shaped  as  my  lady  here,  and  I 
ha'  seen  what  I  ha'  seen,  and  what's  the 
good  of  my  talking  to  myself,  for  here 
comes  my  lady  {enter  Rosamund),  and, 
my  lady,  tho'  I  shouldn't  speak  one 
word,  I  wish  you  joy  o'  the  King's 
brother. 

Kosa77iund.     What  is  it  you  mean? 

Margery.  I  mean  your  goodman, 
your  husband,  my  lady,  for  I  saw  your 
ladyship  a-parting  wi'  him  even  now  i' 
the  coppice,  when  I  was  a-getting  o' 
bluebells  for  your  ladyship's  nose  to 
smell  on  —  and  I  ha'  seen  the  King  once 
at  Oxford,  and  he's  as  like  the  King  as 
fingernail  to  fingernail,  and  I  thought  at 
first  it  was  the  King,  onlv  you  know  the 
King's  married,  for  King  Louis 

Rosamund.     Married  I 


Margery.  Years  and  years,  my  lady, 
for  her  husband.  King  Louis  ^ 

Rosamiuid.     Hush  I 

Margery.  —  And  I  thought  if  it  were 
the  King's  brother  he  had  a  better  bride 
than  the  King,  for  the  people  do  say 
that  his  is  bad  beyond  all  reckoning, 
and 

Kosaimind.     The  people  lie. 

Margery.  Very  like,  my  lady,  but 
most  on  'em  know  an  honest  woman  and 
a  lady  when  they  see  her,  and  besides 
they  say,  she  makes  songs,  and  that's 
against  her,  for  I  never  knew  an  honest 
woman  that  could  make  songs,  tho'  to  be 
sure  our  mother  'ill  sing  me  old  songs  by 
the  hour,  but  then,  God  help  her,  she 
had  'em  from  her  mother,  and  her  mother 
from  her  mother  back  and  back  for  ever 
so  long,  but  none  of  'em  ever  made 
songs,  and  they  were  all  honest. 

Rosamund.  Go,  you  shall  tell  me  of 
her  some  other  time. 

Margery.  There's  none  so  much  to 
tell  on  her,  my  lady,  only  she  kept  the 
seventh  commandment  better  than  some 
I  know  on,  or  I  couldn't  look  your  lady- 
ship i'  the  face,  and  she  brew'd  the  best 
ale  in  all  Glo'ster,  that  is  to  say  in  her 
time  when  she  had  the  'Crown.' 

Rosa7mind.     The  crown  !  who? 

Margery.     Mother. 

Rosamund.  I  mean  her  whom  you 
call  —  fancy  —  my  husband's  brother's 
wife. 

Matgery.  Oh,  Queen  Eleanor.  Yes, 
my  lady;  and  tho'  I  be  sworn  not  to 
speak  a  word,  I  can  tell  you  all  about 
her,  if 

Rosamund.  No  word  now.  I  am 
faint  and  sleepy.  Leave  me.  Nay  —  go. 
\Vhat  I  will  you  anger  me? 

\_Exit  Margery. 
He  charged  me  not  to  question  any  of  those 
About  me.     Have  I  ?  no  I  she  question'd 

vie. 
Did  she  not  slander  him  ?     Should  she 

stay  here? 
May  she  not  tempt  me,  being  at  my  side, 
To  question  her'-'     Nay,  can  I  send  her 

hence 
Without  his  kingly  leave?     I  am  in  the 
dark. 


7o8 


BECKET. 


ACT   III. 


I   have  lived,   poor  bird,   from  cage  to 

cage,  and  known 
Nothing  but  him  —  happy  to  know  no 

more, 
So  that  he  loved  me  —  and  he  loves  me 

—  yes, 
And  bound  me  by  his  love  to  secrecy 
Till  his  own  time. 

Eleanor,  Eleanor,  have  I 
Not  heard  ill  things  of  her  in  France? 

Oh,  she's 
The  Queen  of  France.     I  see  it  —  some 

confusion, 
Some  strange  mistake.     I  did  not  hear 

aright, 
Myself  confused  with   parting  from  the 
King. 
Margery  {behind scene).     Bee  mustn't 
buzz. 
Whoop  —  but  he  knows. 
Rosamund.     Yet  her  —  what  her?  he 
hinted  of  some  her  — 
When  he  was  here  before  — 
Something    that    would    displease    me. 

Hath  he  stray'd 
From  love's  clear  path  into  the  common 

bush, 
And,  being  scratch'd,  returns  to  his  true 

rose. 
Who  hath  not  thorn  enough  to  prick  him 

for  it, 
Ev'n  with  a  word? 

Margery  {behind scene).   Bird  mustn't 

tell, 

Whoop  — he  can  see. 

Rosamund.     I    would    not  hear    him. 

Nay  —  there's  more  —  he  frown'd 

'No  mate  for  her,  if  it  should  come  to 

that '  — 
To  that  — to  what? 

Margery    {behind  scene).      Whoop  — 
but  he  knows. 
Whoop  —  but  he  knows. 
Rosamund.     O   God !    some   dreadful 
truth  is  breaking  on  me  — 
Some  dreadful  thing  is  coming  on  me. 

\_Enter  Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey ! 

Geoffrey.     What  are  you    crying    for, 

when  the  sun  shines? 
Rosaiyiund.     Hath  not  thy  father  left 

us  to  ourselves? 
Geoffrey.     Ay,  but  he's  taken  the  rain 


with  him.  I  hear  Margery  :  I'll  go  play 
with  her.  \_Exit  Geoffrey. 

Rosamund.     Rainbow,  stay, 

Gleam  upon  gloom, 

Bright  as  my  dream, 

Rainbow,  stay ! 

But  it  passes  away, 

Gloom  upon  gleam. 

Dark  as  my  doom  — 

O  rainbow,  stay. 

SCENE    II.  —  Outside    the    Woods 
NEAR  Rosamund's  Bower. 

Eleanor.    Fitzurse. 

Eleanor.     Up  from  the  salt  lips  of  the 
land  we  two 
Have  track'd  the  King  to  this  dark  inland 

wood; 
And  somewhere  hereabouts  he  vanish'd. 

Here 
His  turtle  builds;   his  exit  is  our  adit : 
Watch  !  he  will  out  again,  and  presently, 
Seeing    he    must    to    Westminster    and 

crown 
Young  Henry  there  to-morrow. 

Fitzurse.  We  have  watch'd 

So  long  in  vain,  he  hath  pass'd  out  again. 
And  on  the  other  side. 

\_A  great  horn  winded. 
Hark  !  Madam ! 
Eleanor.  Ay, 

How  ghostly  sounds    that    horn  in   the 
black  wood  ! 

\_A  countryman Jlying. 
Whither  away,  man?  what  are  you  flying 
from? 
Countryman.  The  witch  !  the  witch  ! 
she  sits  naked  by  a  great  heap  of  gold  in 
the  middle  of  the  wood,  and  when  the 
horn  sounds  she  comes  out  as  a  wolf. 
Get  you  hence  !  a  man  passed  in  there 
to-day  :  I  holla'd  to  him,  but  he  didn't 
hear  me  :  he'll  never  out  again,  the  witch 
has  got  him.  I  daren't  stay — I  daren't 
stay  ! 

Eleanor.     Kind  of  the  witch  to  give 

thee  warning  tho'.        \_Man  flies. 

Is  not  this  wood-witch  of  the  rustic's  fear 

Our   woodland  Circe   that   hath   witch'd 

the  King? 

\^IIorn  sounded.     Another  flying. 


SCENE   III. 


BECKET. 


709 


Fitzurse.     Again  !  stay,  fool,  and   tell 

me  why  thou  fliest. 

Countryman.     Fly    thou     too.       The 

King  keeps  his  forest  head  of  game  here, 

and  when    that  horn  sounds,  a  score  of 

wolf-dogs  are  let  loose  that  will  tear  thee 

piecemeal.      Linger    not    till    the    third 

horn.     Fly !  \_Exit. 

Eleanor.     This     is   the    likelier   tale. 

We  have  hit  the  place. 

Now  let  the   King's  fine  game  look  to 

itself.  \_Horn. 

Fitzurse.     Again  !  — 

And  far  on  in  the  dark  heart  of  the  wood 

I  hear  the  yelping  of  the  hounds  of  hell. 

Eleanor.     I  have  my  dagger  here  to 

still  their  throats. 
Fitzurse.     Xay,  Madam,  not  to-night 
—  the  night  is  falling. 
What  can  be  done  to-night? 

Eleanor.  Well  —  well  —  away. 

SCENE  III.  —  Traitor's  Meadow  at 
Fr^teval.  Pavilions  and  Tents 
OF  the  English  and  French  Bar- 
onage. 

Becket  a7id  Herbert  of  Bosham. 
Becket.     See  here  I 
Herbert.  What's  here? 

Becket.  A  notice  from  the  priest, 

To    whom    our  John   of  Salisbury  com- 
mitted 
The  secret  of  the  bower,  that  our  wolf- 
Queen 
Is  prowling  round  the  fold.     I  should  be 

back 
In  England  ev'n  for  this. 

Herbert.  These  are  by-things 

In  the  great  cause. 

Becket.  The  by-things  of  the  Lord 

Are  the  wrong'd  innocences  that  will  cry 
From  all  the     hidden    by-ways  of    the 

world 
In  the  great  day  against  the  wronger.     I 

know 
Thy  meaning.     Perish  she,  I,  all,  before 
The  Church  should  suffer  wrong ! 

Herbert.  Do  you  see,  my  lord. 

There  is  the  King  talking  with  Walter 
Map? 
Becket.     He     hath     the     Pope's    last 
letters,  and  they  threaten 


The  immediate  thunder-blast  of  interdict  : 
Yet  he  can  scarce  be  touching  upon  those, 
Or  scarce  would  smile  that  fashion. 

Herbert.  Winter  sunshine  ! 

Beware  of  opening  out  thy  bosom  to  it. 
Lest     thou,    myself,   and    all    thy    flock 

should  catch 
An  after  ague-fit  of  trembling.     Look  ! 
He  bows,  he  bares  his  head,  he  is  coming 

hither. 
Still  with  a  smile. 

Enter  King  Henry  a^id  Walter  Map. 

Henry.     We  have  had  so  many  hours 
together,  Thomas, 
So  many  happy  hours  alone  together, 
That  I  would  speak  with  you  once  more 
alone. 

Becket.     My  liege,  your  will  and  happi- 
ness are  mine. 

\^Exeu7it  King  atid  Becket. 

Herbert.     The  same  smile  still. 
Walter  Map.     Do  you  see  that  great 
black  cloud  that  hath  come  over  the  sun 
and  cast  us  all  into  shadow? 

Herbert.     And  feel  it  too. 

Walter  Map.  And  see  you  yon  side- 
beam  that  is  forced  from  under  it,  and 
sets  the  church-tower  over  there  all 
a-hell-fire  as  it  were? 

Herbert.     Ay. 

Walter  Map.  It  is  this  black,  bell- 
silencing,  anti-marrying,  burial-hindering 
interdict  that  hath  squeezed  out  this  side- 
smile  upon  Canterbury,  whereof  may 
come  conflagration.  Were  I  Thomas,  I 
wouldn't  trust  it.  Sudden  change  is  a 
house  on  sand;  and  tho'  I  count  Henry 
honest  enough,  yet  when  fear  creeps  in 
at  the  front,  honesty  steals  out  at  the 
back,  and  the  King  at  last  is  fairly  scared 
by  this  cloud  —  this  interdict.  I  have 
been  more  for  the  King  than  the  Church 
in  this  matte?  —  yea,  even  for  the  sake  of 
the  Church  :  for,  truly,  as  the  case  stood, 
you  had  safelier  have  slain  an  archbishop 
than  a  she-goat :  but  our  recoverer  and 
upholder  of  customs  hath  in  this  crown- 
ing of  young  Henry  by  York  and  London 
so  violated  the  immemorial  usage  of  the 
Church,  that,  like  the  gravedigger's  child 
I  have  heard  of,  trying  to  ring  the  bell, 
he  hath  half-hanged  himself  in  the  rope 


7IQ 


BECKET. 


ACT   III. 


of  the  Church,  or  rather  pulled  all  the 
Church  with  the  Holy  Father  astride  of 
it  down  upon  his  own  head, 

Herbert.  Were  you  there? 
Walter  Map.  In  the  church  rope?  — 
no.  I  was  at  the  crowning,  for  I  have 
pleasure  in  the  pleasure  of  crowds,  and 
to  read  the  faces  of  men  at  a  great 
show. 

Herbert.  And  how  did  Roger  of  York 
comport  himself? 

Walter  Map.  As  magnificently  and 
archiepiscopally  as  our  Thomas  would 
have  done :  only  there  was  a  dare-devil 
in  his  eye  —  I  should  say  a  dare-Becket. 
He  thought  less  of  two  kings  than  of  one 
Roger  the  king  of  the  occasion.  Foliot 
is  the  holier  man,  perhaps  the  better. 
Once  or  twice  there  ran  a  twitch  across 
his  face  as  who  should  say  what's  to 
follow?  but  Salisbury  Avas  a  calf  cowed 
by  Mother  Church,  and  every  now  and 
then  glancing  about  him  like  a  thief  at 
night  when  he  hears  a  door  open  in  the 
house  and  thinks  '  the  master.' 

Herbert.     And  the  father- king? 

Walter  Map.  The  father's  eye  was  so 
tender  it  would  have  called  a  goose  off 
the  green,  and  once  he  strove  to  hide 
his  face,  like  the  Greek  king  when  his 
daughter  was  sacrificed,  but  he  thought 
better  of  it :  it  was  but  the  sacrifice  of  a 
kingdom  to  his  son,  a  smaller  matter; 
but  as  to  the  young  crownling  himself,  he 
looked  so  malapert  in  the  eyes,  that  had 
I  fathered  him  I  had  given  him  more  of 
the  rod  than  the  sceptre.  Then  followed 
the  thunder  of  the  captains  and  the 
shouting,  and  so  we  came  on  to  the 
banquet,  from  whence  there  puffed  out 
such  an  incense  of  unctuosity  into  the 
nostrils  of  our  Gods  of  Church  and  State, 
that  Lucullus  or  Apicius  might  have 
sniffed  it  in  their  Hades  of  heathenism, 
so  that  the  smell  of  their  own  roast  had 
not  come  across  it 

Herbert.  Map,  tho'  you  make  your 
butt  too  big,  you  overshoot  it. 

Walter  Map.  —For  as  to  the  lish, 
they  de-miracled  the  miraculous  draught, 
and  might  have  sunk  a  navy 

Herbert.  There  again,  Goliasing  and 
Goliathising ! 


Walter  Map.  —  And  as  for  the  flesh 
at  table,  a  whole  Peter's  sheet,  with  all 
manner  of  game,  and  four-footed  things, 
and  fowls 

Herbert.  And  all  manner  of  creeping 
things  too? 

Walter  Map.  —  Well,  there  were 
Abbots  —  but  they  did  not  bring  their 
women;  and  so  we  were  dull  enough  at 
first,  but  in  the  end  we  flourished  out 
into  a  merriment;  for  the  old  King 
would  act  servitor  and  hand  a  dish  to 
his  son;  whereupon  my  Lord  of  York  — 
his  fine-cut  face  bowing  and  beaming 
with  all  that  courtesy  which  hath  less 
loyalty  in  it  than  the  backward  scrape 
of  the  clown's  heel  —  'great  honour,' 
says  he,  '  from  the  King's  self  to  the 
King's  son.'  Did  you  hear  the  young 
King's  quip? 

Herbert.     No,  what  was  it? 

Walter  Map.  Glancing  at  the  days 
when  his  father  was  only  Earl  of  Anjou, 
he  answered  :  —  '  Should  not  an  earl's 
son  wait  on  a  king's  son?'  And  when 
the  cold  corners  of  the  King's  mouth 
began  to  thaw,  there  was  a  great  motion 
of  laughter  among  us,  part  real,  part 
childlike,  to  be  freed  from  the  dulness 
—  part  royal,  for  King  and  kingling  both 
laughed,  and  so  we  could  not  but  laugh, 
as  by  a  royal  necessity  —  part  childlike 
again  —  when  we  felt  we  had  laughed 
too  long  and  could  not  stay  ourselves  — 
many  midriff-shaken  even  to  tears,  as 
springs  gush  out  after  earthquakes  —  but 
from  those,  as  I  said  before,  there  may 
come  a  conflagration  —  tho',  to  keep  the 
figure  moist  and  make  it  hold  water,  I 
should  say  rather,  the  lacrymation  of  a 
lamentation;  but  look  if  Thomas  have 
not  flung  himself  at  the  King's  feet. 
They  have  made  it  up  again  —  for  the 
moment. 

Herbert.  Thanks  to  the  blessed  Mag- 
dalen, whose  day  it  is. 

Re-enter  Hknry  and  Bkcket.  (^Dur- 
ing their  conference  the  Barons  and 
Bisiioi's  of  Franck  and  England 
come  in  at  back  of  stage.) 

Becket.     Ay,  King!    for   in   thy  king- 
dom, as  thou  knowest, 


SCENE   III. 


BECKET. 


711 


The  spouse  of  the  Great  King,  thy  King, 

hath  fallen  — 
The    daughter   of  Zion    lies   beside    the 

way  — 
The    priests    of  Baal    tread   her    under- 
foot— 
The  golden  ornaments  are  stolen    from 

her 

Henry.     Have  I  not  promised  to  re- 
store her,  Thomas, 
And   send   thee    back    again  to  Canter- 
bury? 
Becket.     Send  back  again  those  exiles 
of  my  kin 
Who   wander    famine-wasted    thro'    the 
world. 
Henry.     Have  I  not  promised,  man, 

to  send  them  back? 
Becket.     Yet  one  thing  more.     Thou 
hast  broken  thro'  the  pales 
Of  privilege,  crowning  thy  young  son  by 

York, 
London  and  Salisbury  —  not  Canterbury. 
Henry.     York  crown'd  the  Conqueror 

—  not  Canterbury. 
Becket.     There  was  no  Canterbury  in 

William's  time. 
Henry.      But    Hereford,    you    know, 

crown'd  the  first  Henry, 
Becket.      But    Anselm    crown'd    this 

Henry  o'er  again. 
Henry.     And    thou   shalt    crown    my 

Henry  o'er  again. 
Becket.     And  is  it  then  with  thy  good- 
will that  I 
Proceed  against  thine  evil  councillors. 
And  hurl  the  dread  ban  of  the  Church 

on  those 
Who  made  the  second  mitre  play  the  first. 
And  acted  me? 

Henry.     Well,  well,  then  —  have  thy 
way!. 
It  may  be  they  were  evil  councillors. 
What  more,  my  lord  Archbishop?     W^hat 

more,  Thomas? 
I  make  thee  full  amends.     Say  all  thy  say, 
But  blaze  not  out  before  the  Frenchmen 
here. 
Becket.       More?       Nothing,    so     thy 

promise  be  thy  deed. 
Henry  {hoi ding  out  his  hajid).     Give 
me    thy    hand.       My    Lords    of 
Frange  and  England, 


My  friend  of  Canterl)ury  and  myself 
Are  now  once  more  at  perfect  amity. 
Unkingly   should    I    be,    and    most    un- 

knightly, 
Not  striving  still,  however  much  in  vain, 
To  rival  him  in  Christian  charity. 

Herbert.     All  praise  to  Heaven,  and 

sweet  St.  Magdalen ! 
Henry.     And    so    farewell    until    we 

meet  in  England. 
Becket.     I  fear,  my  liege,  we  may  not 

meet  in  England. 
Henry.     How,    do    you    make    me    a 

traitor? 
Becket.  No,  indeed ! 

That  be  far  from  thee. 

Henry.  Come,  stay  with  us,  then, 

Before  you  part  for  England. 

Becket.  I  am  bound 

For   that    one   hour   to  stay  with   good 

King  Louis, 
Who  helpt  me  when  none  else. 

Herbert.  He  said  thy  life 

Was  not  one   hour's  worth   in  England 

save 
King  Henry  gave  thee  first  the  kiss  of 
peace. 
Henry.     He  said  so?     Louis,  did  he? 
look  you,  Herbert, 
When  I  was  in  mine  anger  with    King 

Louis, 
I    sware    I  would    not  give   the    kiss  of 

peace. 
Not  on  French  ground,  nor  any  ground 

but  English, 
Where  his  cathedral  stands.     Mine  old 

friend,  Thomas, 
I  would   there  were   that   perfect    trust 

between  us, 
That    health    of    heart,    once    ours,    ere 

Pope  or  King 
Had    come    between  us !     Even  now  — 

who  knows? — 
I  might  deliver  all  things  to  thy  hand  — 
If    .  .  .  but    I    say   no    more  .  .  .  fare- 
well, my  lord. 
Becket.     Farewell,  my  liege  ! 

\^Exit  Henry,  theti  the  Barons  and 

Bishops. 

Walter  Map.     There  again  !   when  the 

full    fruit    of    the    royal    promise    might 

have   dropt  into  thy  mouth    hadst   thou 

but  opened  it  to  thank  him, 


712 


BECKET. 


ACT   IV. 


Becket.     He  fenced  his  royal  promise 

with  an  if. 
Walter  Map.     And   is  the  King's  if 
too  high  a  stile  for  your  lordship  to  over- 
step and  come  at  all  things  in  the  next 
field? 

Becket.     Ay,   if   this    if  be   like   the 

Devil's  '  if 
Thou  wilt  fall  down  and  worship  me.' 

Herbert.  Oh,  Thomas, 

I  could  fall  down  and  worship  thee,  my 

Thomas, 
For  thou   hast   trodden   this  wine-press 

alone. 
Becket.     Nay,  of  the  people  there  are 

many  with  me. 
Walter  Map.  I  am  not  altogether 
with  you,  my  lord,  tho'  I  am  none  of 
those  that  would  raise  a  storm  between 
you,  lest  ye  should  draw  together  like 
two  ships  in  a  calm.  You  wrong  the 
King :  he  meant  what  he  said  to-day. 
Who  shall  vouch  for  his  to-morrows? 
One  word  further.  Doth  not  the  few- 
ness of  anything  make  the  fulness  of  it  in 
estimation?  Is  not  virtue  prized  mainly 
for  its  rarity,  and  great  baseness  loathed 
as  an  exception?  for  were  all,  my  lord, 
as  noble  as  yourself,  who  would  look  up 
to  you?  and  were  all  as  base  as  —  who 
shall  I  say  —  Fitzurse  and  his  following  — 
who  would  look  down  upon  them?  My 
lord,  you  have  put  so  many  of  the  King's 
household  out  of  communion,  that  they 
begin  to  smile  at  it. 

Becket.    At  their  peril,  at  their  peril 

Walter  Map.  —  For  tho'  the  drop 
may  hollow  out  the  dead  stone,  doth  not 
the  living  skin  thicken  against  perpetual 
whippings?  This  is  the  second  grain  of 
good  counsel  I  ever  proffered  thee,  and 
so  cannot  suffer  by  the  rule  of  frequency. 
Have  I  sown  it  in  salt?  I  trust  not,  for 
before  God  I  promise  you  the  King  hath 
many  more  wolves  than  he  can  tame  in 
his  woods  of  England,  and  if  it  suit  their 
purpose  to  howl  for  the  King,  and  you 
still  move  against  him,  you  may  have  no 
less  than  to  die  for  it;  but  God  and  his 
free  wind  grant  your  lordship  a  happy 
home-return  and  the  King's  kiss  of  peace 
in  Kent.  Farewell !  I  must  follow  the 
King.  \_Exit. 


Herbert.     Ay,  and  I  warrant  the  cus- 
toms.    Did  the  King 
Speak  of  the  customs? 

Becket.  No  !  —  To  die  for  it  — 

I  live  to  die  for  it,  I  die  to  live  for  it. 
The  State  will  die,  the  Church  can  never 

die. 
The  King's  not  like  to  die  for  that  which 

dies; 
But  I  must  die  for  that  which  never  dies. 
It  will  be  so  —  my  visions  in  the  Lord  : 
It  must  be  so,  my  friend  !  the  wolves  of 

England 
Must  murder  her  one  shepherd,  that  the 

sheep 
May  feed  in  peace.     False  figure,  Map 

would  say. 
Earth's  falses  are  heaven's  truths.     And 

when  my  voice 
Is  martyr'd  mute,  and  this  man  disappears. 
That  perfect  trust  may  come  again  between 

us. 
And  there,  there,  there,  not  here  I  shall 

rejoice 
To  find  my  stray  sheep  back  within  the 

fold. 
The  crowd   are   scattering,  let  us  move 

away ! 
And  thence  to  England.  \_Exetint. 

ACT   IV. 

SCENE    I.  —  The  Outskirts  of  the 
Bower. 

Geoffrey  {coming  out  of  the  7uood). 
Light  again  !  light  again  !  Margery?  no, 
that's  a  finer  thing  there.     How  it  glitters  ! 

Eleanor  {entering).  Come  to  me,  little 
one.     How  camest  thou  hither? 

Geoffrey.     On  my  legs. 

Eleanor.  And  mighty  pretty  legs  too. 
Thou  art  the  prettiest  child  I  ever  saw. 
Wilt  thou  love  me? 

Geoffrey.     No;  I  only  love  mother. 

Eleanor.     Ay;  and  who  is  thy  mother? 

Geoffrey.     They  call  her But  she 

lives  secret,  you  see. 

Eleanor.     Why? 

Geoffrey.     Don't  know  why. 

Eleanor.  Ay,  but  some  one  comes  to 
see  her  now  and  then.     Who  is  he? 

Geoffrey.     Can't  tell. 


SCENE   II. 


BECKET. 


713 


Eleanor.     What  does  she  call  him? 

Geoff7-ey.     My  liege. 

Eleanor.    Pretty  one,  how  earnest  thou  ? 

Geoffrey.  There  was  a  bit  of  yellow 
silk  here  and  there,  and  it  looked  pretty 
like  a  glowworm,  and  I  thought  if  I 
followed  it  I  should  find  the  fairies. 

Eleanor,  I  am  the  fairy,  pretty  one, 
a  good  fairy  to  thy  mother.  Take  me 
to  her. 

Geoffrey.  There  are  good  fairies  and 
bad  fairies,  and  sometimes  she  cries,  and 
can't  sleep  sound  o'  nights  because  of  the 
bad  fairies. 

Eleanor.  She  shall  cry  no  more;  she 
shall  sleep  sound  enough  if  thou  wilt  take 
me  to  her.     I  am  her  good  fairy. 

Geoffrey.  But  you  don't  look  like  a 
good  fairy.  Mother  does.  You  are  not 
pretty,  like  mother. 

Eleanor.  We  can't  all  of  us  be  as 
pretty  as  thou  art  —  (^aside')  little  bastard. 
Come,  here  is  a  golden  chain  I  will  give 
thee  if  thou  wilt  lead  me  to  thy  mother. 

Geoffrey.  No  —  no  gold.  Mother  says 
gold  spoils  all.     Love  is  the  only  gold. 

Eleanor.  I  love  thy  mother,  my 
pretty  boy.  Show  me  where  thou  camest 
out  of  the  wood. 

Geoffrey.  By  this  tree;  but  I  don't 
know  if  I  can  find  the  way  back  again. 

Eleanor.     Where's  the  warder? 

Geoffrey.  Very  bad.  Somebody  struck 
him. 

Eleanor.     Ay?  who  was  that? 

Geoffrey.  Can't  tell.  But  I  heard  say 
he  had  had  a  stroke,  or  you'd  have  heard 
his  horn  before  now.  Come  along,  then; 
we  shall  see  the  silk  here  and  there,  and 
I  want  my  supper.  \_Exennt. 

SCENE- II.  — Rosamund's  Bower. 

Rosamund.     The   boy   so    late;    pray 

God,  he  be  not  lost. 
I  sent  this  Margery,  and  she  comes  not 

back; 
I  sent  another,  and  she  comes  not  back. 
I  go  myself — so  many  alleys,  crossings, 
Paths,    avenues  —  nay,    if    I    lost    him, 

now 
The  folds  have  fallen  from  the  mystery, 
And  left  all  naked,  I  were  lost  indeed. 


Enter  Geoffrey  and  Eleanor. 

Geoffrey,  the  pain  thou  hast  put  me  to ! 
{^Seeing  Eleanor. 
Ha,  you! 
How  came  you  hither? 

Eleatior.     Your  own  child  brought  me 

hither  ! 
Geoffrey.  You  said  you  couldn't  trust 
Margery,  and  I  watched  her  and  followed 
her  into  the  woods,  and  I  lost  her  and 
went  on  and  on  till  I  found  the  light  and 
the  lady,  and  she  says  she  can  make  you 
sleep  o'  nights. 

Kosaniund.     How  dared  you?     Know 

you  not  this  bower  is  secret, 
Of  and  belonging  to  the  King  of  England, 
More   sacred    than    his   forests   for    the 

chase? 
Nay,   nay.   Heaven  help  you;     get   you 

hence  in  haste 
Lest  worse  befall  you. 

Eleanor.     Child,  I  am  mine  own  self 
Of  and   belonging    to    the    King.     The 

King 
Hath  divers  ofs  and  ons,  ofs  and  belong- 
ings. 
Almost  as  many  as  your  true  Mussulman  — 
Belongings,  paramours,  whom  it  pleases 

him 
To    call   his    wives;     but   so  it  chances, 

child. 
That  I  am  his  main  paramour,  his  sultana. 
But  since  the  fondest  pair  of  doves  will 

_  jar, 
Ev'n  in  a  cage  of  gold,  we  had  words  of 

late, 
And    thereupon    he    call'd    my    children 

bastards. 
Do  you  believe  that  you  are  married  to 

him? 
Rosamzind.     I  should  \)€^\tv^  it. 
Eleanor.  You  must  not  believe  it. 

Because  I  have  a  wholesome   medicine 

here 
Puts   that   belief  asleep.     Your  answer, 

beauty ! 
Do  you  believe  that  you  are  married  to 

him? 
Rosamund.     Geoffrey,  my  boy,  I  saw 
the  ball  you  lost  in  the  fork  of  the  great 
willow  over  the  brook.     Go.     See  that 
you  do  not  fall  in.     Go. 


7H 


BECKET. 


ACT    IV. 


Geoffrey.  And  leave  you  alone  with 
the  good  fairy.  She  calls  you  beauty, 
but  I  don't  like  her  looks.  Well,  you 
bid  me  go,  and  I'll  have  my  ball  anyhow. 
Shall  I  find  you  asleep  when  I  come 
back? 

Rosamund.     Go.  \^Exit  Geolifrey. 

Eleanor.     He  is   easily   found   again. 

Do  you  believe  it? 
I  pray  you  then  to  take   my  sleeping- 
draught  ; 
But  if  you  should  not  care  to  take  it  — 

See  !  \^Dra'ws  a  dagger. 

"What !  have  I  scared  the  red  rose  from 

your  face 
Into  your  heart?     But  this  will  find  it 

there, 
And  dig  it  from  the  root  for  ever. 

Rosamund.  Help  !  help  ! 

Eleanor.     They   say   that  walls    have 

ears;   but  these,  it  seems, 
Have  none !  and  I  have  none  —  to  pity 

thee. 
Rosamund.     I  do  beseech  you  —  my 

child  is  so  young, 
So  backward  too;  I  cannot  leave  him  yet. 
I  am  not  so  happy  I  could  not  die  myself, 
But  the  child   is  so  young.     You  have 

children  —  his; 
And  mine  is  the  King's  child;   so,  if  you 

love  him  — 
Nay,  if  you  love  him,  there  is  great  wrong 

done 
Somehow;  but  if  you  do  not  —  there  are 

those 
Who  say  you  do  not  love  him  —  let  me  go 
With  my  young  boy,  and  I  will  hide  my 

face. 
Blacken  and  gipsyfy  it;  none  shall  know 

me; 
The  King  shall  never  hear  of  me  again. 
But  I  will  beg  my  bread  along  the  world 
With  my  young  boy,  and  God  will  be 

our  guide. 
I  never  meant  you  harm  in  any  way. 
See,  I  can  say  no  more. 

Eleanor.     Will  you   not  say  you  are 

not  married  to  him? 
Rosamund.     Ay,  Madam,  I  can  say  it, 

if  you  will. 
Eleanor.     Then    is  thy   pretty   boy  a 

liastard? 
Rosamund.       No. 


Eleanor.     And  thou  thyself  a  proven 

wanton? 
Rosamund.        No. 
I  am  none  such.     I  never  loved  but  one. 
I   have   heard   of  such   that  range  from 

love  to  love. 
Like  the  wild  beast  —  if  you  can  call  it 

love. 
I  have  heard  of  such  —  yea,  even  among 

those 
Who  sit  on  thrones  —  I  never  saw  any 

such, 
Never  knew  any  such,  and  howsoever 
You  do  misname  me,  match'd  with  any 

such, 
I  am  snow  to  mud. 

Eleanor.  The  more  the  pity  then 

That  thy  true  home  —  the  heavens  —  cry 

out  for  thee 
Who  art  too  pure  for  earth. 

Enter  Fitzurse. 

Fitzurse.  Give  her  to  me. 

Eleanor.      The     Judas-lover     of    our 
passion-play 
Hath  track'd  us  hither. 

Fitzurse.     Well,  why  not?     I  follow'd 
You  and  the  child :  he  babbled  all  the 

way. 
Give  her  to  me  to  make  my  honey-moon. 
Eleanor.     Ay,  as  the  bears  love  honey. 
Could  you  keep  her 
Indungeon'd  from   one  whisper   of  the 

wind, 
Dark   even   from   a  side    glance   of  the 

moon. 
And  oublietted  in  the  centre  —  No  ! 
I  follow  out  my  hate  and  thy  revenge. 
Fitzurse.     You  bade  me  take  revenge 
another  way  — 
To  bring  her  to  the  dust.  ,  .  .     Come 

with  me,  love, 
And  I  will  love  thee.  .  .  .     Madam,  let 

her  live. 
I  have  a  far-off  burrow  where  the  King 
Would  miss  her  and  for  ever. 

Eleanor.  How  sayest  thou, 

sweetheart  ? 
Wilt  thou  go  with  him?   he  will  marry 
thee. 
Rosamund.     Give  me  the  poison;   set 
me  free  of  him  ! 

[Eleanor  offers  the  vial. 


SCENE   II. 


BECKET. 


715 


No,  no  !  I  will  not  have  it. 

Eleanor.  Then  this  other, 

The  wiser  choice,  because  my  sleeping- 
draught 
May  bloat  thy  beauty  out  of  shape,  and 

make 
Thy  body  loathsome  even  to  thy  child; 
While  this  but  leaves  thee  with  a  broken 

heart; 
A  doll-face  blanch 'd  and  bloodless,  over 

which 
If  pretty  Geoffrey  do  not  break  his  own, 
It  must  be  broken  for  him. 

Kosarnund.  O  I  see  now 

Your  purpose  is  to  fright  me  —  a  trouba- 
dour 
You  play  with  words.     You  had  never 

used  so  many, 
Not  if  you  meant   it,  I  am  sure.     The 

child  .   .  . 
No  .  .  .  mercy  !     No  !      (^Kneels.^ 

Eleanor.  Play  I   .  .  .  that 

bosom  never 
Heaved  under  the  King's  hand  with  such 

true  passion 
As  at  this  loveless  knife  that  stirs  the  riot 
Which  it  will  quench  in  blood  I     Slave, 

if  he  love  thee, 
Thy  life  is  worth  the  wrestle  for  it :  arise, 
And  dash  thyself  against  me  that  I  may 

slay  thee  I 
The    worm!    shall    I    let   her   go?     But 

ha  !  what's  here? 
By  very  God,  the  cross  I  gave  the  King  I 
His  village  darling  in  some  lewd  caress 
Has  wheedled  it  off  the  King's  neck  to 

her  own. 
By   thy   leave,  beauty.     Ay,   the    same  ! 

I  warrant 
Thou   hast    sworn    on    this   my   cross   a 

hundred  times 
Never   to   leave   him  —  and    that   merits 

death, 
False  oath  on  holy  cross  —  for  thou  must 

leave  him 
To-day,    but    not    quite    yet.     My   good 

Fitzurse, 
The  running  down  the  chase  is  kindlier 

sport 
Ev'n  than  the  death.     Who  knows  but 

that  thy  lover 
May  plead  so  pitifully,  that  I  may  spare 

thee? 

3A 


Come   hither,  man;     stand    there.     {To 
Rosamund.)  Take  thy  one  chance; 

Catch  at  the  last  straw.     Kneel  to  thy 
lord  Fitzurse; 

Crouch   even  because  thou  hatest  him; 
fawn  upon  him 

For  thy  life  and  thy  son's. 

Rosamund  {risijig).     I  am  a  Clifford, 

My  son  a  Clifford  and  Plantagenet. 

I  am  to  die  then,  tho'  there  stand  beside 
thee 

One  who  might  grapple  with  thy  dagger, 
if  he 

Had  aught  of  man,  or  thou  of  woman; 
or  1 

Would  bow  to  such  a  baseness  as  would 
make  me 

Most  worthy  of  it :  both  of  us  will  die. 

And  I  will  fly  with   my    sweet   boy   to 
heaven. 

And  shriek  to  all  the  saints  among  the 
stars : 

'  Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  Eleanor  of  Eng- 
land! 

Murder 'd  by  that  adulteress  Eleanor, 

Whose  doings  are  a  horror  to  the  east, 

A  hissing  in  the  we^t !  '     Have  we  not 
heard 

Raymond  of  Poitou,  thine  own  uncle  — 
nay, 

Geoffrey    Plantagenet,    thine    own    hus- 
band's father  — 

Nay,  ev'n  the  accursed   heathen  Salad- 
deen 

Strike  ! 

I  challenge  thee  to  meet  me  before  God. 

Answer  me  there. 

Eleanor  {j-aising  the  dagger').    This  in 
thy  bosom,  fool. 

And  after  in  thy  bastard's  ! 

Enter  Becket  from  behind.     Catches 
hold  of  her  arm. 

Becket.  Murderess ! 

[  The  dagger  falls;  they  stare  at  one 

another.     After  a  pause. 

Eleanor.      My    lord,    we    know    you 

proud  of  your  fine  hand. 

But  having  now  admired  it  long  enough, 

We    find    that    it    is    mightier    thani    it 

seems  — 
At   least   mine  own   is   frailer :    you  are 
laming  it. 


7i6 


BECKET. 


ACT   IV. 


Becket.     And   lamed    and    maim'd  to 

dislocation,  better 
Than  raised  to  take  a  life  which  Henry 

bade  ine 
Guard  from  the  stroke  that  dooms  thee 

after  death 
To  wail  in  deathless  flame. 

Eleanor.  Nor  you,  nor  I 

Have   now  to   learn,  my  lord,  that   our 

good  Henry 
Says   many   a    thing    in    sudden    heats, 

which  he 
Gainsays  by  next  sunrising — often  ready 
To  tear  himself  for  having  said  as  much. 

My  lord,  Fitzurse 

Becket.  He  too  !  what  dost  thou  here? 
Dares  the  bear  slouch  into  the  lion's  den? 
One  downward  plunge  of  his  paw  would 

rend  away 
Eyesight  and  manhood,  life  itself,  from 

thee. 
Go,  lest  I  blast  thee  with  anathema, 
And  make  thee  a  world's  horror. 

Fitzurse.  My  lord,  I  shall 

Remember  this. 

Becket.  I  do  remember  thee; 

Lest  I  remember  thee  to  the  lion,  go. 

\^Exit  Fitzurse. 
Take    up   your   dagger;     put   it   in   the 

sheath. 
Eleanor.      Might    not    your    courtesy 

stoop  to  hand  it  me? 
But  crowns  must  bow  when  mitres  sit  so 

high. 
Well  —  well  —  too  costly  to  be  left  or  lost. 
\^Picks  up  the  dagger. 
I  had  it  from  an  Arab  soldan,  who. 
When  I  was  there  in  Antioch,  marvell'd 

at 
Our  unfamiliar  beauties  of  the  west ; 
But  wonder'd  more  at  my  much  constancy 
To    the    monk-king,   Louis,    our    former 

burthen, 
From  whom,  as  being  too  kin,  you  know, 

my  lord, 
God's  grace  and  Holy  Church  deliver'd 

us. 
I  think,  time  given,  I  could  have  talk'd 

him  out  of 
His  ten  wives  into  one.     Look   at  the 

hilt. 
What    excellent   workmanship.     In    our 

poor  west 


We  cannot  do  it  so  well. 

Becket.  We  can  do  worse. 

Madam,  I  saw  your  dagger  at  her  throat; 
I  heard  your  savage  cry. 

Eleanor.  Well  acted,  was  it? 

A  comedy  meant  to  seem  a  tragedy  — 
A  feint,  a  farce.     My  honest  lord,  you 

are  known 
Thro'  all  the  courts  of  Christendom  as 

one 
That  mars  a  cause  with  over-violence. 
You  have  wrong'd  Fitzurse.     I  speak  not 

of  myself. 
We  thought  to  scare  this  minion  of  the 

King 
Back  from  her  churchless  commerce  with 

the  King 
To    the    fond   arms    of    her    first    love, 

Fitzurse, 
Who    swore    to    marry    her.     You   have 

spoilt  the  farce. 
My  savage  cry  ?    Why,  she  —  she  —  when 

I  strove 
To    work   against    her    license    for    her 

good, 
Bark'd  out  at  me  such  monstrous  charges, 

that 
The  King  himself,  for  love  of  his  own 

sons. 
If  hearing,    would    have    spurn'd    her; 

whereupon 
I  menaced   her  with   this,  as  when  we 

threaten 
A  yelper  with  a  stick.     Nay,  I  deny  not. 
That  I  was  somewhat  anger'd.     Do  you 

hear  me? 
Believe   or   no,   I   care   not.     You    have 

lost 
The  ear  of  the  King.     I   have   it.  .  .  . 

My  lord  Paramount, 
Our    great    High-priest,    will    not   your 

Holiness 
Vouchsafe    a   gracious    answer   to    your 

Queen? 
Becket.     Rosamund  hath  not  answer'd 

you  one  word; 
Madam,  I  will  not  answer  you  one  word. 
Daughter,  the  world  hath  trick'd   thee. 

Leave  it,  daughter; 
Come  thou  with  me  to  Godstow  nunnery, 
And  live  what  may  be  left  thee  of  a  life 
Saved  as  l^y  miracle  alone  with  Him 
Who  gave  it. 


SCENE    II. 


BECKET. 


717 


Re-enter  GEOFFREY. 

Geoffrey.     Mother,  you  told  me  a  great 

fib:  it  wasn't  in  the  willow. 
Becket.     Follow  us,  my  son,  and  we 

will  find  it  for  thee  — 
Or  something  manlier. 

\_Exeunt    Becket,    Rosamund,    and 

Geofirey. 
.  Eleanor.     The  world  hath  trick'd  her 

—  that's  the  King;   if  so, 
There  was  the  farce,  the  feint  —  not  mine. 

And  yet 
I  am  all  but  sure  my  dagger  was  a  feint 
Till  the  worm  turn'd  —  not  life  shot  up 

in  blood. 
But  death   drawn  in; — (^looking  at  the 

vial)  this  was  no  feint  then?  no. 
But  can   I  swear  to   that,  had  she  but 

given 
Plain  answer  to   plain  query?  nay,  me- 

thinks 
Had  she  but  bow'd  herself  to  meet  the 

wave 
Of    humiliation,    worshipt     whom     she 

loathed, 
I  should  have  let  her  be,  scorn'd  her  too 

much 
To  harm  her.     Henry  —  Becket  tells  him 

this  — 
To  take  my  life  might  lose  him  Aquitaine. 
Too  politic  for  that.     Imprison  me? 
No,  for  it  came  to  nothing —  only  a  feint. 
Did  she  not  tell  me  I  was  plaving  on 

her? 
I'll   swear    to  mine    own   self  it    was    a 

feint. 
Why  should  I  swear,  Eleanor,  who  am, 

or  was, 
A  sovereign  power?     The  King  plucks 

out  their  eyes 
Who  anger  him,   and   shall    not    I,  the 

Queen, 
Tear  out  her  heart  —  kill,  kill  with  knife 

or  venom 
One  of  his  slanderous   harlots?     'None 

of  such? ' 
I    love    her   none    the   more.     Tut,    the 

chance  gone, 
She  lives  —  but  not  for  him;  one  point  is 

gain'd. 
O  I,  that  thro'  the  Pope  divorced  King 

Louis, 


Scorning  his  monkery,  —  I  that  wedded 

Henry, 
Honouring  his  manhood,  —  will  he  not 

mock  at  me 
The  jealous  fool  balk'd  of  her  will  —  with 

him  ? 
But  he  and  he  must  never  meet  again. 
Reginald  Fitzurse  ! 

Re-enter  FiTZURSE. 

Fitzurse.  Here,  Madam,  at 

your  pleasure. 
Eleanor.     My   pleasure   is  to  have   a 

man  about  me. 
Why  did  you  slink  away  so  like  a  cur? 
Fitznrse.     Madam,  I  am  as  much  man 

as  the  King. 
Madam,    I     fear    Church-censures    like 

your  King. 
Eleanor.     He  grovels  to  the   Church 

when  he's  black-blooded, 
But  kinglike  fought  the  proud  archbishop, 

—  kinglike 
Defied  the  Pope,  and,  like  his  kingly  sires, 
The  Normans,  striving  still  to  break  or 

bind 
The  spiritual  giant  with  our  island  laws 
And  customs,  made  me  for  the  moment 

proud 
Ev'n   of  that   stale  Church-bond  which 

link'd  me  with  him 
To  bear  him  kingly  sons.     I  am  not  so 

sure 
But  that  I  love  him  still.     Thou  as  much 

man  ! 
No  more  of  that ;  we  will  to  France  and  be 
Beforehand  with  the  King,  and  brew  from 

out 
This  Godstow-Becket  intermeddling  such 
A  strong  hate-philtre  as  may  madden  him 

—  madden 
Against  his  priest  beyond  all  hellebore. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.  —  Castle  in  Normandy. 
King's  Chamber. 

Henry,  Roger  of  York,  Foliot, 
JocELYN  OF  Salisbury. 

Roger  of  York.  Nay,  nay,  my  liege, 
He  rides  abroad  with  armed  followers. 
Hath  broken  all  his  promises  to  thyself, 


7i8 


BECKET. 


ACT  V. 


Cursed  and  anathematised  us  right  and 
left, 

Stirr'd    up   a   party    there    against   your 

son 

Henry.     Roger  of  York,  you  always 
hated  him, 

Even  when  you  both  were  boys  at  Theo- 
bald's. 
Roger  of  York.    I  always  hated  bound- 
less arrogance. 

In  mine  own  cause  I  strove  against  him 
there, 

And  in   thy  cause   I  strive    against  him 
now. 
Henry.      I    cannot    think   he     moves 
against  my  son, 

Knowing  right  well  with  what  a  tender- 
ness 

He  loved  my  son. 

Roger  of  York.     Before  you  made  him 
king. 

But  Becket  ever  moves  against  a  king. 

The   Church  is  all  —  the  crime  to  be  a 
king. 

We  trust  your  Royal  Grace,  lord  of  more 
land 

Than   any    crown    in    Europe,  will   not 
yield 

To  lay  your  neck  beneath  your  citizen's 
heel. 
Henry.     Not  to  a  Gregory  of  my  thron- 
ing !     No. 
Foliot.     My  royal  liege,  in   aiming  at 
your  love. 

It  may  be  sometimes  I  have  overshot 

My  duties  to  our  Holy  Mother  Church, 

Tho'  all  the  world  allows  I  fall  no  inch 

Behind  this  Becket,  rather  go  beyond 

In  scourgings,  macerations,  mortifyings, 

Fasts,  disciplines  that  clear  the  spiritual 
eye. 

And  break  the  soul  from  earth.     Let  all 
that  be. 

I  boast  not :  but  you  know  thro'  all  this 
quarrel 

I  still  have  cleaved  to  the  crown,  in  hope 
the  crown 

Would  cleave  to  me  that  but  oljey'd  the 
crown, 

Crowning  your  son;   for  which  our  loyal 
service, 

And  since  we  likewise  swore  to  obey  the 
customs, 


York  and  myself,  and  our  good  Salisbury 

here. 
Are  push'd  from  out  communion  of  the 
Church. 
Jocelyn    of  Salisbury.       Becket    hath 
trodden    on    us   like    worms,    my 
liege; 
Trodden  one  half  dead;    one  half,  but 

half-alive. 
Cries  to  the  King. 

Hefiry  {aside).     Take  care  o'  thyself, 

O  King. 
Jocelyn  of  Salisbitry.    Being  so  crush'd 
and  so  humiliated 
We  scarcely  dare  to  bless  the  food  we  eat 
Because  of  Becket. 

Hejiry.     What  would  ye  have  me  do? 
Roger  of  York.    Summon  your  barons; 
take  their  counsel :  yet 
I    know  —  could    swear  —  as    long    as 

Becket  breathes. 
Your   Grace   will  never  have  one  quiet 
hour. 
Henry.         What?  ...     Ay  ,  .  .  but 
pray  you  do  not  work  upon  me. 
I  see  your  drift  ...  it  may  be  so  .  .  . 

and  yet 
You  know  me  easily  anger'd.     Will  you 

hence? 
He  shall  absolve  you  .  .   .  you  shall  have 

redress. 
I    have    a   dizzying  headache.     Let  me 

rest. 
I'll  call  you  by  and  by. 

\^Exeunt  Roger  of  York,  Foliot,  and 
Jocelyn  of  Salisbury. 
Would  he  were  dead  !     I  have  lost  all 

love  for  him. 
If  God  would  take  him  in  some  sudden 

way  — 
Would  he  were  dead.  \^Lies  down. 

Page  {entering).     My  liege,  the  Queen 

of  England. 
Henry.     God's  eyes  !        \_Starting  up. 

Enter  Eleanor. 

Eleanor.  Of  England?     Say  of 

Aquitaine. 
I    am    no    Queen    of   England.      I    had 

dream'd 
I  was  the  bride  of  England,  and  a  queen. 
Henry.      And,  —  while    you    dream'd 
you  were  the  bride  of  England, — 


SCENE    I. 


BECKET. 


719 


Stirring  her  baby-king  against  me?  ha  ! 
Eleanor.     The  brideless  Becket  is  tliy 

king  and  mine  : 
I  will  go  live  and  die  in  Aquitaine. 

Henry.     Except  I  clap  thee  into  prison 

here, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  play  the  wanton  there 

again. 
Ha,  you  of  Aquitaine  !     O  you  of  Aqui- 
taine ! 
You  were  but  Aquitaine  to  Louis  —  no 

wife ; 
You  are  only  Aquitaine  to  me  —  no  wife. 
Eleanor.     And  why,  my  lord,  should  I 

be  wife  to  one 
That  only  wedded  me  for  Aquitaine? 
Yet  this    no    wife  —  her   six   and   thirty 

sail 
Of  Provence  blew  you  to  your   English 

throne; 
And  this  no  wife  has  borne  you  four  brave 

sons, 

And  one  of  them  at  least  is  like  to  prove 

Bigger  in  our  small  world  than  thou  art. 

Henry.  Ay  — 

Richard,    if  he    be    mine — I  hope  him 

mine. 
But  thou  art  like  enough  to  make  him 

thine. 
Eleanor.     Becket    is   like    enough   to 

make  all  his. 
Henry.     Methought  I    had  recover' d 

of  the  Becket, 
That  all  was  planed  and  bevell'd  smooth 

again. 
Save  from  some  hateful  cantrip  of  thine 

own. 
Eleanor.     I    will   go  live  and   die    in 

Aquitaine. 
I  dream'd  I  was  the  consort  of  a  king, 
Not  one  whose  back  his  priest  has  broken. 
Henry.  '  What! 

Is  the  end  come?     You,  will  you  crown 

my  foe 
My  victor  in  mid-battle  ?     I  will  be 
Sole   master  of  my  house.     The  end  is 

mine. 
What  game,   what  juggle,  what  devilry 

are  you  playing? 
Why  do  you  thrust  this  Becket   on  me 

again  ? 
Eleanor.     Why?  for  I  am  true  wife, 

and  have  iny  fears 


Lest  Becket  thrust  you  even  from  your 

throne. 
Do  you  know  this  cross,  my  liege? 

Henry    (^turning  his  head).      Away! 

Not  L 
Eleanor.     Not  ev'n   the    central  dia- 
mond, worth,  1  think. 
Half  of  the  Antioch  whence  I  had  it? 
Henry,  That? 

Eleanor.     I  gave  it  you,  and  you  your 
paramour; 
She    sends    it   back,    qs    being   dead   to 

earth. 
So  dead  henceforth  to  you. 

Henry.     Dead !     you   have    murder'd 
her. 
Found  out  her  secret  bower  and  murder'd 
her! 
Eleanor.     Your     Becket     knew     the 

secret  of  your  bower. 
Henry  {calling  out).     Ho  there!  thy 

rest  of  life  is  hopeless  prison. 
Eleajtor.     And  what   would   my  own 
Aquitaine  say  to  that? 
First,  free  thy  captive  from  her  hopeless 
prison. 
Henry.     O  devil,  can  I  free  her  from 

the  grave? 
Eleanor.     You   are   too    tragic :    both 
of  us  are  players 
In  such  a  comedy  as  our  court  of  Pro- 
vence 
Had  laugh'd  at.     That's  a  delicate  Latin 

lay 
Of  Walter    Map:     the    lady   holds    the 

cleric 
Lovelier    than    any    soldier,    his     poor 

tonsure 
A  crown  of  Empire.     Will  you  have  it 

again  ? 
(  Offering  the  cross.     He  clashes  it  down.) 
St.  Cupid,  that  is  too  irreverent. 
Then  mine  once  more.      {Ftits  it  on.) 

Your  cleric  hath  your  lady. 
Nay,  what  uncomely  faces,  could  he  see 

you ! 
Foam     at     the     mouth     because    King 

Thomas,  lord 
Not  only  of  your  vassals  but  amours, 
Thro'  chastest  honour  of  the  Decalogue 
Hath    used    the    full    authority    of    his 

Church 
To  put  her  into  Godstovv  nunnery. 


720 


BECKET. 


ACT   V. 


Henry.  To  put  her  into  Godstow 
nunnery ! 

He  dared  not  —  liar  !  yet,  yet  I  remem- 
ber — 

I  do  remember. 

He  bade  me  put  her  into  a  nunnery  — 

Into  Godstow,  into  Hellstovv,  Devilstow ! 

The  Church  !   the  Church  ! 

God's  eyes !  I  would  the  Church  were 
down  in  hell !  \_Exit. 

Eleanor.     Aha ! 

Enter  the  four  Knights. 

Fitzurse.     What   made   the  King  cry 

out  so  furiously? 
Eleanor.     Our    Becket,  who  will  not 

absolve  the  Bishops. 
I  think  ye  four  have  cause  to  love  this 

Becket. 
Fitzurse.     I  hate  him  for  his  insolence 

to  all. 
De  Tracy.     And  I  for  all  his  insolence 

to  thee. 
De  Brito.     I  hate  him  for  I  hate  him 

is  my  reason, 
And  yet  I  hate  him  for  a  hypocrite. 
De  Alorville.     I  do  not  love  him,  for 

he  did  his  best 
To  break  the  barons,  and  now  braves  the 

King. 
Eleanor.     Strike,    then,  at  once,  the 

King  would  have  him  —  See  ! 

Re-enter  Henry. 

Henry.     No  man  to  love  me,  honour 

me,  obey  me  ! 
Sluggards  and  fools  ! 
The  slave  that  eat  my  bread  has  kick'd 

his  King ! 
The  dog  I  cramm'd  with  dainties  worried 

me ! 
The  fellow  that  on  a  lame  jade  came  to 

court, 
A  ragged  cloak  for  saddle  —  he,  he,  he, 
To  shake  my  throne,   to  push  into  my 

chamber  — 
My  bed,  where  ev'n  the  slave  is  private 

—  he  — 
I'll  have  her  out  again,  he  shall  absolve 
The  bishops  —  they  but  did  my  will  — 

not  you  — 
Sluggards  and  fools,  why  do  you  stand 

and  stare? 


You  are  no  King's  men  —  you  —  you  — 

you  are  Becket's  men. 
Down  with    King    Henry !  up  with  the 

Archbishop  ! 
Will  no  man  free  me  from  this  pestilent 

priest?  \_Exit. 

[  The  Knights  drazu  their  sivords. 
Eleanor.     Are  ye.  king's  men?     lam 

king's  woman,  1. 
The   Knights.     King's  men !     King's 


SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  in  Canterbury 
Monastery. 

Becket  and  John  of  Salisbury. 

Becket.     York  said  so? 
John  of  Salisbury.     Yes:    a  man  may 
take  good  counsel 
Ev'n  from  his  foe. 

Becket.  York  will  say  anything. 

What   is  he   saying  now?  gone    to    the 

King 

And  taken  our  anathema  with  him.  York  ! 

Can  the  King  de-anathematise  this  York? 

John  of  Salisbury.     Thomas,  I  would 

thou  hadst  return'd  to  England, 

Like  some  wise  prince  of  this  world  from 

his  wars. 
With  more  of  olive-branch  and  amnesty 
For  foes  at  home — thou  hast  raised  the 
world  against  thee. 
Becket.     Why,  John,  my    kingdom    is 

not  of  this  world. 
John  of  Salisbury.     If  it  were  more  of 
this  world  it  might  be 
More   of    the    next.     A   policy   of  wise 

pardon 
Wins  here  as  well  as  there.     To  bless 

thine  enemies 

Becket.     Ay,  mine,  not  Heaven's. 
John  of  Salisbury.         And  may  there 
not  be  something 
Of  this  world's  leaven  in  thee  too,  when 

crying 
On    Holy   Church   to    thunder   out    her 

rights 
And  thine  own  wrong  so  pitilessly?     Ah, 

Thomas, 
The   lightnings   that  we   think  are  only 

Heaven's 
Flash  sometimes  out  of  earth  against  the 
heavens. 


SCENE   II. 


BECKET. 


721 


The  soldier,  when  he  lets  his  whole  self  go 
Lost  in  the  common  good,  the  common 

wrong, 
Strikes  truest  ev'n  for  his  own  self.     I 

crave 
Thy  pardon  —  I  have  still  thy  leave  to 

speak. 
Thou  hast  waged  God's  war  against  the 

King;   and  yet 
We  are  self-uncertain  creatures,  and  we 

may, 
Yea,  even  when  we  know  not,  mix  our 

spites 
And   private   hates  with  our  defence  of 

Heaven. 

Enter  Edward  Grim. 

Becket.     Thou  art  but  yesterday  from 
Cambridge,  Grim; 
What  say  ye  there  of  Becket? 

Grim.  /  believe  him 

The  bravest  in  our  roll  of  Primates  down 
From    Austin  —  there    are    some  —  for 

there  are  men 
Of  canker'd  judgment  everywhere 

Becket.  Who  hold 

With  York,  with  York  against  me. 

Grim.  Well,  my  lord, 

A  stranger  monk  desires  access  to  you. 

Becket.     York      against      Canterbury, 
York  against  God  ! 
I  am  open  to  him.  \^Exit  Grim. 

Enter  Rosamund  as  a  Monk. 

Rosamund.  Can  I  speak  with  you 

Alone,  my  father? 

Becket.  Come  you  to  confess? 

Rosajunnd.     Not  now. 
Becket.  Then  speak;   this 

is  my  other  self, 
Who  like  my  conscience  never  lets  me  be. 
Rosajtinnd  {^throwing  hack  the  cowl) .    I 
know   him;     our    good    John    of 
Salisbury. 
Becket.      Breaking   already   from    thy 
noviciate 
To  plunge  into  this  bitter  world  again  — 
These   wells  of   Marah.     I  am  grieved, 

my  daughter. 
I  thought  that  I  had  made  a  peace  for 
thee. 
Rosa77iund.     Small  peace  was  mine  in 
my  noviciate,  father. 

3A 


Thro'  all  closed  doors  a  dreadful  whisper 

crept 
That   thou  wouldst   excommunicate   the 

King. 
I  could  not  eat,  sleep,  pray :  I  had  with  me 
The  monk's  disguise  thou  gavest  me  for 

my  bower : 
I  think  our  Abbess  knew  it  and  allow'd  it. 
I  fled,  and  found  thy  name  a  charm  to 

get  me 
Food,  roof,  and  rest.      I  met  a  robber 

once, 
I  told  him  I  was  bound  to  see  the  Arch- 
bishop; 
'Pass  on,'  he    said,  and  in  thy  name  I 

pass'd 
From  house    to   house.     In    one   a  son 

stone-blind 
Sat  by  his  mother's  hearth :  he  had  gone 

too  far 
Into  the    King's    own  woods;    and   the 

poor  mother. 
Soon   as   she   learnt  I  was   a  friend   of 

thine, 
Cried   out   against    the    cruelty   of    the 

King. 
I  said  it  was  the  King's  courts,  not  the 

King; 
But  she  would  not  believe  me,  and  she 

wish'd 
The  Church  were   king:    she   had  seen 

the  Archbishop  once, 
So  mild,  so  kind.     The  people  love  thee, 

father. 
Becket.      Alas !    when    I    was    Chan- 
cellor to  the  King, 
I  fear  I  was  as  cruel  as  the  King. 

Rosamund.     Cruel?      Oh,    no  —  it   is 

the  law,  not  he; 
The  customs  of  the  realm. 

Becket.  The  customs  !    customs  ! 

Rosamund.     My   lord,  you   have   not 

excommunicated  him  ? 
Oh,  if  you  have,  absolve  him  I 

Becket.  Daughter,  daughter, 

Deal  not  with  things  you  know  not. 

Rosamund.  I  know  hiin. 

Then  you  have  done  it,  and  I  z^yoti 

cruel. 
John  of  Salisbury.     No,  daughter,  you 

mistake  our  good  Archbishop; 
For  once  in  France  the  King  had  been 

so  harsh, 


722 


BECKET. 


ACT    V. 


He    thought    to    excommunicate    him  — 

Thomas, 
You   could  not  —  old  affection  master'd 

you, 
You  falter'd  into  tears. 

Rosa?nund.  God  bless  him  for  it. 

Becket.     Nay,  make  me  not  a  woman, 
John  of  Salisbury, 
Nor  make  me  traitor  to  my  holy  office. 
Did    not  a  man's  voice  ring    along  the 

aisle, 
*  The    King   is   sick    and    almost     unto 

death'? 
How  could  I  excommunicate  him  then? 
Rosamund.     And    wilt    thou    excom- 
municate him  now? 
Becket.     Daughter,  my  time  is  short, 
I  shall  not  do  it. 
And  were  it  longer  —  well  —  I  should  not 
do  it. 
Rosat?nind.     Thanks  in  this  life,  and 

in  the  life  to  come. 
Becket.     Get  thee  back  to  thy  nunnery 
with  all  haste; 
Let    this  be  thy  last  trespass.     But  one 

question  — 
How   fares    thy   pretty   boy,    the    little 

Geoffrey? 
No  fever,  cough,  croup,  sickness? 

Rosa?nund.  No,  but  saved 

From    all   that   by   our    solitude.      The 

plagues 
That  smite  the  city  spare  the  solitudes. 
Becket.     God  save  him  from  all  sick- 
ness of  the  soul ! 
Thee  too,  thy  solitude  among  thy  nuns, 
May  that  save  thee  !     Doth  he  remember 
me? 
Rosamund.     I  warrant  him. 
Becket.     He  is  marvellously  like  thee. 
Rosamund.     Liker  the  King. 
Becket.  No,  daughter. 

Rosamund.  Ay,  but  wait 

Till    his    nose    rises;    he    will    be    very 
king. 
Becket.     Ev'n    so :   but    think    not    of 

the  King :  farewell ! 
Rosamund.     My  lord,  the  city  is  full 

of  armed  men. 
Becket.     Ev'n  so  :   farewell ! 
Rosamund.     I  will  but  pass  to  vespers. 
And  breathe  one  prayer  for  my  liege-lord 
the  King, 


His  child    and    mine   own    soul,  and  so 

return. 
Becket.     Pray  for  me  too :   much  need 

of  prayer  have  I. 

[Rosamund  kjieels  and  goes. 
Dan  John,  how  much  we  lose,  we  celi- 
bates, 
Lacking  the  love  of  woman  and  of  child  ! 
/o/ui    of  Salisbury.     More   gain  than 

loss;  for  of  your  wives  you  shall 
Find  one  a  slut  whose  fairest  linen  seems 
Foul  as  her  dust-cloth,  if  she  used  it  — 

one 
So  charged  with  tongue,  that  every  thread 

of  thought 
Is  broken  ere  it  joins —  a  shrew  to  boot, 
Whose  evil  song  far  on  into  the  night 
Thrills  to  the  topmost  tile  —  no  hope  but 

death; 
One  slow,  fat,  white,  a  burthen   of  the 

hearth; 
And  one  that  being  thwarted  ever  swoons 
And   weeps    herself  into    the    place    of 

power; 
And  one  an  uxor  pauperis  Ibyci. 
So    rare    the    household     honeymaking 

bee, 
Man's  help  !  but  we,  we  have  the  blessed 

Virgin 
For   worship,    and   our   Mother  Church 

for  bride; 
And  all  the  souls  we  saved  and  father'd 

here 
Will  greet  us  as  our  babes  in  Paradise. 
What    noise    was   that?   she   told  us  of 

arm'd  men 
Here  in   the    city.     W^ill  you  not  with- 
draw? 
Becket.     I  once  was  out  with    Henry 

in  the  days 
When  Henry  loved   me,  and  we    came 

upon 
A  wild-fowl  sitting  on  her  nest,  so  still 
I  reach'd  my  hand  and  touch'd;   she  did 

not  stir; 
The  snow  had  frozen  round  her,  and  she 

sat 
Stone-dead    upon    a    heap    of    ice-cold 

eggs. 
Look !  how  this  love,  this  mother,  runs 

thro'  all 
The  world  (Jod  made  —  even   the  beast 

—  the  bird ! 


SCENE    II. 


BECKET. 


723 


John  of  Salisbury.     Ay,  still  a  lover  of 
the  beast  and  bird? 
But  these  arm'd  men  —  will  you  not  hide 

yourself? 
Perchance  the  fierce  De  Brocs  from  Salt- 
wood  Castle, 
To    assail    our    Holy    Mother    lest    she 

brood 
Too  long  o'er  this  hard  egg,  the  world, 

and  send 
Her  whole    heart's   heat   into    it,    till    it 

break 
Into    young    angels.       Pray    you,    hide 
yourself. 
Becket.     There  was  a  little  fair-hair'd 
Norman  maid 
Lived  in  my  mother's   house :  if   Rosa- 
mund is 
The  world's  rose,  as  her  name  imports 

her  —  she 
Was  the  world's  lily. 
John  of  Salisbury.     Ay,  and  what  of 

her? 
Becket.     She  died  of  leprosy. 
John  of  Salisbury.         I  know  not  why 
You  call  these  old  things  back  again,  my 
lord. 
Becket.     The  drowning  man,  they  say, 
remembers  all 
The  chances  of  his  life,  just  ere  he  dies. 
John    of  Salisbury.     Ay  —  but    these 
arm'd  men  —  will  j(3«  drown  j<?z^r- 
self? 
He  loses  half  the  meed  of  martyrdom 
Who   will   be   martyr   when    he    might 
escape. 
Becket.      What    day    of    the    week? 

Tuesday? 
John  of  Salisbury.     Tuesday,  my  lord. 
Becket.     On  a  Tuesday  was   I    born, 
and  on  a  Tuesday 
Baptized;   and  on  a  Tuesday  did  I  fly 
Forth  from  Northampton;   on  a  Tuesday 

pass'd 
From  England  into  bitter  banishment ; 
On    a    Tuesday   at    Pontigny    came    to 

me 
The  ghostly  warning  of  my  martyrdom; 
On  a  Tuesday  from  mine  exile  I  return'd, 

And  on  a  Tuesday 

[Tracy    enters,    then    Fitzurse,    De 
•  Brito,  and  De  jNIorville.     Monks 

following. 


—  on    a    Tuesday 


Tracy  ! 
\_A  long  silence  broken  ^j' Fitzurse  say- 
ing, contemptuously) 
God  help  thee ! 
John  of  Salisbury   {aside').     How  the 
good  Archbishop  reddens ! 
He  never   yet  could  brook  the  note  of 
scorn. 
Fitzurse.     My  lord,  we  bring  a  message 
from  the  King 
Beyond    the   water;     will    you   have   it 

alone, 
Or  with  these  listeners  near  you? 

Becket.  As  you  will. 

Fitzurse.     Nay,  as  you  will. 
Becket.  Nay,  as  you  will. 

John  of  Salisbury.  Why  then 

Better  perhaps  to  speak  with  them  apart. 
Let  us  withdraw. 

\_All  go  out  except  the  four  Knights 
a7id  Becket. 
Fitzurse.     We  are  all  alone  with  him. 
Shall  I  not  smite  him  with  his  own  cross- 
staff? 
De  Morville.     No,  look !  the  door  is 

open  :  let  him  be. 
Fitzurse.     The    King  condemns  your 

excommunicating 

Becket.     This  is  no  secret,  but  a  public 
matter. 
In  here  again ! 

[John  of  Salisbury  «w^  Monks  return. 

Now,  sirs,  the  King's  commands ! 

Fitzurse.     The  King  beyond  the  water, 

thro'  our  voices, 

Commands  you  to  be  dutiful  and  leal 

To  your  young  King  on  this  side  of  the 

water. 
Not  scorn  him  for  the  foibles  of  his  youth. 
W^hat !   you  would  make  his  coronation 

void 
By  cursing  those  who  crown'd  him  !     Out 
upon  you ! 
Becket.      Reginald,    all   men   know    I 
loved  the  Prince. 
His  father  gave  him  to  my  care,  and  I 
Became  his   second  father:    he  had  his 

faults. 
For  which  I  would  have  laid  mine  own 

life  down 
To  help  him  from  them,  since  indeed  I 

loved  him. 
And  love  him  next  after  my  lord  his  father. 


724 


BECKET. 


ACT   V, 


Rather  than  dim   the  splendour  of  his 
crown 

I  fain  would  treble  and  quadruple  it 

With  revenues,  realms,  and  golden  prov- 
inces 

So  that  were  done  in  equity. 

Fitziirse.  You  have  broken 

Your  bond  of  peace,  your  treaty  with  the 
King  — 

Wakening  such  brawls  and  loud  disturb- 
ances 

In  England,  that  he  calls  you  oversea 

To  answer  for  it  in  his  Norman  courts. 
Becket.     Prate  not  of  bonds,  for  never, 
oh,  never  again 

Shall  the  waste  voice  of  the  bond-break- 
ing sea 

Divide  me  from  the  mother  church  of 
England, 

My  Canterbury.     Loud  disturbances  ! 

Oh,  ay  —  the  bells  rang  out  even  to 
deafening, 

Organ  and  pipe,  and  dulcimer,  chants 
and  hymns 

In  all  the  churches,  trumpets  in  the  halls. 

Sobs,  laughter,  cries:  they  spread  their 
raiment  down 

Before  me — would  have  made  my  path- 
way flowers. 

Save  that  it  was  mid-winter  in  the  street. 

But    full   mid-summer    in   those   honest 
hearts. 
Fitzurse.     The   King   commands  you 
to  absolve  the  bishops 

W^hom  you  have  excommunicated. 
Becket.  I? 

Not  I,  the  Pope.     Ask  him  for  absolution. 
Fitztirse.     But  you  advised  the  Pope. 
Becket.  And  so  I  did. 

They  have  but  to  submit. 

The  four  Knights.     The    King  com- 
mands 70U. 

We  are  all  King's  men. 

Becket.  King's  men  at  least 

should  know 

That  their  own  King  closed  with  me  last 

That  I  should  pass  the  censures  of  the 
Church 

On  those  that  crown'd  young  Henry  in 
this  realm. 

And  trampled  on  the  rights  of  Canter- 
bury. 


Fitzurse.      What !     dare    you    charge 
the  King  with  treachery? 
He  sanction  thee  to  excommunicate 
The  prelates   whom  he  chose  to  crown 
his  son ! 
Becket.     I  spake  no  word  of  treachery, 
Reginald. 
But  for  the  truth  of  this  I  make  appeal 
To  all  the  archbishops,  bishops,  prelates, 

barons. 
Monks,  knights,  five  hundred,  that  were 

there  and  heard. 
Nay,  you  yourself  were  there  :  you  heard 
yourself. 
Fitzurse.     I  was  not  there. 
Becket.  I  saw  you  there. 

Fitzurse.  I  was  not. 

Becket.     You   were,      I   never  forget 

anything. 
Fitzurse.       He    makes    the    King    a 
traitor,  me  a  liar. 
How  long  shall  we  forbear  him? 
John    of  Salisbury    {drazving  Becket 
aside).  O  my  good  lord. 

Speak  with  them  privately  on  this  here- 
after. 
You  see  they  have  been  revelling,  and  I 

fear 
Are     braced     and     brazen'd     up    with 

Christmas  wines 
For  any  murderous  brawl. 

Becket.  And  yet  they  prate 

Of  mine,  my  brawls,  when   those,  that 

name  themselves 
Of  the  King's  part,  have  broken  down 

our  barns, 
Wasted  our  diocese,  outraged  our  tenants, 
Lifted    our    produce,   driven  our    clerics 

out  — 
Why  they,  your  friends,   those  ruffians, 

the  De  Brocs, 
They  stood  on  Dover  beach  to  murder 

me, 
They  slew  my  stags  in  mine  own  manor 

here, 
Mutilated,  poor  brute,  my  sumpter-mule, 
Plunder'd  the  vessel  full  of  Gascon  wine, 
The  old  King's  present,  carried  off  the 

casks, 
Kill'd  half  the  crew,  dungeon'd  the  other 
half 

In  Pevensey  Castle 

De  Morville.     W^hy  not  rather  then, 


SCENE   II. 


BECKET. 


725 


If  this  be  so,  complain  to  your  young 

King, 
Not  punish  of  your  own  authority? 

Becket.     Mine  enemies  barr'd  all  access 

to  the  boy. 
They  knew  he  loved  me. 
Hugh,    Hugh,    how    proudly   you    exalt 

your  head ! 
Nay,  when    they   seek   to   overturn    our 

rights, 
I  ask  no  leave  of  king,  or  mortal  man, 
To  set  them  straight  again.    Alone  I  do  it. 
Give  to  the  King  the  things  that  are  the 

King's, 
And  those  of  God  to  God. 

Fitzurse.  Threats !  threats  ! 

ye  hear  him. 
What !   will   he    excommunicate    all    the 

world  ? 

[  The  Knights  come  round  Becket. 
De  7  racy.     He  shall  not. 
De  Brito.  Well,  as  yet  — 

I  should  be  grateful  — 
He  hath  not  excommunicated  7ne. 

Becket.      Because  thou  wast  born  ex- 
communicate. 
I  never  spied  in  thee  one  gleam  of  grace. 
De  Brito.     Your  Christian's  Christian 

charity ! 

Becket.  By  St.  Denis 

De  Brito.     Ay,  by  St.  Denis,  now  will 

he  flame  out, 
And  lose  his  head  as  old  St.  Denis  did. 
Becket.     Ye   think  to  scare   me   from 

my  loyalty 
To  God  and  to  the  Holy  Father.     No  ! 
Tho'  all  the    swords  in  England  flash'd 

above  me 
Ready  to  fall  at  Henry's  word  or  yours  — 
Tho'  all  the  loud-lung'd  trumpets  upon 

earth 
Blared  from  the  heights  of  all  the  thrones 

of  her  kings, 
Blowing  the  world  against  me,  I  would 

stand 
Clothed  with  the  full  authority  of  Rome, 
Mail'd  in  the  perfect  panoply  of  faith, 
First  of  the  foremost  of  their  files,  who 

die 
For  God,  to  people  heaven  in  the  great 

day 
When  God  makes  up  his  jewels.     Once 

I  fled  — 


Never  again,  and  you  —  I  marvel  at  you  — 
Ye  know  what  is  between  us.     Ye  have 

sworn 
Yourselves  my  men  when  I  was  Chan- 
cellor— 
My   vassals  —  and     yet     threaten     your 

Archbishop 
In  his  own  house. 

Knights.     Nothing  can  be  between  us 
That  goes  against  our  fealty  to  the  King. 
Fitzurse.     And  in  his  name  we  charge 
you  that  ye  keep 
This  traitor  from  escaping. 

Becket.  Rest  you  easy. 

For  I  am  easy  to  keep.     I  shall  not  fly. 
Here,  here,  here  will  you  find  me. 

De  Morville.  Know  you  not 

You  have  spoken  to  the   peril    of  your 
life? 
Becket.     As  I  shall  speak  again. 
Fitzurse,    De    Tracy,  and  De   Brito. 
To  arms ! 
[  They  rush  out,  De  Morville  lingers. 
Becket.  De  Morville, 

I  had  thought  so  well  of  you;   and  even 

now 
You  seem  the  least  assassin  of  the  four. 
Oh,  do  not  damn  yourself  for  company  ! 
Is  it  too  late  for  me  to  save  your  soul? 
I   pray   you  for   one   moment   stay    and 
speak. 
De  Alorville.     Becket,  it  is  too  late. 

\^Exit. 
Becket.  Is  it  too  late  ? 

Too  late  on  earth  may  be  too  soon  in 
hell. 
Knights  {in  the  distance').     Close  the 
great  gate  —  ho,  there  —  upon  the 
town. 
Becket's   detainers.       Shut    the    hall- 
doors.  \_A  pause. 
Becket.     You  hear  them,  brother  John ; 
W'hy    do    you   stand   so    silent,   brother 
John? 
John  of  Salisbury.     For  I  was  musing 
on  an  ancient  saw, 
Suaviter  iji  viodo,  fortiter  in  re, 
Is   strength    less   strong   when  hand-in- 
hand  with  grace? 
Gratior     in    pulchro     corpore     virtus. 

Thomas, 
Why  should  you  heat  yourself  for  such  as 
these? 


726 


BECKET. 


ACT   V. 


Becket.     Methought  I  answer'd  mod- 
erately enough. 
JoJiJi  of  Salisbury.     As  one  that  blows 
the  coal  to  cool  the  tire. 
jMy  lord,  I  marvel  why  you  never  lean 
On  any  man's  advising  but  your  own. 
Becket.      Is   it   so,    Dan   John?   well, 

what  should  I  have  done? 
John  of  Salisbtwy.     You  should  have 
taken  counsel  with  your  friends 
Before    these    bandits   brake    into    your 

presence. 
They    seek  —  you    make  —  occasion    for 
your  death. 
Becket.     My  counsel  is  already  taken, 
John. 
I  am  prepared  to  die. 

John  of  Salisbury.     We  are  sinners  all, 
The  best  of  all  not  all-prepared  to  die. 
Becket.     God's  will  be  done  ! 
John  of  Salisbury.  Ay,  well. 

God's  will  be  done  ! 
Grim    {re-entering).      My   lord,    the 
knights  are  arming  in  the  garden 
Beneath  the  sycamore. 

Becket.  Good  !  let  them  arm. 

Grif?i.     And  one  of  the  De  Brocs  is 
with  them,  Robert, 
The  apostate  monk  that  was  with  Ran- 

dulf  here. 
He  knows  the  twists  and  turnings  of  the 
place. 
Becket.     No  fear ! 

Grim.  No  fear,  my  lord. 

\_Crashes   on  the    hall-doors.        The 

Monksy?^^. 

Becket  {rising).     Our  dovecote  flown  ! 

I  cannot  tell  why  monks  should  all  be 

cowards. 

John    of  Salisbury.     Take    refuge    in 

your  own  cathedral,  Thomas. 
Becket.     Do  they  not  tight  the  Great 
Fiend  day  by  day? 
Valour  and  holy  life  should  go  together. 
Why  should  all  monks  be  cowards? 

John  of  Salisbury.  Are  they  so? 

I  say,  take  refuge  in  your  own  cathedral. 

Becket.     Ay,  but  I  told  them  I  would 

wait  them  here. 
Grim.     May  they  not  say  you  dared 
not  show  yourself 
In    your    old    place?    and   vespers    are 
beginning. 


\_Bell  rings  for  vespers  till  end  of  scene. 
You  should  attend  the  office,  give  them 

heart. 
They    fear   you    slain :    they    dread  they 
know  not  what. 
Becket.     Ay,  monks,  not  men. 
Grim.  1  am  a  monk,  my  lord. 

Perhaps,  my  lord,  you  wrong  us. 
Some  would  stand  by  you  to  the  death. 
Becket.  Your  pardon. 

John  of  Salisbury.     He  said,  '  Attend 

the  office.' 
'  Becket.  Attend  the  office  ? 

Why  then  —  The  Cross  !  —  who  bears  my 

Cross  before  me  ? 
Methought  they  would  have  brain'd  me 
with  it,  John.         [Grim  takes  it. 
Grim.     I!     Would  that  I  could  bear 

thy  cross  indeed ! 
Becket.     The  Mitre  ! 
John  of  Salisbury.     Will  you  wear  it? 
—  there  ! 

[Becket  puts  on  the  mitre. 
Becket.  The  Pall ! 

I  go  to  meet  my  King ! 

\^Puts  on  the  pall. 

Grim.  To  meet  the  King ! 

[  Crashes  on  the  doors  as  they  go  out. 

John  of  Salisbury.     Why  do  you  move 

with  such  a  stateliness? 

Can   you   not  hear  them    yonder  like  a 

storm. 
Battering  the  doors,  and  breaking  thro' 
the  walls? 
Becket.     Why  do  the    heathen    rage? 
My  two  good  friends, 
What  matters  murder'd  here,  or  murder'd 

there? 
And  yet  my  dream  foretold  my  martyr- 
dom 
In  mine  own  church.     It  is  God's  will. 

Go  on. 
Nay,  drag  me  not.     We  must  not  seem 
to  fly. 


SCENE  III.— North     Transept 
Canterbury  Cathedral. 


OF 


On  the  right  hand  a  flight  of  steps  leading 
to  the  Choir,  another  flight  on  the  left, 
leading  to  the  jVorth  Aisle.  IVinter 
afternoon    sloivly    darkening.        Low 


SCENE   III. 


BECKET. 


727 


thunder  now  and  then  of  an  approach- 
ing storm.  Monks  heard  chanting  the 
service.     Rosamund  kneeling. 

Rosamund.     O  blessed  saint,  O  glori- 
ous Benedict,  — 
These  arm'd  men  in  the  city,  these  fierce 

faces  — 
Thy  holy  follower  founded  Canterbury  — 
Save  that  dear  head  which  now  is  Can- 
terbury, 
Save  him,  he  saved  my  life,  he  saved  my 

child, 
Save     him,    his     blood     would    darken 

Henry's  name; 
Save  him  till  all  as  saintly  as  thyself 
He  miss  the  searching  flame  of  purgatory. 
And  pass  at  once  perfect  to  Paradise. 

S^N'oise  of  steps  and  voices  in  the  cloisters. 
Hark  !     Is  it  they?    Coming!     He  is  not 

here  — 
Not  yet,  thank  heaven.     O  save  him  I 

[  Goes  up  steps  leading  to  choir. 
Becket\entering,  forced  along  by  John 
of   Salisbury  and  Grim).     No,  I 
tell  you ! 
I  cannot  bear  a  hand  upon  my  person. 
Why  do  vou  force  me  thus  against  my 
wifl? 
Grim.      My  lord,  we  force  you  from 

your  enemies. 
Becket.      As   you  would  force  a  king 

from  being  crown'd. 
John  of  Salisbury.    We  must  not  force 

the  crown  of  martyrdom. 
\_Service  stops.    Monks  come  down  froDi 

the  stairs  that  lead  to  the  choir. 
Monks.    Here  is  the  great  Archbishop  I 
He  lives  !  he  lives  ! 
Die  with  him,  and  be  glorified  together. 
Becket.    Together?  .  .  .  get  you  back! 

go  o«  with  the  office. 
Monks.       Come,    then,    with     us     to 

vespers. 
Becket.  How  can  I  come 

When  you  so  block  the  entry?     Back,  I 

say  ! 
Go  on  with  the  office.    Shall  not  Heaven 

be  served 
Tho'  earth's  last  earthquake  clash'd  the 

minster-bells, 
And   the   great    deeps  were    broken    up 
again, 


And  hiss'd  against  the  sun? 

\_N'oise  in  the  cloisters. 
Monks.  The  murderers,  hark  ! 

Let  us  hide !  let  us  hide  I 

Becket.     What  do  these  people  fear? 
Monks.      Those    arm'd    men    in    the 

cloister. 
Becket.  Be  not  such  cravens  ! 

I  will  go  out  and  meet  them. 

Grim  and  others.  Shut  the  doors  ! 

We  will  not  have  him  slain  before  our 
face. 
[  They  close  the  doors  of  the  transept. 
Knocki7ig. 
Fly,  fly,  my  lord,  before  they  burst  the 
doors !  \_Knocking. 

Becket.      Why,    these    are    our    own 
monks  who  follow'd  us ! 
And  will  you  bolt  them  out,  and  have 

them  slain? 
Undo   the   doors :     the  church  is  not   a 

castle : 
Knock,  and  it  shall  be  open'd.     Are  you 

deaf? 
What,  have  I  lost  authority  among  you? 
Stand  by,  make  way  ! 

[Opens   the   doors.       Enter   Monks 
from  cloister. 

Come    in,  my   friends,    come   in ! 
Nay,  faster,  faster ! 

Monks.  Oh,  my  lord  Archbishop, 

A  score  of  knights  all  arm'd  with  swords 

and  axes  — 
To  the  choir,  to  the  choir ! 

[Monks    divide,  part  flying  by  the 
stairs  on  the  right,  part  by  those  on 
the  left.       The   rush   of  these  last 
bears  Becket  along  with  them  so??ie 
way  up  the  steps,  2ohere  he  is  left 
standing  alone. 
Becket.     Shall  I  too  pass  to  the  choir. 
And  die  upon  the  Patriarchal  throne 
Of  all  my  predecessors? 

John  of  Salisbury.       No,  to  the  crypt ! 
Twenty  steps  down.     Stumble  not  in  the 

darkness. 
Lest  they  should  seize  thee. 

Grim.  To  the  crypt?  no  —  no. 

To  the  chapel  of  St.  Blaise  beneath  the 

roof! 

John   of  Salisbury   {pointing  upward 

and  do7im7vard).     That  way,   or 

this  !     Save  thyself  either  way. 


728 


BECKET. 


ACT   V. 


Becket.     Oh,  no,  not  either  way,  nor 
any  way 
Save  by  that  way  which  leads  thro'  night 

to  Hght. 
Not  twenty  steps,  but  one. 
And  fear  not  I    should   stumble  in  the 

darkness, 
Not  tho'  it  be  their  hour,  the  power  of 

darkness, 
But  my  hour  too,  the  power  of  light  in 

darkness ! 
I  am  not  in  the  darkness  but  the  light. 
Seen    by  the    Church    in    Heaven,    the 

Church  on  earth  — 
The  power  of  life  in  death  to  make  her 
free  ! 
\_Enter  the  four  Knights.     John  of 
Salisbury  flies  to  the  altar  of  St. 
Benedict. 
Fitzurse.     Here,  here,  King's  men  ! 
\^Catches  hold  of  the  last  flying  Monk. 
Where  is  the  traitor  Becket? 
Monk.     I   am   not  he !    I  am  not  he, 
my  lord. 
I  am  not  he  indeed ! 

Fitzurse.  Hence  to  the  fiend  ! 

[^Pushes  him  aivay. 

Where  is  this  treble  traitor  to  the  King? 

De  Tracy.     Where  is  the  Archbishop, 

Thomas  Becket? 
Becket.  Here. 

No    traitor  to   the    King,  but    Priest   of 

God, 
Primate  of  England. 

\_Descending  into  the  transept. 
I  am  he  ye  seek. 
What  would  ye  have  of  me  ? 

Fitzurse.  Your  life. 

De  Tracy.  Your  life. 

De  Morville.     Save  that  you  will  ab- 
solve the  bishops. 
Becket.  Never,  — 

Except    they    make    submission    to    the 

Church. 
You  had  my  answer  to  that  cry  before. 
De  Morville.     Why,  then   you   are   a 

dead  man;    flee  ! 
Becket.  I  will  not. 

1  am  readier  to  be  slain,  than  thou  to  slay. 
Hugh,  I  know  well  thou  hast  but  half  a 

heart 
To  bathe  this  sacred  pavement  with  my 
blood. 


God  pardon   thee  and  these,  but  God's 

full  curse 
Shatter  you  all  to  pieces  if  ye  harm 
One  of  my  flock  ! 

Fitzurse.  Was  not  the  great  gate 

shut? 
They  are  thronging  in  to  vespers — half 

the  town. 
We   shall   be    overwhelm'd.     Seize    him 

and  carry  him ! 
Come  with  us  —  nay  —  thou  art  our  pris- 
oner—  come ! 
De  Morville.     Ay,  make  him  prisoner, 
do  not  harm  the  man. 
[Fitzurse    lays    hold    of  the   Arch- 
bishop's/a//. 
Becket.     Touch  me  not ! 
De  Brito.  How  the  good 

priest  gods  himself! 
He  is  not  yet  ascended  to  the  Father. 
Fitzurse.     I  will  not  only  touch,  but 

drag  thee  hence. 
Becket.     Thou   art   my  man,  thou  art 
my  vassal.     Away ! 
\_Flings  him  ofl^  till  he  reels,  almost 
to  falling. 
De     Tracy    (Jays    hold  of  the  pall). 
Come;    as  he  said,  thou  art  our 
prisoner. 
Becket.  Down ! 

[  Throws  him  headlong. 
Fitzurse  (^advances  zvith  drawn  sword) . 
I    told    thee    that    I    should    re- 
member thee ! 
Becket.     Profligate  pander ! 
Fitzurse.  Do  you  hear  that? 

strike,  strike. 
\_Strikes  off  the  Archbishop's  niitre., 
and  ivounds  him  in  the  forehead. 
Becket  (^covers  his  eyes  with  his  hand). 
I    do  commend  my  cause  to  God,  the 

Virgin, 
St.  Denis  of  France  and  St.  Alphege  of 

England, 
And   all    the    tutelar    Saints   of  Canter- 
bury. 
[Grim    wraps    his    arms    about   the 
Archbishop. 
Spare  this  defence,  dear  brother. 

[Tracy  has  arisen,  and  approaches, 
hesitatingly^      7vith      his      sword 
raised. 
Fitzurse.  Strike  him,  Tracy  ! 


SCENE   III. 


BECKET. 


729 


Rosamund  {j'tishing  dozvn  steps  frovi 

the  c/ioir) .     No,  No,  No,  No  ! 
Fitzurse.  This  wanton  here.     De 

Morville, 
Hold  her  away. 

■De  Morville.     I  hold  her. 
Rosajmind  {held  back  by  De  Morville, 
and  stretching  out  her  arfns). 

Mercy,  mercy, 
As  you  would  hope  for  mercy. 

Fitzurse.  Strike,  I  say. 

Grim.     O  God,  O   noble    knights,  O 
sacrilege  ! 
Strike  our  Archbishop  in  his  own  cathe- 
dral! 
The  Pope,  the  King,  will   curse  you  — 

the  whole  world 

Abhor  you;  ye  will  die  the  death  of  dogs  ! 

Nay,  nay,  good  Tracy.      \_Eifts  his  arm. 

Fitzurse.  Answer  not,  but  strike. 

De  Tracy.     There  is  my  answer  then. 

S^Szvord  falls   on    Grim's  arm,  and 

glances      from       it.,      wounding 

Becket. 

Grim.  Mine  arm  is  sever'd. 

I  can  no  more  —  fight  out  the  good  fight 

—  die 
Conqueror. 


[  Staggers  into  the  chapel  of  St.  Benedict. 
Becket  (^falling  on  his  knees').     At  the 
right  hand  of  Power  — 
Power  and  great  glory  —  for  thy  Church, 

O  Lord  — 
Into   Thy    hands,    O    Lord  —  into    Thy 

hands! \^Sinks  prone. 

De  Briio.     This  last  to  rid  thee  of  a 

world  of  brawls  !  \^Kills  him. 

The  traitor's  dead,  and  will  arise  no  more. 

Fitzurse.         Nay,  have  we  still'd  him? 

What !  the  great  Archbishop ! 

Does  he  breathe?     No? 

De  Tracy.     No,  Reginald,  he  is  dead. 

\_Storm  bursts.^ 

De  Morville.      Will  the  earth  gape  and 

swallow  us? 
De  Brito.  The  deed's  done  — 

Away ! 

[De  Brito,  De  Tracy,  Fitzurse,  rush 
out,  crying  '  King's  men  I '  De 
Morville  follows  slowly.  Flashes 
of  lightning  thro''  the  Cathedral. 
Rosamund  seen  kneeling  by  the 
body  of  Becket. 

^  A  tre7nendous  thunderstorm,  actually 
broke  over  the  Cathedral  as  the  murderers 
were  leaving  it. 


THE   CUP. 

A    TRAGEDY. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


GALATIANS. 


Synorix,  aft  ex-Tetrarch. 
SiNNATUS,  a  Tetrarch. 
Attendant. 
Boy. 


Antonius,  a  Roman  General. 

PUBLIUS. 


ROMANS. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I. —  Distant  View  of  a  City 
OF  Galatia. 

As  the  curtain  rises.  Priestesses  are  heard 
singing  in  the  Temple.  Boy  discovered 
on  a  pathivay  among  Rocks,  picking 
grapes.  A  party  of  Roma7i  Soldiers, 
guarding  a  prisoner  in  chains,  come 
doivn  the  pathway  and  exeunt. 

Enter  vSynorix  {looking  round^.     Sing- 
ing ceases. 

Synorix.     Pine,  beech  and  plane,  oak, 

walnut,  apricot. 
Vine,  cypress,  poplar,  myrtle,  bowering-in 
The  city  where  she  dwells.      She  past  me 

here 
Three  years  ago  when  I  was  flying  from 
My  tetrarchy  to  Rome.    I  almost  touch'd 

her  — 
A  maiden  slowly  moving  on  to  music 
Among  her  maidens  to  this   Temple  — 

O  Gods ! 
She  is  my  fate  —  else  wherefore  has  my 

fate 
Brought  me  again  to  her  own  city?  — 

married 
Since  —  married   Sinnatus,  the  Tetrarch 

here  — 
But    if   he    be    conspirator,    Rome    will 

chain, 
Or  slay  him.     I  may  trust  to  gain   her 

then 
When  I  shall  have  my  tetrarchy  restored 


Maid. 
Phcebe. 

Camma,  %vife  of  Sinnatus,  afterwards 
Priestess  in  the  Temple  of  Artemis. 


Nobleman. 
Messenger. 


By  Rome,  our  mistress,  grateful    that  I 

show'd  her 
The  weakness  and  the  dissonance  of  our 

clans, 
And  how  to  crush  them  easily.    Wretched 

race  ! 
And  once  I  wish'd  to  scourge  them  to  the 

bones. 
But  in  this  narrow  breathing-time  of  life 
Is  vengeance  for  its  own  sake  worth  the 

while, 
If  once  our  ends  are  gain'd?   and  now 

this  cup  — 
I  never  felt  such  passion  for  a  woman. 
{^Brings  out  a  cup  and  scroll  from 

under  his  cloak. 
What  have  1  written  to  her? 

\_Reading  the  scroll. 
'To  the  admired  Camma,  wife  of 
Sinnatus,  the  Tetrarch,  one  who  years 
ago,  himself  an  adorer  of  our  great  god- 
dess, Artemis,  beheld  you  afar  off  worship- 
ping in  her  Temple,  and  loved  you  for  it, 
sends  you  this  cup  rescued  from  the  burn- 
ing of  one  of  her  shrines  in  a  city  thro' 
which  he  past  with  the  Roman  army :  it 
is  the  cup  we  use  in  our  marriages. 
Receive  it  from  one  who  cannot  at  pres- 
ent write  himself  other  than 

'  A  Galatian    servinc  kv  force   in 
THE  Roman  Lehion.' 

f  Turns  and  looks  ;//>  to  Boy. 
Boy,     dost     thou     know     tlie     house     of 

Sinnatus? 
Boy.     These  grapes  arc  for  the  Ikjmsc* 

of  Sinnatus  — 


ACT    I,    SCENE   I. 


THE    CUP. 


731 


Close  to  the  Temple. 

Synorix.  Yonder  ? 

Boy.  Yes. 

Synorix  {aside).  That  I 

With  all  my  range  of  women  should  yet 

shun 
To  meet  her  face  to  face  at  once  I     My 
boy, 

\^Boy  comes  doion  rocks  to  him. 
Take   thou   this  letter    and    this   cup   to 

Camma, 
The  wife  of  Sinnatus. 

Boy.  Going  or  gone  to-day 

To  hunt  with  Sinnatus. 

Synorix.  That  matters  not. 

Take  thou  this  cup  and  leave  it  at  her 
d6ors. 
[  Gives  the  cup  and  scroll  to  the  Boy. 
Boy.     1  will,  my  lord. 

[  Takes  his  basket  of  grapes  and  exit. 

Enter  Antonius. 

Antonius  (^meeting  the  Boy  as  he  goes 

out).     Why,  whither  runs  the  boy  ? 

Is  that  the  cup  you  rescued  from  the  fire? 

Synorix.     I    send    it    to    the    wife    of 

Sinnatus, 
One  half  besotted  in  religious  rites. 
You    come    here   with    your   soldiers    to 

enforce 
The  long-withholden  tribute  :  you  suspect 
This  Sinnatus  of  playing  patriotism, 
Which   in  your   sense   is   treason.     You 

have  yet 
No  proof  against  him  :  now  this  pious  cup 
Is   passport    to    their    house,    and    open 

arms 
To  him  who  gave  it;    and  once  there  I 

warrant 
I  worm  thro'  all  their  windings. 

Aiitojiius.  If  you  prosper. 

Our  Senate,  wearied  of  their  tetrarchies, 
Their    quarrels    with    themselves,    their 

spites  at  Rome, 
Is  like  enough  to  cancel  them,  and  throne 
One  king  above  them  all,  who  shall  be 

true 
To  the   Roman :   and  from  what  I  heard 

in  Rome, 
This  tributary  crown  may  fall  to  you. 
Synorix.     The  king,  the  crown  !  their 

talk  in  Rome?  is  it  so? 

[Antonius  nods. 


Well  —  I  shall  serve  Galatia  taking  it, 
And  save   her   from   herself,   and  be   to 

Rome 
More  faithful  than  a  Roman. 

[  Turns  and  sees  Camma  coming. 
Stand  aside, 
Stand  aside ;   here  she  conies  ! 

[  Watching    Camma    as    she    enters 

with  her  Maid. 

Camma  {to  A/aid).    Where  is  he,  girl? 

Maid.  You  know  the  waterfall 

That  in  the  summer  keeps  the  mountain 

side, 
But  after  rain  o'erleaps  a  jutting  rock 
And  shoots  three  hundred  feet. 

Cam7na.  The  stag  is  there? 

Maid.     Seen    in    the    thicket    at    the 
bottom  there 
But  yester-even.* 

.  Camma.  Good  then,  we  will  climb 

The  mountain   opposite   and  watch   the 
chase. 
[  1  hey  descend  the  rocks  and  exeunt. 
Synorix  {watching her) .  {Aside.)  The 
bust  of  Juno  and  the  brows  and 
eyes 
Of  Venus;   face  and  form  unmatchable  ! 
Antonius.     Why  do  you  look  at   her 

so  lingeringly? 
Synorix.     To  see  if  years  have  changed 

her. 
Antonius  {sarcastically) .    Love  her,  do 

you? 
Synorix.     I  envied  Sinnatus  when  he 

married  her. 
Antonius.     She  knows  it?     Ha! 
Synorix.     She  —  no,  nor  ev'n  my  face. 
Antonius.     Nor  Sinnatus  either? 
Synorix.  No,  nor  Sinnatus. 

Antonius.       Hot-blooded !       I     have 
heard  them  say  in  Rome, 
That  your  own  people  cast  you  from  their 

bounds. 
For  some  unprincely  violence  to  a  woman, 
As  Rome  did  Tarquin. 

Synorix.  Well,  if  this  were  so, 

I  here  return  like  Tarquin  —  for  a  crown. 

Antonius.     And    may    be    foil'd    like 

Tarquin,  if  you  follow 

Not  the  dry  light  of  Rome's  straight-going 

policy, 
But  the  fool-fire  of  love  or  lust,  which 
well 


732 


THE    CUP. 


ACT   I. 


May  make  you  lose  yourself,  may  even 

drown  you 
In  the  good  regard  of  Rome. 

Synorix.  Tut  —  fear  me  not ; 

I  ever  had  my  victories  among  women. 
I  am  most  true  to  Rome. 

Antonius  {aside).  I  hate  the  man! 

What  filthy  tools  our  Senate  works  with ! 

Still 
I  must  obey  them.     {Aloud.)      Fare  you 

well.  \_Going. 

Synorix.     Farewell ! 
Ajttonius  {stopping).     A  moment !      If 

you  track  this  Sinnatus 
In    any   treason,    I    give    you    here    an 

order  \_Produces  a  paper. 

To    seize    upon    him.     Let    me    sign   it. 

{Signs  it.)     There 
*  Antonius  leader  of  the  Roman  Legion.' 
\^Hands  the  paper  to  Synorix.      Goes 

up  pathway  and  exit. 
Synorix.     Woman  again  !  —  but  I  am 

wiser  now. 
No  rushing  on  the  game  — the  net, — .the 

net. 

\_Shouts  of  '  Sinnatus  !   Sinnatus  !  ' 

Then  horn. 

Looking  off  stage.]      He  comes,  a  rough, 

bluff,  simple-looking  fellow. 
If    we    may   judge    the    kernel    by   the 

husk. 
Not  one  to  keep  a  woman's  fealty  when 
Assailed  by  Craft   and    Love.     I'll  join 

with  him: 
I  may  reap  something  from  him  —  come 

upon  her 
Again,  perhaps,  to-day  — her.     Who  are 

with  him? 
I  see  no  face  that  knows  me.     Shall  I 

risk  it? 
I  am  a  Roman  now,  they  dare  not  touch 

me. 
I  will. 

Enter  SiNNATUS,  Huntsmen  and  hounds. 

Fair  Sir,  a  happy  day  to  you ! 
You  reck  but  little  of  the  Roman  here. 
While  you  can  take  your  pastime  in  the 
woods. 
Sinnatus.     Ay,  ay,  why  not?     What 

would  you  with  me,  man? 
Synorix.     I  am  a  life-long  lover  of  the 
chase, 


And  tho'  a  stranger  fain  would  be  allow'd 
To  join  the  hunt. 

Sinnatus.     Your  name? 
Synorix.  Strato,  my  name. 

Sinnatus.     No  Roman  name? 
Synorix.     A    Greek,    my    lord;     you 
know 
That  we  Galatians   are  both  Greek  and 
Gaul. 

\_Shoiits  and  horns  in  the  distance. 
Sinnatus.  Hillo,  the  stag !  ( To 
Synorix.)  What,  you  are  all  un- 
furnish'd? 
Give  him  a  bow  and  arrows  —  follow  — 
follow. 

\_Exit,  followed  by  Hunisi7ien. 
Synorix.     Slowly    but    surely  —  till    I 
see  my  way. 
It  is  the  one  step  in  the  dark  beyond 
Our  expectation,  that  amazes  us. 

{^Distant  shouts  and  horns. 
Hillo!      Hillo! 

\^Exit  Synorix.   Shouts  and  horns. 

SCENE   II.  — A  Room  in  the 
Tetrarch's  House. 

Frescoed  figures  on  the  walls.  Evening. 
Moonlight  outside.  A  couch  with 
cushions  on  it.  A  small  table  with  a 
flagon  of  wine,  cups,  plate  of  grapes, 
etc.,  also  the  cup  of  Scene  I.  A  chair 
with  drapery  on  it. 

Camma  enters,  and  opens  curtains  of 
zuindow, 

Caiiima.     No  Sinnatus  yet  —  and  there 
the  rising  moon. 
[  Takes  lip  a  cithern  and  sits  on  couch. 
Plays  and  sings. 
Moon  on  the  field  and  the  foam. 

Moon  on  the  waste  and  the  wold, 
Moon  bring  him  home,  bring  him  home 

Safe  from  the  dark  and  the  cold, 
Home,  sweet  moon,  bring  him  home, 
Home  with  the  flock  to  the  fold  — 

Safe  from  the  wolf 

{Listening.)     Is  he  coming?  I  thought 
I  heard 
A  footstep.     No,  not  yet.     They  say  that 

Rome 
Sprang    from    a  wolf.     I    fear    my  dear 
lord  mixt 


SCENE   II. 


THE    CUP. 


733 


With  some  conspiracy  against  the  wolf. 
This  mountain  shepherd  never  dream'd 

of  Rome. 
i^Sings^       Safe   from   the   wolf    to   the 

fold 

And  that  great  break  of  precipice  that 

runs 
Thro'  all  the  wood,  where  twenty  years 

ago 
Huntsman,  and  hound,  and  deer  were  all 

neck-broken  ! 
Nay,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  SiNNATUS  followed  by  Synorix. 

Sinnatus  (^angrily).     I  tell  thee,  my 
good  fellow, 
My  arrow  struck  the  stag. 

Synorix.  But  was  it  so? 

Nay,  you  were  further  off:    besides  the 

wind 
Went  with  w/  arrow. 

Sijinatiis.     I  am  sure  /  struck  him. 
Synorix.     And  I  am  just  as  sure,  my 
lord,  /struck  him. 
(^Aside.)     And  I  may  strike  your  game 
when  you  are  gone. 
Canima.     Come,    come,  we    will    not 
quarrel  about  the  stag. 
J  have  had  a  weary  day  in  watching  you. 
Yours  must   have   been    a  wearier.     Sit 

and  eat. 
And  take  a  hunter's  vengeance  on  the 
meats. 
Sinnaius.     No,  no  —  we    have    eaten 

—  we  are  heated.     Wine! 
Camma.     Who  is  our  guest? 
Sinnatus.  Strato  he  calls  himself. 

[Camma  offers  zvine  to  Synorix,  while 
Sinnatus  helps  himself. 
Sinnatus.     I  pledge  you,  Strato. 

S^Drinks. 
Synorix.  And  I  you,  my  lord. 

{^Drinks. 
Sinnatus  {seeing  the  cup  sent  to  Cam- 
ma).    What's  here? 
Canima.     A  strange  gift  sent   to   me 
to-day. 
A    sacred    cup    saved    from    a    blazing 

shrine 
Of  our  great  Goddess,  in  some  city  where 
Antonius    past.      I    had    believed    that 

Rome 
Made  war  upon  the  peoples  not  the  Gods. 


Synorix.       Most    like    the    city   rose 
against  Antonius, 
Whereon   he    fired   it,    and    the    sacred 

shrine 
By  chance  was  burnt  along  with  it. 

Sinnatus.  Had  you  then 

No  message  with  the  cup? 

Camma.  Why,  yes,  see  here. 

\_Gives  hi VI  the  scroll. 
Sinnatus  {reads).     'To  the  admired 
Camma,  —  beheld    you    afar   off —  loved 
you  —  sends  you  this  cup  —  the  cup  we 
use  in  our  marriages  —  cannot  at  present 
write  himself  other  than 
'A  Galatian  serving  by  force  in 
THE  Roman  Legion.' 
Serving  by  force  !     Were  there  no  boughs 

to  hang  on, 
Rivers  to   drown    in?     Serve   by  force? 

No  force 
Could  make  me  serve  by  force. 

Synorix.  How  then,  my  lord? 

The    Roman    is    encampt   without   your 

city  — 
The  force  of  Rome  a  thousand-fold  our 

own. 
Must  all  Galatia  hang  or  drown  herself? 
And  you  a  Prince  and  Tetrarch  in  this 

province 

Sinnatus.     Province ! 

Synorix.  Well,  well,  they 

call  it  so  in  Rome. 
Sinnatus  {angrily').     Province! 
Synorix.     A    noble    anger !    but   An- 
tonius 
To-morrow  will  demand  your  tribute  — 

you, 
Can  you  make  war  ?    Have  you  alliances  ? 
Bithynia,  Pontus,  Paphlagonia? 
We  have  had  our   leagues   of  old  with 

Eastern  kings. 
There    is   my  hand  —  if  such    a    league 

there  be. 
What  will  you  do? 

Siiinatus.  Not  set  myself  abroach 

And  run  my  mind  out  to  a  random  guest 
Who  join'd  me  in  the  hunt.     You  saw 

my  hounds 
True  to  the  scent;    and  we    have    two- 

legg'd  dogs 
Among  us  who  can  smell  a  true  occasion. 
And  when  to  bark  and  how. 

Sy?iorix.         My  good  Lord  Sinnatus, 


734 


THE  cur. 


ACT    I. 


I  once  was  at  the  hunting  of  a  lion. 
Roused  by  the  clamour  of  the  chase  he 

woke, 
Came    to    the    front  of  the  wood  —  his 

monarch  mane 
Bristled  about  his  quick  ears  —  he  stood 

there 
vStaring   upon    the   hunter.     A  score   of 

dogs 
Gnaw'd  at  his  ankles :  at  the  last  he  felt 
The  trouble  of  his  feet,  put    forth    one 

paw, 
Slew   four,    and    knew   it    not,    and    so 

remain'd 
Staring  upon  the  hunter  :  and  this  Rome 
Will  crush  you  if  you  wrestle  with  her; 

then 
Save  for  some  slight  report  in  her  own 

Senate 
Scarce  know  what  she  has  done. 

i^Aside.')  Would  I  could  move  him. 
Provoke  him  any  way  !      {Aloud.)     The 

Lady  Cam  ma, 
Wise  I  am  sure  as  she  is  beautiful, 
Will  close  with   me   that   to   submit   at 

once 
Is  better  than  a  wholly-hopeless  war, 
Our  gallant  citizens  murder'd  all  in  vain. 
Son,  husband,  brother  gash'd  to  death  in 

vain. 
And  the  small  state  more  cruelly  trampled 

on 
Than  had  she  never  moved. 

Canima.  Sir,  I  had  once 

A  boy  who  died  a  babe;    but  were  he 

living 
And  grown  to  man  and  Sinnatus  will'd 

it,  I 
Would  set  him  in  the  front  rank  of  the 

fight 
With  scarce  a  pang.     {Rises.)     Sir,  if  a 

state  submit 
At  once,  she  may  be  blotted  out  at  once 
And  swallow'd  in  the  conqueror's  chron- 
icle. 
Whereas  in  wars  of  freedom  and  defence 
The  glory  and  grief  of  battle  won  or  lost 
Solders  a  race  together  —  yea  —  tho'  they 

fail. 
The  names  of  those  who  fought  and  fell 

are  like 
A  bank'd-up  lire  that  flashes  out  again 
f'rom  century  to  century,  and  at  last 


May  lead  them  on  to  victory  —  I  hope 

so  — 
Like  phantoms  of  the  Gods. 
Sinnatus.     Well  spoken,  wife. 
Synorix  {bowing).     Madam,  so  well  I 

yield. 
Sinnatus.     I  should  not  wonder 
If  Synorix,  who  has  dwelt  three  years  in 

Rome 
And  wrought  his  worst  against  his  native 

land, 
Returns  with  this  Antonius. 

Synorix.  What  is  Synorix? 

Sinnatus.     Galatian,  and  not   know? 
This  Synorix 
Was  Tetrarch  here,  and  tyrant  also  —  did 
Dishonour  to  our  wives. 

Synorix.  Perhaps  you  judge  him 

With  feeble  charity:    being  as  you  tell 

me 
Tetrarch,  there  might   be  willing  wives 

enough 
To  feel  dishonour,  honour. 

Camnia.  Do  not  say  so. 

I  know  of  no  such  wives  in  all  Galatia. 
There  may  be  courtesans   for    aught    I 

know 
W^hose  life  is  one  dishonour. 

Enter  Attendant. 

Attendant  {aside) .     My  lord,  the  men  ! 
Sinnatus    {aside).     Our    anti-Roman 

faction? 
Attendant  {aside).     Ay,  my  lord. 
Syjiorix   {overhearing).     {Aside.)     I 
have  enough  —  their  anti- Roman 
faction. 
Sinnatus  {aloud).     Some   friends   of 
mine  would  speak  with  me  with- 
out. 
You,  Strato,  make  good  cheer  till  I  re- 
turn. \_Exit. 
Synorix.     I    have    much    to   say,    no 
time  to  say  it  in. 
First,  lady,  know  myself  am  that  Galatian 
Who  sent  the  cup. 

Cavuna.     I  thank  you  from  my  heart. 
Synorix.     Then     that    I    serve    with 
Rome  to  serve  Galatia. 
That  is   my  secret:  keep  it,  or  you  sell 

me 
To  torment  and  to  death.    [  Coming  closer. 
For  your  ear  only  — 


SCENE   II. 


THE    CUP. 


735 


I   love  you  —  for  your  love  to  the  great 

Goddess. 
The   Romans  sent  me  here  a  spy  upon 

you, 
To  draw  you  and  your  husband  to  your 

doom. 
I'd  sooner  die  than  do  it. 
[  Takes  out  paper  given  hi>?i  by  Antonuis. 
This  paper  sign'd 
Antonius  —  will  you    take   it,    read    it? 
there ! 
Ca??ima.     {Reads.)     '  You  are  to  seize 

on  Sinnatus,  — if ' 

Synorix.    {Snatches paper.)   No  more. 
What    follows  is  for  no  wife's  eyes.     O 

Camma, 
Rome  has  a  glimpse  of  this  conspiracy; 
Rome  never  yet  hath  sparM  conspirator. 
Horrible !     flaying,     scourging,    crucify- 
ing  

Camtna.     I  am  tender  enough.     Why 

do  you  practise  on  me? 
Synorix.     Why  should   I  practise  on 
you?     How  you  wrong  me  ! 
I  am  sure  of  being  every  way  malign' d. 
And   if  you  should  betray  me   to   your 

husband 

Camma.     Will  you  betray  him  by  this 

order? 
Synorix.         See, 
I  tear  it  all  to  pieces,  never  dream'd 
Of  acting  on  it.  [  Tears  the  paper. 

Camma.     I  owe  you  thanks  for  ever. 
Synorix.     Hath    Sinnatus  never  told 

you  of  this  plot? 
Camma.     What  plot? 
Synorix.  A  child's  sand- 

castle  on  the  beach 
For  the  next  wave  —  all  seen,  —  all  calcu- 
lated. 
All   known    by   Rome.     No    chance  for 
Sinnatus. 
Cat?ima.     Why  said  you  not  as  much 

to  my  brave  Sinnatus? 
Synorix.     Brave  —  ay  —  too  brave,  too 
over-confident. 
Too  like  to  ruin  himself,  and  you,  and 

me  ! 
Who  else,  with  this  black  thunderbolt  of 

Rome 
Above  him,  would  have  chased  the  stag 

to-day 
In  the  full  face  of  all  the  Roman  camp? 


A  miracle  that  they  let  him  home  again, 
Not  caught,  maim'd,  blinded  him. 

[Camma  shudders. 

{Aside.)  I  have  made  her  tremble. 

{Aloud.)     I  know  they  mean  to  torture 

him  to  death. 
I  dare  not  tell  him  how  I  came  to  know 

it; 
I  durst  not  trust  him  with  —  my  serving 

Rome 
To  serve  Galatia :  you  heard  him  on  the 

letter. 
Not   say  as   much?      I  all   but   said    as 

much. 
I  am  sure   I   told  him  that  his  plot  was 

folly. 
I  say  it  to  you —  you  are  wiser  —  Rome 

knows  all, 
But  you  know  not  the  savagery  of  Rome. 
Camvia.     O  —  have   you  power  with 

Rome  ?  use  it  for  him  ! 
Synorix.     Alas !     I     have     no     such 
power  with  Rome.     All  that 
Lies  with  Antonius. 

\_As  if  struck  by  a  sudden  thought. 
Coffies  over  to  her. 

He  will  pass  to-morrow 
In   the    gray    dawn   before   the  Temple 

doors. 
You  have  beauty,  —  O  great   beauty,  — 

and  Antonius, 
So  gracious  toward  women,  never  yet 
Flung  back  a  woman's  prayer.     Plead  to 

him, 
I  am  sure  you  will  prevail. 

Ca7n?na.  Still  —  I  should  tell 

My  husband. 

Synorix.     Will  he   let   you  plead  for 
him 
To  a  Roman? 

Camma.     I  fear  not. 
Synorix.  Then  do  not  tell  him. 

Or  tell  him,  if  you  will,  when  you  return, 
When  you  have  charm'd  our  general  into 

mercy. 
And  all  is  safe  again.     O  dearest  lady, 
\^Murmurs  of  '  Synorix  I   Synorix  ! ' 
heard  outside. 
Think,  —  torture,  —  death,  —  and   come. 
Camma.  I  will,  I  will. 

And  I  will  not  betray  you. 

Synorix  {aside).   {As  Sinnatus  enters^ 

Stand  apart. 


736 


THE    CUP. 


ACT   I. 


Enter  Sinnatus  a7id  Attendant. 

Sinnatus.     Thou     art    that   Synorix ! 

One  whom  thou  hast  wrong'd 

Without  there,  knew  thee  with  Antonius. 

They  howl  for  thee,  to  rend  thee  head 

from  limb. 

Synorix.     I    am    much   malign'd.      I 

thought  to  serve  Galatia. 
Sinnatus.     Serve  thyself  first,  villain  ! 
They  shall  not  harm 
My   guest   within    my    house.      There ! 
(points  to  door)  there  !  this  door 
Opens  upon   the   forest !     Out,  begone  ! 
Henceforth  I  am  thy  mortal  enemy. 
Synorix.     However     I     thank     thee 
(draws   his   sivord) ;     thou    hast 
saved  my  life.  ^^Exit. 

Sinnatus.     (To   Attendant.)     Return 
and  tell  them  Synorix  is  not  here. 
\^Exit  Attendant. 
What  did  that  villain  Synorix  say  to  you? 
Camma.     Is  he  —  that  —  Synorix  ? 
Sinnatus.         Wherefore   should    you 
doubt  it? 
One  of  the  men  there  knew  him. 

Catnma.  Only  one, 

And  he  perhaps  mistaken  in  the  face. 
Sinjiatus.     Come,     come,     could     he 

deny  it?     What  did  he  say? 
Camma.     What  should  he  say? 
Sinnatus.     What   should  he   say,  my 
wife  ! 
He  should  say  this,  that  being  Tetrarch 

once 
His  own  true  people  cast  him  from  their 

doors 
Like  a  base  coin. 

Camma.        Not  kindly  to  them? 
Sinnatus.  Kindly? 

O   the   most   kindly    Prince    in   all    the 

world ! 
Would  clap   his  honest  citizens  on  the 

back, 
Bandy  their  own  rude  jests  with   them, 

be  curious 
About  the  welfare  of  their  babes,  their 

wives, 
O  ay  —  their  wives  —  their  wives.     What 

should  he  say? 
He  should  say  nothing  to  my  wife  if  I 
Were  by  to  throttle  him !     He  steep'd 
himself 


In  all  the  lust  of   Rome.     How  should 

yoic  guess 
What  maner  of  beast  it  is? 

Camma.  Yet  he  seem'd  kindly. 

And  said    he  loathed  the  cruelties  that 

Rome 
Wrought  on  her  vassals. 

Sinnatus.  Did  he,  honest  vaz-Xil 

Camma.     And  you,  that  seldom  brook 
the  stranger  here, 
Have  let  him  hunt  the  stag  with  you  to- 
day. 
Sinnatus.     I  warrant  you  now^,  he  said 

he  struck  the  stag. 
Camma.     Why  no,  he  never  touch'd 

upon  the  stag. 
Sinnatus.      Why  so  I  said,  my  arrow. 
Well,  to  sleep. 

[  Goes  to  close  door. 
Cainma.     Nay,  close  not  yet  the  door 
upon  a  night 
That  looks  half  day. 

Sinnatus.     True;   and  my  friends  may 
spy  him 
And  slay  him  as  he  runs. 

Cam?na.  He  is  gone  already. 

Oh  look, — yon  grove    upon   the  moun- 
tain, —  white 
In  the   sweet    moon  as  with  a  lovelier 

snow  ! 
But  what  a  blotch  of  blackness  under- 
neath ! 
Sinnatus,  you  remember  —  yea,  you  must, 
That  there   three  years   ago  —  the  vast 

vine-bowers 
Ran  to   the    summit   of  the  trees,    and 

dropt 
Their     streamers     earthward,    which    a 

breeze  of  May 
Took  ever  and  anon,  and  open'd  out 
The  purple    zone    of   hill    and   heaven; 

there 
You  told  your  love;   and  like  the  sway- 
ing vines  — 
Yea,  —  with  our  eyes,  —  our  hearts,  our 

prophet  hopes 
Let  in  the   happy  distance,  and  that  all 
But    cloudless   heaven    which    we    have 

found  together 
In  our  three  married  years  !     You  kiss'd 

me.  there 
For   the  first   time.     Sinnatus,    kiss   me 
now. 


SCENE   III. 


THE    CUP. 


1V1 


Sinnahis.      First  kiss.       {Kisses  her.') 
There  then.     You  talk  ahiiust  as 
if  it 
Might  be  the  last. 

Camtna.  Will  you  not  eat  a  little? 

Sitinahis.     No,  no,  we  found  a  goat- 
herd's hut  and  shared 
His   fruits   and  milk.     Liar !     You   will 

believe 
Now  that  he  never  struck  the  stag  —  a 

brave  one 
Which  you  shall  see  to-morrow. 

Camma.  I  rise  to-morrow 

In  the  gray  dawn,  and  take  this  holy  cup 
To  lodge  it  in  the  shrine  of  Artemis. 
Sinnatus,     Good ! 

Canivia.  If  I  be  not  back 

in  half  an  hour, 
Come  after  me. 

Simiatus.     W' hat  1    is  there  danger? 
Camma.  Nay, 

None  that  I  know :  'tis  but  a  step  from 

here 
To  the  Temple. 

Sinnatus.       All   my  brain   is   full   of 

sleep. 

Wake  me  before  you  go,  I'll  after  you  — 

After  me  now  !  [  Closes  door  and  exit. 

Camma    {drawing   curtains).      Your 

shadow.     Synorix  — 

His  face  w-as  not  malignant,  and  he  said 

That   men    malign'd    him.     Shall  I  go? 

Shall  I  go? 
Death,  torture  — 
'  He   never  yet   flung  back    a   woman's 

prayer  '  — 
I  go,  but  I  will  have   my   dagger   with 
me.  {^Exit. 


SCENE  III.— Same  as   Scene  I. 
Dawn. 

Afusic  and  Singing  in  the  Temple. 

Enter   Synorix   watchfully,   after    him 
Publics  and  Soldiers. 

Synorix.     Publius ! 
Publius.  Here ! 

Synorix.  Do  you  re- 

member what  I  told  you? 

Publius.       When     you     cry    '  Rome, 
Rome,'  to  seize 

3B 


On   whomsoever    may    be    talking  with 

you, 
Or    man,    or   woman,    as    traitors    unto 
Rome. 
Synorix.     Right.     Back  again.    How 
many  of  you  are  there? 

Publius.     Some  half  a  score. 

\_Exeunt  Soldiers  and  Publius. 
Synorix.  I  have  my  guard 

about  me. 
I  need  not  fear  the   crowd  that  hunted 

me 
Across  the  woods,  last  night.     I  hardly 

gain'd 
The  camp  at  midnight.     Will  she  come 

to  me 
Now  that  she  knows  me  Synorix?     Not 

if  Sinnatus 
Has  told  her  all   the    truth    about    me. 

Well, 
I  cannot  help  the  mould  that  I  was  cast 

in. 
I  fling  all  that  upon  my  fate,  my  star. 
I  know  that  I  am  genial,  I  would  be 
Happy,  and  make  all  others  happy  so 
They  did  not  thwart  me.     Nay,  she  will 

net  come. 
Yet  if  she  be  a  true  and  loving  wife 
She  may,  perchance,  to  save  this  husband. 

Ay! 
See,  see,  my  white  bird  stepping  toward 

the  snare. 
W^hy  now  I  count  it  all  but  miracle, 
That  this   brave    heart   of  mine    should 

shake  me  so. 
As  helplessly  as  some  unbearded  boy's 
W^hen    first   he    meets   his  maiden  in  a 
bower. 

[^Enter  Camma  {with  cup). 
The   lark  first  takes  the  sunlight  on  his 

wing, 
But   you,    twin   sister    of    the    morning 

star, 
Forelead  the  sun. 

Camma.  Where  is  Antonius? 

Synorix.     Not  here  as  yet.     You  are 
too  early  for  him. 

\_She  crosses  tozvards  Temple. 
Synorix.  Nay,  whither  go  you  now? 
Camma.  To  lodge  this,  cup 

Within  the  holy  shrine  of  Artemis, 
And  so  return. 

Synorix.  To  find  Antonius  here. 


738 


THE    CUP. 


ACT    I. 


\^She  goes  into  the  Temple,  he  looks 

after  her. 
The    loveliest    life    that   ever    drew    the 

light 
From  heaven   to    brood    upon  her,  and 

enrich 
Earth  with  her  shadow  !     I  trust  she  7vill 

return. 
These    Romans     dare    not   violate    the 

Temple. 
No,  I  must  lure  my  game  into  the  camp. 
A    woman    I    could    live    and    die    for. 

What! 
Die  for  a  woman,  what  new  faith  is  this? 
I  am  not  mad,  not  sick,  not  old  enough 
To  dote  on    one    alone.     Yes,    mad  for 

her, 
Camma  the  stately,   Camma   the   great- 
hearted. 
So  mad,   I    fear  some  strange   and   evil 

chance 
Coming    upon    me,  for    by    the    Gods  I 

seem 
Strange  to  myself. 

Re-enter  Camma. 

Cam?na.  Where  is  Antonius? 

Synorix.    Where?      As  I  said  before, 

you  are  still  too  early. 
Camma.     Too  early  to  be  here  alone 
with  thee; 
For  whether  men  malign  thy  name,  or 

no, 
It  bears  an  evil  savour  among  women. 
Where  is  Antonius?    {Lotid.) 

Synorix.  Madam,  as  you  l<now 

The  camp  is  half  a  league  without  the 

city; 
If  you  will  walk  with  me  we  needs  must 

meet 
Antonius  coming,  or  at  least  shall  find 

him 
There  in  the  camp. 

Camma.     No,  not  one  step  with  thee. 
Where  is  Antonius?   (^Louder.') 

Synorix     (^advancing    tozvards   her). 
Then  for  your  own  sake. 
Lady,  I  say  it  with  all  gentleness, 
And     for     the    sake    of    Sinnatus   your 

husband, 
I  must  compel  you. 

Camma  (^dra^ving  her  dagger).    Stay! 
—  too  near  is  death. 


Synorix  (^disarming  her).     Is  it  not 
easy  to  disarm  a  woman? 

Enter  SiNNATUS  (^seizes  him  fro7n  behind 
by  the  throat). 

Synorix  {throttled  and  scarce  atidible). 

Rome  !     Rome  ! 
Sinjiatus.  Adulterous  dog ! 

Synorix  (^stabbing  him  with  Gamma's 

dagger).    What!  will  you  have  it? 
[Gamma  utters  a  cry  and 
runs  to  Sinnatus. 
Sinnatus  (^ falls  backward).     I   have 

it  in  my  heart  —  to  the  Temple  — 

fly- 
For  my  sake  —  or   they  seize   on    thee. 

Remember  ! 
Away  —  farewell  I  \^Dies. 

Camma   {runs  up   the   steps   into    the 

Temple,  looking  back) .    Farewell ! 
Synorix    {seeing  her   escape).       The 

women  of  the  Temple  drag  her  in. 
Publius !     Publius !     No, 
Antonius  would  not  suffer  me  to  break 
Into  the  sanctuary.     She  hath  escaped. 

\_Looking  down  at  Sinnatus. 
'  Adulterous  dog  ! '  that  red-faced  rage  at 

me ! 
Then  with  one  quick  short  stab  —  eternal 

peace. 
So  end  all  passions.     Then  what  use  in 

passions? 
To  warm  the  cold  bounds  of  our  dying  life 
And,  lest  we  freeze  in  mortal  apathy. 
Employ  us,  heat  us,  quicken  us,  help  us, 

keep  us 
From  seeing  all  too  near  that  urn,  those 

ashes 
Which    all    must   be.     Well    used,    they 

serve  us  well. 
I  heard  a  saying  in  Egypt,  that  ambition 
Is  like  the  sea  wave,  which  the  more  you 

drink, 
The   more  you  thirst  —  yea  —  drink  too 

much,  as  men 
Have  done  on  rafts  of  wreck  —  it  drives 

you  mad. 
I    will   be   no   such   wreck,  am   no  such 

gamester 
As,   having  won   the  stake,  would  dare 

the  chance 
Of  double,   or  losing  all.     The    Roman 

Senate, 


ACT    II. 


THE    CUP. 


739 


For    I    have    always    playM     into    tlicir 

hands, 
Means  me  the  crown.     And  Camma  for 

my  bride  — 
The  people  love  her  —  if  I  win  her  love, 
They  too  will  cleave  to  me,  as  one  with 

her. 
There  then  I  rest,  Rome's  tributary  king. 
\_Lookijig  down  on  Sinnatus. 
Why  did  I  strike  him?  —  having  proof 

enough 
Against   the  man,  I  surely  should  have 

left 
That  stroke  to  Rome.     He  saved  my  life 

too.     Did  he? 
It  seem'd  so.     I  have  play'd  the  sudden 

fool. 
And  that  sets  her  against  me  —  for  the 

moment. 
Camma  —  well,  well,  I  never  found  the 

woman 
I    could   not    force    or   wheedle    to    my 

will. 
She    will    be   glad    at    last    to   wear   my 

crown. 
And  I  will  make  Galatia  prosperous  too. 
And  we  will  chirp  among  our  vines,  and 

smile 
At  bygone  things  till  that  (^pointing  to 

Sinnatus)  eternal  peace. 
Rome !     Rome ! 

\_Enter  Publius  and  Soldiers. 
Twice  I  cried  '  Rome.'    Why  came  ye  not 

before? 
Puhliiis.     Why  come  we  now?   Whom 

shall  we  seize  upon? 
Synorix  (^pointing  to  the  body  of  Sin- 
natus).    The  body  of  that   dead 

traitor  Sinnatus. 
Bear  him  away. 

Music  and  Singuig  in  Tejnple. 

ACT   II. 

SCENE.  —  Interior    of   the    Temple 
OF  Artemis. 

Small  gold  gates  on  platform  in  f'ont  of 
the  veil  before  the  colossal  statue  of  the 
Goddess,  a7id  in  the  centre  of  the  Tem- 
ple a  tripod  altar,  on  7vhich  is  a  lighted 
lamp.  Lamps  {lighted)  suspended  be- 
tzueen    each    pillar.       Tripods,    vases, 


garlands  of  flowers,  etc.,  about  stage. 
Altar  at  back  close  to  Goddess,  zvith 
two  cups.  Solemn  music.  Priestesses 
decorating  the  Temple. 

(  The  Chorus  ^Priestesses  si7tg  as 
they  enter.) 

Artemis,  Artemis,   hear    us,    O    Mother, 

hear  us,  and  bless  us  I 
Artemis,  thou  that  art  life  to  the  wind,  to 

the  wave,  to  the  glebe,  to  the  fire  ! 
Hear  thy  people  who  praise  thee !     O 

help  us  from  all  that  oppress  us ! 
Hear    thy  priestesses   hymn   thy  glory ! 

O  yield  them  all  their  desire  ! 
Priestess.     Phoebe,  that  man  from  Syn- 
orix, who  has  been 
So  oft  to  see  the  Priestess,  waits  once  more 
Before  the  Temple. 

Phcebe.  We  will  let  her  know. 

\^Sig7is  to  one  of  the  Priestesses,  who 

goes  otit. 
Since  Camma  fled  from  Synorix  to  our 

Temple, 
And  for  her  beauty,  stateliness,  and  power 
Was  chosen  Priestess  here,  have  you  not 

mark'd 
Her  eyes  were  ever  on  the  marble  floor? 
To-day  they  are   fixt   and  bright  —  they 

look  straight  out. 
Hath  she  made  up  her  mind  to  marry 

him? 
Priestess.     To  marry  him  who  stabb'd 

her  Sinnatus  ! 
You  will  not  easily  make  me  credit  that. 
Phcebe.     Ask  her. 

Enter  Camma  as  Priestess  {in  front  of 
the  curtains) . 

Priestess.     You  will  not  marry  Synorix  ? 

Catnma.     ]My  girl,  I  am  the  bride  of 
Death,  and  only 
Marry  the  dead. 

Priestess.        Not  Synorix  then? 

Camma.  My  girl, 

At  times  this  oracle  of  great  Artemis 
Has  no  more  power  than  other  oracles 
To  speak  directly. 

Phcebe.  Will  you  speak  to  him, 

The  messenger  from  Synorix  who  waits 
Before  the  Temple? 

Camma.     Why  not?     Let  him  enter. 
\_Comes  forivard  on  to  step  by  tripod. 


"740 


THE    CUP. 


ACT   II. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

Messenger    {kneels^.        Greeting    and 
health  from  Synorix  !     More  than 
once 
You  have  refused  his  hand.     When  last 

I  saw  you, 
You  all  but  yielded.     He  entreats  you 

now 
For  your  last  answer.     When  he  struck 

at  Sinnatus  — 
As  I  have  many  a  time  declared  to  you  — 
He  knew  not  at  the  moment  who  had 

fasten'd 
About  his  throat  —  he  begs  you  to  for- 
get it 
As  scarce   his  act :  —  a  random  stroke : 

all  else 
Was  love  for  you:  he  prays  you  to  be- 
lieve him. 
Camnia.     I  pray  him  to  believe  —  that 

I  believe  him. 
Messenger.     Why  that  is  well.     You 

mean  to  marry  him? 
Canima.     I  mean   to  marry  him  —  if 

that  be  well. 
Messenger.     This  very  day  the  Romans 
crown  him  king 
For  all  his  faithful  services  to  Rome. 
He  wills  you  then  this  day  to  marry  him, 
And  so  be  throned  together  in  the  sight 
Of  all  the  people,  that  the  world  may 

know 
You  twain  are  reconciled,  and  no  more 

feuds 
Disturb  our  peaceful  vassalage  to  Rome. 
Canwia.     To-day?     Too    sudden.      I 
will  brood  upon  it. 
When  do  they  crown  him? 

Messenger.  Even  now. 

Camma.  And  where? 

Messenger.     Here  by  your  temple. 
Camma.  Come  once  more  to  me 

Before  the  crowning,  —  I  will  answer  you. 
[^Exit  Messenger. 
Phoebe.     Great   Artemis !     O   Camma, 
can  it  be  well. 
Or  good,  or  wise,  that  you  should  clasp 

a  hand 
Red  with  the  sacred  blood  of  Sinnatus? 
Camma.      Good !     mine    own    dagger 
driven  by  Synorix  found 
All  good  in  the  true  heart  of  Sinnatus, 


And  quench'd  it  there  for  ever.     Wise  ! 
Life  yields  to  death  and  wisdom  bows  to 

Fate, 
Is  wisest,  doing  so.     Did  not  this  man 
Speak  well?     We  cannot  fight  imperial 

Rome, 
But  he  and  I  are  both  Galatian-born, 
And  tributary  sovereigns,  he  and  I 
Might    teach    this    Rome  —  from  know- 
ledge of  our  people  — 
Where  to  lay   on  her   tribute  —  heavily 

here 
And  lightly  there.     Might  I  not  live  for 

that. 
And  drown  all  poor  self-passion  in  the 

sense 
Of  public  good? 

Ph(Ebe.  I  am  sure  you  will  not 

marry  him. 
Camma.     Are   you  so  sure?     I  pray 

you  wait  and  see. 

\_Shotits  {frofH  the  distance^, 

'  Synorix  !   Synorix  ! ' 

Camma.     Synorix,  Synorix !     So  they 

cried  Sinnatus 
Not  so  long  since  —  they  sicken  me.     The 

One 
Who  shifts  his  policy  suffers  something, 

must 
Accuse    himself,    excuse    himself;     the 

Many 
Will  feel  no  shame  to  give  themselves  the 

lie. 
Phcebe.     Most  like  it  was  the  Roman 

soldiers  shouted. 
Ca?n??ia.     Their    shield-borne    patriot 

of  the  morning  star 
Hang'd  at  mid-day,  their  traitor  of  the 

dawn 
The.  clamour'd  darling  of  their  afternoon  ! 
And   that  same   head   they  would  have 

play'd  at  ball  with 
And    kick'd    it    featureless  —  they    now 

would  crown. 

[^Flourish  of  trumpets. 

Enter  a  Galatian  NoBLEMAN  with  crown 
on  a  cushion. 

Noble  (^kneels).     Greeting    and  health 
from  Synorix.     He  sends  you 
This  diadem  of  the  first  Galatian  Queen, 
That  you  may  feed  your  fancy  on  the 
glory  of  it, 


ACT   II. 


THE    CUP. 


741 


And  join  your  life  this  day  with  his,  and 

wear  it 
Beside   him    on    his    throne.     He    waits 

your  answer. 
Camma.     Tell  him  there  is  one  shadow 

among  the  shadows, 
One  ghost  of  all  the  ghosts  —  as  yet  so 

new, 
So  strange  among  them  —  such  an  alien 

there, 
So  much  of  husband  in  it  still  —  that  if 
The  shout  of  Synorix  and  Camma  sitting 
Upon    one    throne,   should    reach    it,    it 

would  rise 
He!  .  .  .  He,  with  that  red  star  between 

the  ribs. 
And  my  knife  there  —  and  blast  the  king 

and  me, 
And  blanch  the  crowd  with   horror.     I 

dare  not,  sir  ! 
Throne  him  —  and  then  the  m.arriage  — 

ay  and  tell  him 
That  I  accept  the  diadem  of  Galatia  — 

\_All  are  amazed. 
Yea,    that    ye    saw    me    crown    myself 

withal.  \^Puts  on  the  cro'wji. 

I  wait  him  his  crown'd  queen. 

Noble.  So  will  I  tell  him.     [Exit. 

Music.  Two  Pi'iestesses  go  up  the  steps 
before  the  shrijie,  draw  the  curtains  on 
either  side  {discovering  the  Goddess), 
then  open  the  gates  and  remain  on 
steps,  one  on  either  side,  and  kneel.  A 
Priestess  goes  off  and  returns  with  a 
veil  of  marriage,  then  assists  Phcebe  to 
veil  Caf}i?}ia.  At  the  same  tiine 
Priestesses  enter  and  stand  on  either 
side  of  the  Temple.  Caimna  and  all 
the  Priestesses  kneel,  raise  their  hands 
to  the  Goddess,  and  bow  dozvn. 

[Shotits,   '  Synorix  !    Synorix  ! '     All  rise. 
Camjna.     Fling  wide    the    doors  and 
let  the  new-made  children 
Of  our  imperial  mother  see  the  show. 

\_Sunlight pours  through  the  doors. 
I  have  no  heart  to  do  it.      {To  Phcebe^ 
Look  for  me  1 

[Crouches.     Phoebe  looks  out. 
[Shouts,  '  Synorix  !   Synorix  !  ' 
Phcebe.     He  climbs  the  throne.     Hot 
blood,  ambition,  pride 


So  bloat  and  redden  his  face  —  O  would 

it  were 
His  third  last  apoplexy  !     O  bestial ! 
O  how  unlike  our  goodly  Sinnatus. 

Ca7nma  {o7i  the  groinid).     You  wrong 
him  surely;    far  as  the  face  goes 
A  goodlier-looking  man  than  Sinnatus. 
Phcebe  {aside).     How  dare  she  say  it? 
I  could  hate  her  for  it 
But  that  she  is  distracted. 

[A  flourish  of  trtimpets. 
Camma.  Is  he  crown'd? 

Phoebe.     Ay,  there  they  crown  him. 
[  Crowd   without   shout,    '  Synorix  ! 
Synorix ! ' 
[A   Priestess   brings  a  box    of  spices  to 
Camma,    who    throws    them    on   the 
altar-flame. 
Camma.     Rouse  the  dead  altar-flame, 
fling  in  the  spices, 
Nard,  Cinnamon,  amomum,  benzoin. 
Let    all    the    air    reel    into    a    mist    of 

odour, 
As  in  the  midmost  heart  of  Paradise. 
Lay  down   the    Lydian   carpets  for   the 

king. 
The  king  should  pace  on  purple  to  his 

bride. 
And  music  there  to  greet   my  lord    the 
king.  [Music. 

{  To  Phcebe) .     Dost  thou  remember  when 

I  wedded  Sinnatus? 
Ay,   thou    wast    there  —  whether    from 

maiden  fears 
Or  reverential  love  for  him  I  loved, 
Or  some  strange  second-sight,  the  mar- 
riage cup 
Wherefrom    we    make    libation    to    the 

Goddess 
So  shook  within  my  hand,  that  the  red 

wine 
Ran    down    the    marble    and  lookt  like 
blood,  like  blood. 
Phoebe.     I    do    remember    your    first- 
marriage  fears. 
Cam7na.     I  have  no  fears  at  this  my 
second  marriage. 
See  here  —  I  stretch  my  hand  out  -^  hold 

it  there. 
How  steady  it  is  ! 

Phoebe.        Steady  enough  to  stab  him  ! 
Camma.     O  hush !     O  peace !     This 
violence  ill  becomes 


742 


THE    CUP. 


ACT   II. 


The  silence  of  our  Temple.     Gentleness, 
Low  words  best  chime  with  this  solem- 
nity. 

Enter  a  processioji  of  Priestesses  and 
Children  bearing  garlands  and  golden 
goblets,  and  st reiving  Jioivers. 

Enter  Synorix  (^as  King,  with  gold 
laurel-wreath  crown  and  purple 
robes')^  followed  by  Antonius,  Pub- 
LIUS,  N^oblenien,  Guards,  and  the 
Populace. 

Camma.     Hail,  King ! 
Synorix.  Hail,  Queen ! 

The  wheel  of  Fate  has  roll'd  me  to  the 

top. 
I  would  that  happiness  were  gold,  that  I 
Might  cast  my  largess  of  it  to  the  crowd  ! 
I  would  that  every  man  made  feast  to-day 
Beneath    the    shadow  of   our  pines  and 

planes  I 
For  all  my  truer  life  begins  to-day. 
The  past  is  like  a  travell'd  land  now  sunk 
Below  the  horizon  —  like  a  barren  shore 
That    grew    salt    weeds,    but    now    all 

drown' d  in  love 
And  glittering  at  full  tide  —  the  bounteous 

bays 
And  havens  filling  with  a  blissful  sea. 
Nor   speak    I   now    too    mightily,  being 

King 
And    happy !     happiest,     Lady,    in    my 

power 
To  make  you  happy. 

Cavima.  Yes,  sir. 

Synorix.  Our  Antonius, 

Our  faithful  friend  of  Rome,  tho'  Rome 

may  set 
A  free  foot  where    she  will,  yet    of  his 

courtesy 
Entreats    he    may    be     present    at     our 

marriage. 
Camma.     Let   him    come — a    legion 

with  him,  if  he  will. 
(  To  Antonius.)      Welcome,  my  lord  An- 
tonius, to  our  Temple, 
(  To  Synorix.)     You  on  this  side  the  altar. 

'(  7^0  Antonius.)     You  on  that. 
Call  first  upon  the  Goddess,  Synorix. 

\_.4ll  face  the    Goddess.     Priestesses, 

Children,  Populace,  and  Guards 

kneel —  the  others  remain  standing. 


Synorix.     O  Thou,  that   dost  inspire 

the  germ  with  life, 
The  child,  a  thread  within  the  house  of 

birth. 
And  give  him  limbs,  then  air,  and  send 

him  forth 
The   glory  of  his   father  —  Thou  whose 

breath 
Is  balmy  wind   to   robe    our    hills   with 

grass. 
And  kindle  all    our  vales  with    myrtle- 
blossom. 
And  roll  the  golden  oceans  of  our  grain, 
i\.nd  sway  the  long  grape-bunches  of  our 

vines, 
And  fill  all  hearts  with  fatness  and  the  lust 
Of    plenty  —  make    me    happy    in    my 

marriage  ! 
Chorus  {chanting).     Artemis,  Artemis, 

hear  him,  Ionian  Artemis  ! 
Camma.         O  Thou  that  slayest  the 

babe  within  the  womb 
Or  in  the  being  born,  or  after  slayest  him 
As  boy  or  man,  great   Goddess,  whose 

storm-voice 
Unsockets  the  strong  oak,  and  rears  his 

root 
Beyond  his  head,  and  strows  our  fruits, 

and  lays 
Our  golden  grain,  and  runs  to  sea  and 

makes  it 
Foam  over  all  the  fleeted  wealth  of  kings 
And  peoples,  hear. 
Whose  arrow  is  the  plague  —  whose  quick 

flash  splits 
The  mid-sea  mast,  and  rifts  the  tower  to 

the  rock, 
And  hurls  the  victor's  column  down  with 

him 
That  crowns  it,  hear. 
Who  causes  the  safe   earth   to  shudder 

and  gape. 
And  gulf  and  flatten  in  her  closing  chasm 
Domed  cities,  hear. 
Whose  lava-torrents  blast  and  blacken  a 

province 
To  a  cinder,  hear. 
Whose  winter-cataracts  find  a  realm  and 

leave  it 
A  waste  of  rock  and  ruin,  hear.     I   call 

thee 
To   make  my  marriage    prosper   to   my 

wish ! 


ACT    II. 


THE    CUP. 


743 


Chorus.     Artemis,  Artemis,  hear   her, 

Ephesian  Artemis ! 
Camma.     Artemis,  Artemis,  hear  me, 
Galatian  Artemis  I 
I  call  on  our  own  Goddess  in  our  own 
Temple. 
Chorus.     Artemis,  Artemis,  hear   her, 
Galatian  Artemis  ! 

[  Thunder.     All  rise. 
Synorix  {aside').     Thunder!     Ay,  ay, 
the  storm  was  drawing  hither 
Across    the    hills    when    I    was    being 

crown'd. 
I  wonder  if  I  look  as  pale  as  she? 

Camma.     Art  thou — still   bent  —  on 

marrying  ? 
Synorix.  Surely  —  yet 

These    are    strange    words   to    speak    to 
Artemis. 
Camma.     Words  are  not  always  what 
they  seem,  my  King. 
I  will  be  faithful  to  thee  till  thou  die. 
Synorix.     I  thank  thee,  Camma,  —  I 

thank  thee. 
Camma  {turning  to  Antonius).     An- 
tonius, 
Much   graced    are   we    that    our  Queen 

Rome  in  you 
Deigns  to  look  in  upon  our  barbarisms. 
[  Ttirns,  goes  tip  steps  to  altar  before 
the   Goddess.      Takes  a   cup  from 
off  the   altar.     Holds    it   towards 
Antonius.      Antonius  goes    up   to 
the  foot   of  the    steps    opposite   to 
Synorix. 
You  see  this  cup,  my  lord. 

\_Gives  it  to  him. 
Antonius.  Most  curious  I 

The  many-breasted  mother  Artemis 
Emboss'd  upon  it. 

Ca77ima.  It  is  old,  I  know  not 

How  many  hundred  years.     Give  it  me 

again. 
It  is  the  cup  belonging  our  own  Temple. 
\^Puts  it  back  on  altar,  and  takes  up 
the  cup  of  Act  I.     Shozving  it  to 
Antonius. 
Here  is  another  sacred  to  the  Goddess, 
The  gift  of  Synorix;    and  the  Goddess, 

being 
For  this   most    grateful,  wills,  thro'    me 

her  Priestess, 
In  honour  of  his  gift  and  of  our  marriage, 


That  Synorix  should  drink  from  his  own 
cup. 
Synorix.     I  thank  thee,  Camma,  —  I 

thank  thee. 
Carnma.  For  —  my  lord  — 

It  is  our  ancient  custom  in  Galatia 
That  ere  two  souls  be  knit  for  life  and 

death. 
They  two  should  drink  together  from  one 

cup, 
In  symbol  of  their  married  unity. 
Making  libation  to  the  Goddess.     Bring 

me 
The  costly  wines  we  use  in  marriages. 

[  They  bring  in  a  large  jar  of  wine. 

Camma  pours  wine  into  cup. 

(  To  Synorix.)     See  here,  I  fill  it.     (  To 

Antonius.)     Will   you   drink,  my 

lord? 

Antonius.      I?     Why    should    I?      I 

am  not  to  be  married. 
Cafuma.      But    that    might    bring    a 

Roman  blessing  on  us. 
Antonius  {refzisingcup).    Thy  pardon. 

Priestess ! 
Camma.  Thou  art  in  the  right. 

This  blessing  is  for  Synorix  and  for  me. 
See  first  I  make  libation  to  the  Goddess. 
\_Makes  libation. 
And  now  I  drink. 

\_Drinks  and  fills  the  cup  again. 

Thy  turn,  Galatian  King. 

Drink  and  drink  deep  —  our  marriage  will 

be  fruitful. 
Drink    and    drink    deep,   and    thou  wilt 
make  me  happy. 
[Synorix  goes  up  to  her.     She  hands 
him  the  cup.     He  drinks. 
Synorix.      There,    Camma !       I    have 
almost  drain'd  the  cup  — 
A  few  drops  left. 

Camma.  Libation  to  the  Goddess. 

[//<?  throws  the  remaining  drops  on 

the  altar  and  gives  Camma  the  cup. 

Camma  {placing  the  cup  on  the  altar). 

Why  then  the  Goddess  hears. 

'[Comes  do'ivn  and  forward  to  tripod. 

Antonius  follows. 

Antonius, 
Where  wast  thou  on  that  morning  when 

I  came 
To  plead  to  thee  for  Sinnatus's  life. 
Beside  this  temple  half  a  year  ago? 


744 


THE    CUP. 


ACT   II. 


Antonius.  I  never  heard  of  this  re- 
quest of  thine. 
Synorix  (^coming  forward  hastily  to 
foot  of  tripod  steps).  I  sought  him 
and  I  could  not  find  him.  Pray 
you, 
Go  on  with  the  marriage  rites. 

Camma.  Antonius 

'  Camma  ! '  who  spake  ? 
Antonius.  Not  I. 

Phoebe.  Nor  any  here. 

Catnma.     I  am  all  but  sure  that  some 
one  spake.     Antonius, 
If  you  had  found  him  plotting  against 

Rome, 
Would  you   have    tortured    Sinnatus   to 
death? 
Antonius.     No  thought  was  mine   of 
torture  or  of  death. 
But  had   I  found    him    plotting,    I    had 

counsell'd  him 
To  rest  from  vain  resistance.     Rome  is 

fated 
To  rule  the  world.     Then,  if  he  had  not 

listen'd, 
I  might  have  sent  him  prisoner  to  Rome. 
Syjiorix.     Why  do  you  palter  with  the 
ceremony? 
Go  on  with  the  marriage  rites. 

Camma.  They  are  finish' d. 

Synorix.  How ! 

Camtna.        Thou     hast     drunk    deep 

enough  to  make  me  happy. 

Dost  thou  not  feel  the  love  I  bear  to  thee 

Glow  thro'  thy  veins? 

Synorix.  The  love  I  bear  to  thee 

Glows  thro'  my  veins  since  first  I  look'd 

on  thee. 
But  wherefore  slur  the  perfect  ceremony? 
The  sovereign  of  Galatia  weds  his  Queen. 
Let  all  be  done  to  the  fullest  in  the  sight 
Of  all  the  Gods. 

Nay,  rather  than  so  clip 
The  flowery  robe  of  Hymen,  we  would 

add 
Some    golden    fringe    of    gorgeousness 

beyond 
Old    use,    to    make    the    day    memorial, 

when 
Synorix,  first  King,  Camma,  first  Queen 

o'  the  Realm, 
Drew  here  the  richest  lot  from  Fate,  to 
live 


And  die  together. 

This  pain  —  what  is  it?  —  again? 
I  had  a  touch  of  this  last  year  —  in  — 

Rome. 
Yes,  yes.     (  To  Antonius.)     Your  arm  — 

a  moment  —  it  will  pass. 
I  reel  beneath  the  weight  of  utter  joy  — 
This  all  too  happy  day,  crown  —  queen 

at  once.  [Staggers. 

0  all  ye  Gods  —  Jupiter !  —  Jupiter  ! 

\_Falls  backivard. 
Camma.     Dost  thou  cry  out  upon  the 
Gods  of  Rome? 
Thou  art  Galatian-born.     Our  Artemis 
Has  vanquish'd  their  Diana. 

Synorix     {oji    the    ground').       I    am 
poison'd. 
She  —  close  the  Temple  door.     Let  her 
not  fly. 
Cam?)ia  {leaning  on  tripod).     Have  I 
not  drunk  of  the  same  cup  with 
thee? 
Synorix.     Ay,  by  the  Gods  of  Rome 
and  all  the  world. 
She    too  —  she    too  —  the    bride!     the 

Queen  !  and  I  — 
Monstrous  !  I  that  loved  her. 

Camma.  I  loved  him. 

Synorix.     O  murderous  mad-woman  ! 
I  pray  you  lift  me 
And   make   me    walk    awhile.      I    have 

heard  these  poisons 
May  be  walk'd  down. 

[Antonius  a7id  Publius  raise  him  up. 

My  feet  are  tons  of  lead, 

They   will   break    in    the    earth  —  1    am 

sinking  —  hold  me  — 
Let  me  alone. 

[  They  leave  him  ;  he  sinks  down  on 
ground. 

Too  late  —  thought  myself  wise  — 
A   woman's   dupe.      Antonius,    tell   the 
wSenate 

1  have  been  most  true  to  Rome  —  would 

have  been  true 

To  her  —  if — if [^Falls  as  if' dead. 

Ca m ma  ( com  ing  and  lea n  ingover  h  im  ). 

So  falls  the  throne  of  an  hour. 

Synorix  {half  rising).     Throne?  is  it 

thou?     the    Fates    are    throned, 

not  we  — 

Not  guilty  of  ourselves  —  thy  doom  and 

mine  — 


ACT   II. 


THE    CUP. 


745 


Thou  —  coming  my  way  too  —  Camma  — 
good-night.  {^Dies. 

Canwia  (jipheld  by  weeping  Priest- 
esses). Thy  way?  poor  worm, 
crawl  down  thine  own  black  hole 

To    the   lowest   Hell.      Antonius,  is   he 
there? 

I  meant  thee  to  have  follow'd — better 
thus. 

Nay,  if  my  people    must   be    thralls   of 
Rome, 

He  is  gentle,  tho'  a  Roman. 

\^Sinks  back  into  the  arms  of  the  Priestesses. 
Antonius.  Thou  art  one 

With    thine  own  people,  and   though  a 
Roman  I 

Forgive  thee,  Camma. 

Caitima  {raising herself).  '  Camma  !  ' 
—  why  there  again 

I  am  most  sure  that  some  one  caJl'd.     O 
women, 

Ye   will   have    Roman   masters.      I    am 
glad 

I  shall  not  see  it.     Did    not    some    old 
Greek 


Say  death  was  the  chief  good?     He  had 

my  fate  for  it, 
Poison'd.     {Sinks  back  again.)     Have  I 

the  crown  on?  I  will  go 
To  meet  him,  crown'd  I    crown'd  victor 

of  my  will  — 
On  my  last  voyage  —  but  the  wind  has 

fail'd  — 
Growing  dark  too  —  but  light  enough  to 

row. 
Row  to  the   blessed   Isles !    the  blessed 

Isles !  — 
Sinnatus  I 
Why  comes  he  not  to  meet  me?     It  is 

the  crown 
Offends   him  —  and   my  hands   are    too 

sleepy 

To  lift  it  off.     [Phoebe  takes  the  crown  off. 

Who  touch'd  me  then?     I  thank  you. 

\_Rises,  7vith  outspread  arms. 

There  —  league  on  league  of  ever-shining 

shore 
Beneath  an  ever-rising  sun  —  I  see  him  — 
'  Camma,  Camma !  '  Sinnatus,  Sinnatus  ! 

\_Dies. 


THE    FALCON. 


DRAMATIS  PERSON jE. 

The  Couvt  Federigo  degu  Albebighi. 
Fiuppo,  Count's  foster-brothtr. 
The  Lady  Giovassa. 
Elis.\betta,  the  Counfs  nurse. 


SCENE.  —  An  Italla.n  Q)TTage. 
Castle  and  Mountains  seen 
THROUGH  Window. 

ElisabETTA  discoz-ered  seaUd  on  slool  in 
windodU,  darning.  The  Coutii  loith 
Falcon  on  his  hand  comes  dozun  through 


the  door  at  back. 
on  the  wall. 


A  withered  wreath 


Elisabetta.  So,  my  lord,  the  Lady 
Giovanna,  who  hath  been  away  so  long, 
came  back  last  night  with  her  son  to  the 
castle. 

Count.      Hear    that,  my   bird  I      Art 

thou  not  jealous  of  her? 
My  princess   of  the   cloud,  my  plumed 

purveyor, 
My  far-eyed  queen  of  the  winds  —  thou 

that  canst  soar 
Beyond  the  morning  lark,  and  howsoe'er 
Thy  quarry  wind  and  wheel,  swoop  down 

ujxjn  him 
E^le-like,  lightning-like  —  strike,  make 

his  feathers 
Glance  in  mid  hea%en. 

[  Crosses  to  chair. 

I  would  thou  hadst  a  mate  ! 

Thy  breed  ■will  die  with  thee,  and  mine 

with  me : 
I  am  as  lone  and  loveless  as  thyself. 

\^Sits  in  chair. 
Giovanna  here  I     Ay,  ruffle  thyself  —  be 

jealous  I 
Thou  should'st  be  jealous  of  her.     Tbo' 

I  bred  thee 
The  full-train'd  mar%el  of  all  falconry. 
And   love    thee    and    thou    me,   yet   if 

Giovanna 
Be  here  again  —  No,  no  I     Buss  me,  mv 

bird ! 
The  stately  widow  has  no  heart  for  me. 
Thou  art  the  last   friend    left   me    upon 

earth  — 


No,  no  again  to  that.     \^Rises  and  turns. 
My  good  old  nurse, 
I  had  forgotten  thou  wast  sitting  there. 
Elisabetta.       Ay,   and    forgotten    thy 

foster-brother  too. 
Count.     Bird -babble    for    my   falcon! 
Let  it  pass. 
What  art  thou  doing  there  ? 

Elisabetta.         Darning,  your  lordship. 
We    cannot    flaunt    it   in   new   feathers 

now: 
Nay,  if  we  will  buy  diamond  necklaces 
To  please  our  ladv,  we  must  dam,  my 

lord. 
This  old  thing  here  (^points  to  tucklace 
round  her  neck), 
they  are  but  blue  b«(Uls — my  Piero, 
God  rest  his  honest  soul,  he  bought  'em 

for  me. 
Ay,  but  he  knew  I  meant  to  marry  him. 
How  couldst  thou  do  it,  my  son?     How 
couldst  thou  do  it? 
Count.     She  saw  it  at  a  dance,  upon 
a  neck 
Less  lovely  than  her  own,  and  long'd  for 
iL  ' 
Elisabetta.     She  told  thee  as  much? 
Count.  No,  no  —  a  friend  of  hers. 

Elisabetta.     Shame   on   her   that   she 
took  it  at  thy  hands, 
She  rich  enough  to  have  bought  it  for 
herself: 
Count.     She   would   have   robb'd   me 

then  of  a  great  pleasure. 
Elisabetta.     But  hath  she  yet  retum'd 

thy  love? 
Count.  Not  yet ! 

Elisabetta.        She   should   return   thy 

necklace  then. 
Count.  Ay,  if 

She  knew  the  giver;     but  I  bound  the 

seller 
To  silence,  and  I  left  it  pri>'ily 


THE   FALCON. 


747 


At  Florence,  in  her  palace. 

Elisabetta.  And  sold  thine  own 

To  buy  it  for  her.     She  not  know?     She 
knows 

There's  none  such  other 

Count.  Madman  anywhere. 

Speak    freely,    tho'    to    call    a   madman 

mad 
Will  hardly  help  to  make  him  sane  again. 

Enter  FiLlPPO. 

Filippo.  Ah,  the  women,  the  women  ! 
Ah,  Monna  Giovanna,  you  here  again  ! 
you  that  have  the  face  of  an  angel  and 
the  heart  of  a —  that's  too  positive  1  You 
that  have  a  score  of  lovers  and  have  not 
a  heart  for  any  of  them  —  that's  positive- 
negative  :  you  that  have  not  the  head  of 
a  toad,  and  not  a  heart  like  the  jewel  in 
it  —  that's  too  negative;  you  that  have  a 
cheek  like  a  peach  and  a  heart  like  the 
stone  in  it  —  that's  positive  again  —  that's 
better ! 

Elisabetta.     Sh  —  sh  —  Filippo  I 

Filippo  {turyis  halfj'ound).  Here  has 
our  master  been  a-glorifying  and  a-velvet- 
ing  and  a-silking  himself,  and  a-peacock- 
ing  and  a-spreading  to  catch  her  eye  for 
a  dozen  year,  till  he  hasn't  an  eye  left  in 
his  own  tail  to  flourish  among  the  pea- 
hens, and  all  along  o'  you,  Monna  Gio- 
vanna, all  along  o'  you  I 

Elisabetta.  Sh  —  sh  —  Filippo!  Can't 
you  hear  that  you  are  saying  behind  his 
back  what  you  see  you  are  saying  afore 
his  face? 

Cozint.  Let  him  —  he  never  spares 
me  to  my  face  ! 

Filippo.  No,  my  lord,  I  never  spare 
your  lordship  to  your  lordship's  face,  nor 
behind  your  lordship's  back,  nor  to  right, 
nor  to  left,- nor  to  round  about  and  back 
to  your  lordship's  face  again,  for  I'm 
honest,  your  lordship. 

Count.  Come,  come,  Filippo,  what 
is  there  in  the  larder? 

[Elisabetta  crosses  to  fireplace  and 
puts  on  zvood. 

Filippo.  Shelves  and  hooks,  shelves 
and  hooks,  and  when  I  see  the  shelves  I 
am  like  to  hang  myself  on  the  hooks. 

Count.     No  bread? 

Filippo.     Half  a  breakfast  for  a  rat  I 


Count.     Milk  ? 

Filippo.     Three  laps  for  a  cat  I 

Count.     Cheese? 

Filippo.     A  supper  for  twelve  mites. 

Count.     Eggs? 

Filippo.     One,  but  addled. 

Count.     No  bird? 

Filippo.     Half  a  tit  and  a  hern's  bill. 

Count.  Let  be  thy  jokes  and  thy 
jerks,  man  !     Anything  or  nothing? 

Filippo.  Well,  my  lord,  if  all-but- 
nothing  be  anything,  and  one  plate  of 
dried  prunes  be  all-but-nothing,  then 
there  is  anything  in  your  lordship's  larder 
at  your  lordship's  service,  if  your  lord- 
ship care  to  call  for  it. 

Count.     Good  mother,  happy  was  the 
prodigal  son, 
For  he  return'd  to  the  rich  father;    I 
But  add  my  poverty  to  thine.     And  all 
Thro'  following  of  my  fancy.     Pray  thee 

make 
Thy  slender  meal  out  of  those  scraps  and 

shreds 
Filippo  spoke  of.     As  for  him  and  me, 
There  sprouts  a  salad  in  the  garden  still. 
(  To  the  Falcon.^     Why  didst  thou  miss 

thy  quarry  yester-even? 
To-day,  my   beauty,  thou  must  dash  us 

down 
Our    dinner    from    the    skies.       Away, 
Filippo  ! 

\_Exit,  followed  by  Filippo, 

Elisabetta.  I  knew  it  would  come  to 
this.  She  has  beggared  him,  I  always 
knew  it  would  come  to  this  I  (  Goes  up 
to  table  as  if  to  resume  darning,  and 
looks  out  of  ivindoiiK')  Why,  as  I  live, 
there  is  Monna  Giovanna  coming  down 
the  hill  from  the  castle.  St^Dps  and 
stares  at  our  cottage.  Ay,  ay  I  stare  at 
it :  it's  all  you  have  left  us.  Shame 
on  you  I  She  beautiful :  sieek  as  a 
miller's  mouse !  Meal  enough,  meat 
enough,  well  fed;  but  beautiful  —  bah! 
Nay,  see,  why  she  turns  down  the  path 
through  our  little  vineyard,  and  I  sneezed 
three  times  this  morning.  Coming  to 
visit  my  lord,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  too !  Why,  bless  the  saints  I  I'll 
be  bound  to  confess  her  love  to  him  at 
last,  I  forgive  her,  I  forgive  her !  I 
knew  it  would  come  to  this  —  I  always 


748 


THE  FALCON. 


knew  it  must  come  to  this!  {Goes  tip 
to  door  during  latter  part  of  speech  and 
opens  iti)  Come  in,  Madonna,  come  in. 
{Retires  to  front  of  table  and  curtseys  as 
the  Lady  Giovanna  enters,  then  moves 
chair  towards  the  hearth^  Nay,  let  me 
place  this  chair  for  your  ladyship. 

[Lady  Giovanna  moves  slozuly  dowjt 
stage,  then  crosses  to  chair,  looking 
about  her,  boivs  as  she  sees  the  Ma- 
donna over  fireplace,  then  sits  in 
chair. 
Lady  Giovanna.  Can  I  speak  with 
the  Count? 

Elisabetta.  Ay,  my  lady,  but  won't 
you  speak  with  the  old  woman  first,  and 
tell  her  all  about  it  and  make  her  happy? 
for  I've  been  on  my  knees  every  day  for 
these  half-dozen  years  in  hope  that  the 
saints  would  send  us  this  blessed  morning; 
and  he  always  took  you  so  kindly,  he 
always  took  the  world  so  kindly.  When 
he  was  a  little  one,  and  I  put  the  bitters 
on  my  breast  to  wean  him,  he  made  a 
wry  mouth  at  it,  but  he  took  it  so  kindly, 
and  your  ladyship  has  given  him  bitters 
enough  in  this  world,  and  he  never  made 
a  wry  mouth  at  you,  he  always  took  you 
so  kindly  —  which  is  more  than  I  did, 
my  lady,  more  than  I  did  —  and  he  so 
handsome  —  and  bless  your  sweet  face, 
you  look  as  beautiful  this  morning  as  the 
very  Madonna  her  own  self — and  better 
late  than  never  —  but  come  when  they 
will  —  then  or  now  —  it's  all  for  the  best, 
come  when  they  will  —  they  are  made  by 
the  blessed  saints  —  these  marriages. 

S^Raises  her  hands. 
Lady  Giovanna.     Marriages?     I  shall 

never  marry  again  ! 
Elisabetta  {rises  and  turns).     Shame 

on  her  then  ! 
Lady  Giovanjta.    Where  is  the  Count? 
Elisabetta.  Just  gone 

To  fly  his  falcon. 
Lady  Giovanna.     Call  him  back  and 
say 
I  come  to  breakfast  with  him. 

Elisabetta.  Holy  mother ! 

To   breakfast !     Oh,    sweet   saints !    one 

plate  of  prunes ! 
Well,  Madam,  I  will  give  your  message 
to  him.  l^Exit. 


Lady   Giovanna.     His   falcon,  and    I 

come  to  ask  for  his  falcon, 
The  pleasure  of  his  eyes  —  boast  of  his 

hand  — 
Pride  of  his   heart  —  the  solace   of   his 

hours  — 
His  one  companion  here  —  nay,  I  have 

heard 
That,    thro'    his    late    magnificence    of 

living 
And  this  last  costly  gift  to  mine  own  self, 
\_Shows  diamond  necklace. 
He  hath    become  so  beggar'd,  that   his 

falcon 
Ev'n   wins    his   dinner   for   him   in   the 

field. 
That  must  be  talk,  not  truth,  but  truth 

or  talk, 
How  can  I  ask  for  his  falcon  ? 

\_Rises  and  moves  as  she  speaks. 
O  my  sick  boy  ! 
My  daily  fading  Florio,  it  is  thou 
Hath  set  me  this  hard  task,  for  when  I 

say 
What  can  I    do  —  what  can   I   get   for 

thee? 
He  answers,  *  Get  the  Count  to  give  me 

his  falcon, 
And  that  will  make  me  well.'     Yet  if  I 

ask, 
He  loves  me,  and  he  knows  I  know  he 

loves  me ! 
Will    he    not    pray    me    to    return    his 

love  — 
To  marry  him?  —  {pause)  —  I  can  never 

marry  him. 
His  grandsire  struck  my  grandsire  in  a 

brawl 
At  Florence,  and   my  grandsire  stabb'd 

him  there. 
The  feud  between  our  houses  is  the  bar 
I    cannot   cross;    I    dare  not    brave  my 

brother. 
Break  with  my  kin.     My  brother  hates 

him,  scorns 
The  noblest-natured  man  alive,  and  I  — 
Who  have  that  reverence  for    him  that 

I  scarce 
Dare  beg  him  to  receive  his    diamonds 

back  — 
How  can  I,  dare  I,  ask  him  for  his  fal- 
con? 

[Puts  diamonds  in  her  casket. 


THE   FALCON. 


749 


Re-enter  Count   and  Filippo. 
turns  to  Filippo. 


Count 


Count.     Do  what  I  said;   I  cannot  do 

it  myself. 
Filippo.     Why  then,  my  lord,  we  are 

pauper'd  out  and  out. 
Count.     Do  what  I  said  ! 

{^Advances  and  bows  loiv. 
Welcome  to  this  poor  cottage,  my  dear 
lady. 
Lady  Giovanna.     And  welcome  turns 

a  cottage  to  a  palace. 
Count.     'Tis  long  since  we  have  met ! 
Lady  Giovaniia.         To  make  amends 
I  come  this  day  to  break  my  fast  with  you. 
Count.     I  am  much  honour'd  —  yes  — 
[  Turns  to  Filippo. 
Do   what    I    told    thee.     Must    I    do    it 
myself? 
Filippo.     I  will,  I  will.     (Sig/is.)    Poor 
fellow !  [Fxit. 

Count.     Lady,    you   bring   your   light 
into  my  cottage 
Who    never    deign'd   to    shine   into    my 

palace. 
My  palace  wanting  you  was  but  a  cot- 
tage; 
My   cottage,   while   you    grace    it,    is   a 
palace. 
Lady    Giovanna.     In    cottage    or    in 
palace,  being  still 
Beyond  your  fortunes,  you  are  still  the 

king 
Of  courtesy  and  liberality. 

Count.     I    trust    I    still    maintain    my 
courtesy; 
My  liberality  perforce  is  dead 
Thro'  lack  of  means  of  giving. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Yet  I  come 

To  ask  a  gift. 

•    \^Moves  toward  him  a  little. 
Count.  It  will  be  hard,  I  fear, 

To  find  one  shock  upon  the  field  when  all 
The  harvest  has  been  carried. 

Lady  Giovanna.  But  my  boy  — 

(^Aside.)     No,  no  !  not  yet  —  I  cannot ! 

Count.  Ay,  how  is  he. 

That  bright  inheritor  of  your  eyes — your 
boy? 
Lady     Giovanna.       Alas,     my    Lord 
Federigo,  he  hath  fallen 
Into  a  sickness,  and  it  troubles  me. 


Count.     Sick !    is    it    so  ?    why,    when 

he  came  last  year 

To  see  me  hawking,  he  was  well  enough  : 

And  then  I  taught  him  all  our  hawking- 

phrases. 

Lady   Giovanna.     Oh  yes,  and  once 

you  let  him  fly  your  falcon. 
Count.     How  charm'd  he  was !  what 
wonder?  —  A  gallant  boy, 
A  noble  bird,  each  perfect  of  the  breed. 
Lady     Giovanna     {sinks    in    chair'). 

What  do  you  rate  her  at? 
Count.  My  bird?  a  hundred 

Gold    pieces   once    were    offer'd    by  the 

Duke. 
I    had   no   heart    to    part  with   her    for 
money. 
Lady  Giovanna.     No,  not  for  money. 
[Count  turns  away  and  sighs. 
Wherefore  do  you  sigh? 

Count.     I  have  lost  a  friend  of  late. 
Lady   Giovanna.     I    could    sigh  with 
you 
For  fear  of  losing  more  than  friend,  a 

son; 
And   if   he   leave  me  —  all    the   rest   of 

life  — 
That  wither'd  wreath  were  of  more  worth 
to  me. 

{^Looking  at  wreath  on  wall. 
Count.     That   wither'd    wreath    is   of 
more  worth  to  me 
Than  all  the  blossom,  all  the  leaf  of  this 
New-wakening  year. 

\_Goes  and. takes  dotvn  wreath. 

Lady  Giovanna.    And  yet  I  never  saw 

The  land  so  rich  in  l)lossom  as  this  year. 

Count  (^holding  wreath  toward  her). 

Was  not  the  year  when  this  was 

gather'd  richer? 

Lady   Giovanna.     How  long  ago  was 

that? 
Count.  Alas,  ten  summers  ! 

A  lady  that  was  beautiful  as  day 
Sat  by  me  at  a  rustic  festival 
With    other    beauties    on    a    mountain 

meadow, 
And  she  was  the  most  beautiful  of  all; 
Then  but  fifteen,  and  still  as  beautiful. 
The  mountain  flowers  grew  thickly  round 

about. 
I  made  a  wreath  with  some  of  these;   I 
ask'd 


75° 


THE   FALCON. 


A  ribbon  from  her  hair  to  bind  it  with; 
I  whisper'd,  Let  me  crown  you  Queen  of 

Beauty, 
And  softly  placed   the    chaplet   on   her 

head. 
A  colour,  which  has  colour'd  all  my  life, 
Flush'd  in  her  face;   then  I  was   calPd 

away; 
And  presently  all  rose,  and  so  departed. 
Ah !  she  had  thrown  my  chaplet  on  the 

grass, 
And  there  I  found  it. 

\_Lets  his  hands  fall,  holding  wreath 
despondingly. 
Lady  Giovanna  (^afier  pause').     How 

long  since  do  you  say? 
Count.     That  was  the  very  year  before 

you  married. 
Lady  Giovanna.    When  I  was  married 

you  were  at  the  wars. 
Count.       Had    she    not    thrown    my 
chaplet  on  the  grass, 
It  may  be  I  had  never  seen  the  wars. 
[^Replaces  tvreath  whence  he  has  taken  it. 
Lady    Giovantia.     Ah,  but,   my  lord, 
there  ran  a  rumour  then 
That  you  were   kill'd  in  battle.     I  can 

tell  you  . 
True  tears  that  year  were  shed  for  you  in 
Florence. 
Count.     It  might  have  been  as  well  for 
me.     Unhappily 
I  was  but  wounded  by  the  enemy  there 
And  then  imprison'd. 

Lady    Giovanfia.     Happily,  however, 
I  see  you  quite  recover'd  of  your  wound. 
Count.     No,  no,  not  quite,  Madonna, 
not  yet,  not  yet. 

Re-enter  FiLiPPO. 

Filippo.     My  lord,  a  word  with  you. 
Count.  Pray,  pardon  me  ! 

[Lady  Giovanna  crosses  and  passes 
behind    chair    and    takes    dotvn 
wreath ;    then    goes    to    chair   by 
table. 
Count  {to  Filippo).     What  is  it,  Fi- 
lippo? 
Filippo.     Spoons,  your  lordship. 
Count.  Spoons ! 

Filippo.  Yes,  my  lord,  for  wasn't  my 
lady  born  with  a  golden  spoon  in  her 
ladyship's  mouth,  and  we  haven't  never 


so  much  as  a  silver  one  for  the  golden 
lips  of  her  ladyship. 

Count.     Have  we  not  half  a  score  of 
silver  spoons? 

Filippo.     Half  o'  one,  my  lord  ! 
Count.     How  half  of  one? 
Filippo.     I  trod  upon  him  even  now, 
my  lord,  in  my  hurry,  and  broke  him. 
Count.     And  the  other  nine? 
Filippo.     Sold  !  but  shall  I  not  mount 
with  your  lordship's  leave   to   her  lady- 
ship's castle,  in  your  lordship's  and  her 
ladyship's    name,    and   confer   with    her 
ladyship's  seneschal,  and  so  descend  again 
with  some  of  her  ladyship's  own  appur- 
tenances? 

Count.     Why  —  no,    man.      Only   see 

your  cloth  be  clean.  \^Exit  Filippo. 

Lady  Giovanna.     Ay,  ay,  this  faded 

ribbon  was  the  mode 

In    Florence,    ten    years   back.     What's 

here?  a  scroll 
Pinn'd  to  the  wreath. 

My  lord,  you  have  said  so  much 
Of  this  poor   wreath    that    I    was   bold 

enough 
To   take  it  down,  if  but  to  guess  what 

flowers 
Had  made  it;   and  I  find  a  written  scroll 
That  seems  to  run  in  rhymings.     Might 
I  read? 
Count.     Ay,  if  you  will. 
Lady  Giovanna.     It  should  be  if  you 
can. 
{Reads.)     '  Dead    mountain.'     Nay,  for 

who  could  trace  a  hand 
So  wild  and  staggering? 

Count.         This  was  penn'd.  Madonna, 
Close  to  the  grating  on  a  winter  morn 
In  the  perpetual  twilight  of  a  prison. 
When  he  that  made  it,  having  his  right 

hand 
Lamed  in  the  battle,  wrote   it  with  his 
left. 
L.ady    Giovanna.      O    heavens !    the 
very  letters  seem  to  shake 
With    cold,    with    pain    perhaps,    poor 

prisoner !     Well, 
Tell  me  the  words —  or  better  —  for  I  see 
There  goes  a  musical  score  along  with 

them, 
Repeat  them  to  their  music. 

Count.  You  can  touch 


THE   FALCON. 


751 


No  chord  in  me  that  would  not  answer 
you 

In  music. 

Lady  Giovanna.  That  is  musically 
said. 
[Count  takes  guitar.  Lady  Gio- 
vanna sits  listening  with  tvreath 
in  her  hand,  and  quietly  remoz'es 
scroll  and  places  it  on  table  at  the 
end  of  the  song. 
Cotint  (^sings,  playing  guitar) .  '  Dead 
mountain  flowers,  dead  mountain- 
meadow  flowers, 

Dearer  than  when  you  made  your  moun- 
tain gay, 

Sweeter  than  any  violet  of  to-day, 

Richer  than  all  the  wide  world- wealth  of 
May, 

To   me,   tho'  all  your   bloom   has   died 
away. 

You  bloom  again,  dead  mountain-meadow 
flowers.' 

Enter  Elisabetta  xvith  cloth. 

Elisabetta.      A   word    with    you,    my 

lord! 
Count  {singing') .  'O  mountain  flowers  ! ' 
Elisabetta.   A  word,  my  lord  !  (^Louder.) 
Coiatt  {sings).  '  Dead  flowers  I ' 

Elisabetta.  A  word,  my  lord  I 

{Louder^ 
Count.     I  pray  you  pardon  me  again  ! 
[Lady  Giovanna  looking  at  ivreath. 
Cotint  {to  Elisabetta).  What  is  it? 

Elisabetta.      My   lord,   we    have    but 
one   piece  of  earthenware  to  serve  the 
salad  in  to  my  lady,  and  that  cracked  ! 
Count.     Why  then,  that  flower'd  bowl 
my  ancestor 
Fetch'd  from  the  farthest  east  —  we  never 

use  it 
For  fear  of  breakage  —  but  this  day  has 

brought 
A  great  occasion.  You  can  take  it, 
nurse  ! 
Elisabetta.  I  did  take  it,  my  lord,  but 
what  with  my  lady's  coming  that  had  so 
flurried  me,  and  what  with  the  fear  of 
breaking  it,  I  did  break  it,  my  lord  :  it  is 
broken  I 

Count.     My  one  thing  left  of  value  in 
the  world  I 


No  matter !  see  your  cloth  be  white  as 
snow  I 
Elisabetta  {pointing  thro''  window). 
White?  I  warrant  thee,  my  son,  as  the 
snow  yonder  on  the  very  tip-top  o'  the 
mountain. 

Count.     And  yet  to  speak  white  truth, 
my  good  old  mother, 
I    have    seen    it   like    the    snow  on  the 
moraine. 
Elisabetta.      How    can   your   lordship 
say  so?     There,  my  lord  ! 

\^Lays  cloth. 
O  my  dear  son,  be  not  unkind  to  me. 
And  one  word  more.     [  Going —  returns. 
Count  {touching  guitar).     Good!    let 

it  be  but  one. 
Elisabetta.  Hath  she  return'd  thy  love  ? 
Count.  Not  yet  I 

Elisabetta.  And  will  she? 

Count  {looking  at  Lady  Giovanna).     I 

scarce  believe  it ! 
Elisabetta.     Shame  upon  her  then  ! 

{^Exit. 
Count  {sings).  'Dead   mountain 

flowers ' 

Ah  well,  my  nurse  has  broken 
The  thread  of  my  dead  flowers,  as   she 

has  broken 
My  china  bowl.     My  memory  is  as  dead. 
[Goes  and  replaces  guitar. 
Strange  that  the  words  at  home  with  me 

so  long 
Should  fly  like  bosom  friends  when  needed 

most. 
So  by  your  leave  if  you  would  hear  the 

rest. 
The  writing. 

Lady  Giovanna  {holding  wreath  tow- 
ard him).     There!   my  lord,  you 
are  a  poet. 
And  can  you  not  imagine  that  the  wreath, 
Set,  as  you  say,  so  lightly  on  her  head. 
Fell  with  her  motion  as  she  rose,  and  she, 
A  girl,  a  child,  then  but  flfteen,  however 
Flutter'd  or  flatter'd  by  your  notice  of  her. 
Was  yet  too  bashful  to  return  for  it? 
Count.     Was  it  so  indeed?  was  it  so? 
was  it  so? 
\_Leans  forward  to  take  wreath,  and 
touches    Lady    Giovanna's    hand, 
which  she  withdraius  hastily ;  he 
places  wreath  on  corner  of  chair. 


752 


THE  FALCON. 


Lady  Giovanna  {with  dignity).    I  did 
not  say,  my  lord,  that  it  was  so; 
I  said  you  might  imagine  it  was  so. 

Enter  FiLlPPO  ivith  boivl  of  salad,  which 
he  places  on  table. 

Filippo.  Here's  a  fine  salad  for  my 
lady,  for  tho'  we  have  been  a  soldier,  and 
ridden  by  his  lordship's  side,  and  seen 
the  red  of  the  battle-field,  yet  are  we  now 
drill-sergeant  to  his  lordship's  lettuces, 
and  profess  to  be  great  in  green  things 
and  in  garden-stuff. 

Lady  Giovanna.  I  thank  thee,  good 
Filippo.  \^Exit  Filippo, 

Enter  Elisabetta  tvith  bird  on  a  dish 
which  she  places  on  table. 

Elisabetta    {close  to  table).     Here's   a 

fine  fowl  for  my  lady;  I  had  scant  time  to 

do  him  in.    I  hope  he  be  not  underdone, 

for  we  be  undone  in  the  doing  of  him. 

Lady   Giovanna.       I    thank  you,  my 

good  nurse. 
Filippo  {re-entering  with  plate  of 
prunes).  And  here  are  fine  fruits  for  my 
lady  —  prunes,  my  lady,  from  the  tree 
that  my  lord  himself  planted  here  in  the 
blossom  of  his  boyhood  —  and  so  I, 
Filippo,  being,  with  your  ladyship's  par- 
don, and  as  your  ladyship  knows,  his 
lordship's  own  foster-brother,  would  com- 
mend them  to  your  ladyship's  most  pecul- 
iar appreciation. 

\^Puts plate  on  table. 
Elisabetta.     Filippo  I 
Lady   Giovanna   (Count  leads   her   to 
table).     Will  you  not  eat  with  me, 
my  lord? 
Contit.  I  cannot, 

Not  a  morsel,  not  one  morsel.     I  have 

broken 
My    fast   already.      I    will    pledge    you. 

Wine  ! 
Filippo,  wine  ! 

\^Sits  near  table;  Filippo  brings  flask, 
fills  the  Count's  goblet,  then  Lady 
Giovanna's;    EHsabetla  stands   at 
the  back  c?/Lady  Giovanna's  chair. 
Count.  It  is  but  thin  and  cold. 

Not  like  the  vintage  blowing  round  your 
castle. 


We  lie   too  deep   down  in  the   shadow 

here. 
Your  ladyship  lives  higher  in  the  sun. 

[  They  pledge  each  other  and  drink. 
Lady  Giovantia.     If  I  might  send  you 
down  a  flask  or  two 
Of  that  same  vintage?   There  is  iron  in  it. 
It  has  been  much  commended  as  a  medi- 
cine. 
I  give  it  my  sick  son,  and  if  you  be 
Not  quite  recover'd  of  your  wound,  the 

wine 
Might  help  you.     None  has  ever  told  me 

yet 
The  story  of  your  battle  and  your  wound. 
Filippo  {co?ning  fo7'ward).     I  can  tell 
you,  my  lady,  I  can  tell  you. 

Elisabetta.    Filippo  !  will  you  take  the 
word  out  of  your  master's  own  mouth? 

Filippo.     Was  it  there  to  take?     Put 
it  there,  my  lord. 

Count.     Giovanna,   my   dear  lady,   in 
this  same  battle 
We  had  been  beaten  —  they  were  ten  to 

one. 
The    trumpets   of  the  fight  had   echo'd 

dow^n, 
I  and  Filippo  here  had  done  our  best, 
And,  having  passed  unwounded  from  the 

field, 
Were  seated  sadly  at  a  fountain  side. 
Our  horses  grazing  by  us,  when  a  troop. 
Laden  with  booty  and  with  a  flag  of  ours 

Ta'en  in  the  fight 

Filippo.    Ay,  but  we  fought  for  it  back. 

And  kill'd 

Elisabetta.     Filippo ! 

Count.  A  troop  of  horse 

Filippo.  Five  hundred  ! 

Count.     Say  fifty ! 

Filippo.      And  we   kill'd  'em    by  the 

score  ! 
Elisabetta.     Filippo ! 
Filippo.  Well,  well,  well ! 

I  bite  my  tongue. 

Count.     W^e  may  have  left  their  fifty 

less  by  five. 

However,  staying  not  to  count  how  many, 

But  anger'd  at  their  flaunting  of  our  flag, 

We    mounted,  and    we    dash'd  into  the 

heart  of  'em. 
I  wore  the  lady's  chaplet  round  my  neck ; 
It  served  me  for  a  blessed  rosary. 


THE  FALCON. 


753 


I  am  sure  that  more  than  one  brave  fel- 
low owed 
His  death  to  the  charm  in  it. 

Elisahetta.  Hear  that,  my  lady  ! 

Count.     I    cannot    tell   how    long   we 
strove  before 
Our   horses  fell    beneath    us;    down   we 

went 
Crush'd,  hack'd  at,  trampled  underfoot. 

The  night, 
As    some     cold-manner'd     friend     may 

strangely  do  us 
The  truest  service,  had  a  touch  of  frost 
That  help'd  to  check  the  flowing  of  the 

blood. 
My   last   sight   ere   I    swoon'd  was  one 

sweet  face 
Crown'd  with  the  wreath.      That  seem'd 

to  come  and  go. 
They  left  us  there  for  dead ! 

Elisahetta.  Hear  that,  my  lady  ! 

Filippo.  Ay,  and  I  left  two  fingers 
there  for  dead.  See,  my  lady  !  (^Show- 
ing his  hand.') 

Lady  Giovanna.     I  see,  Filippo  ! 
Filippo.       And  I  have  small  hope  of 
the  gentleman  gout  in  my  great  toe. 
Lady  Giovanna.      And  why,  Filippo? 
[^S?niling  absently. 
Filippo.    I  left  him  there  for  dead,  too  ! 
Elisahetta.     She  smiles  at  him  —  how 
hard  the  woman  is  ! 
My  lady,  if  your  ladyship  were  not 
Too  proud  to  look  upon  the  garland,  you 

Would  find  it  stain'd 

Count  (rising).      Silence,  Elisahetta! 
Elisahetta.      —  Stain'd  with  the  blood 
of  the  best  heart  that  ever 
Beat  for  one  woman. 

\^Points  to  wreath  on  chair. 
Lady  Giovanna  (rising sloivly).    I  can 

eat.  no  more  ! 
Count.     You  have  but  trifled  with  our 
homely  salad, 
But  dallied  with  a  single  lettuce-leaf; 
Not  eaten  anything. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Nay,  nay,  I  cannot. 
You   know,  my   lord,  I  told  you  I  was 

troubled. 
My  one  child  Florio  lying  still  so  sick, 
I  bound  myself,  and  by  a  solemn  vow, 
That  I  would  touch  no  flesh  till  he  were 
well 

3C 


Here,  or  else  well  in  Heaven,  where  all 
is  well. 
[Elisahetta  clears  tahle  of  bird  and 
salad:  Filippo  snatches  up  the 
plate  of  prunes  and  holds  them  to 
Lady  Giovanna. 
Filippo.      But    the    prunes,   my   lady, 

from  the  tree  that  his  lordship 

Lady    Giovanna.     Not    now,  Filippo. 
My  lord  Federigo, 
Can    I    not  speak   with  you  once   more 
alone  ? 
Count.     You  hear,  Filippo?    My  good 

fellow,  go  ! 
Filippo.     But    the   prunes   that    your 

lordship  

Elisahetta.  Filippo ! 

Count.     Ay,    prune    our    company   of 

thine  own  and  go  ! 
Elisahetta.     Filippo ! 
Filippo    (turning).      ^Vell,  w'ell !  the 
women !  \^Exit. 

Count.     And  thou  too   leave    us,   my 

dear  nurse,  alone. 
Elisahetta  (folding  up  cloth  and  going) . 
And  me  too  !  Ay,  the  dear  nurse  will 
leave  you  alone;  but,  for  all  that,  she 
that  has  eaten  the  yolk  is  scarce  like  to 
swallow  the  shell. 

[  Turns  and  curtseys  stiffly  to  Lady 
Giovanna,  then  exit.  Lady  Gio- 
vanna takes  out  diamond  necklace 
from  casket. 
Lady  Giovanna.  I  have  anger'd  your 
good  nurse;  these  old-world 
servants 
Are  all  but  flesh  and  blood  with  those  they 

serve. 
My  lord,  I  have  a  present  to  return  you, 
And  afterwards  a  boon  to  crave  of  you. 
Count.     No,  my  most    honour'd   and 
long-worshipt  lady. 
Poor  Federigo  degli  Alberighi 
Takes  nothing  in  return  from  you  except 
Return  of  his  affection  —  can  deny 
Nothing    to    you    that    you    require    of 
him. 
Lady  Giovanna.     Then  I  require  you 
to  take  back  your  diamonds  — 

[  Offering  necklace. 
I  doubt  not  they  are  yours.     No  other 

heart 
Of  such  magnificence  in  courtesy 


754 


THE  FALCOX. 


Beats  —  out  of  heaven.     They  seeni'd  too 

rich  a  prize 
To  trust  with  any  messenger.     I  came 
In  person  to  return  them. 

[  Count  draws  back. 
If  the  phrase 

*  Return '  displease   you,  we   will   say  — 

exchange  them 

For  your  —  for  your 

Count  {takes  a  step  toiuard  her  and  then 
back).     For  mine  —  and  what  of 
mine? 
Lady  Giovanna.   Well,  shall  we  say  this 

wreath  and  your  sweet  rhymes? 
Count.     But  have  you  ever  worn  my 

diamonds? 
Lady  Giovanna.     No  ! 
For  that  would  seem  accepting  of  your 

love. 
I  cannot  brave  my  brother  —  but  be  sure 
That  I  shall  never  marry  again,  my  lord  ! 
Count.     Sure? 
Lady  Giovanna.     Yes ! 
Count.     Is  this  your  brother's  order? 
Lady  Giovaniia.  No  ! 

For  he  would  marry  me  to  the    richest 

man 
In  Florence;    but  I  think  you  know  the 
saying  — 

*  Better  a  man  without  riches,  than  riches 

without  a  man.' 
Count.     A  noble  saying  —  and  acted 

on  would  yield 
A   nobler   breed   of    men    and    women. 

Lady, 
I    find   you   a    shrewd    bargainer.     The 

wreath 
That   once  you  wore  outvalues  tvventv- 

fold 
The  diamonds  that  you  never  deign'd  to 

wear. 
But  lay  them  there  for  a  moment ! 

\_Points   to   table.      Lady    Giovanna 

places  necklace  on  table. 

And  be  you 
Gracious  enough  to  let  me  know  the  boon 
By  granting  which,  if  aught  be  mine  to 

grant, 
I  should  be  made   more   happy  than    I 

hoped 
Ever  to  be  again. 

Lady    Giovanna.      Then    keep    your 

wreath, 


But  you  will  find  nie  a  shrewd  bargainer 

still. 
I    cannot   keep  your   diamonds,  for   the 

gift 
I  ask  for,  to  my  mind  and  at  this  present 
Outvalues  all  the  jewels  upon  earth. 
Count.     It  should    be   love   that   thus 

outvalues  all. 
You  speak  like   love,  and  yet  you  love 

me  not. 
I  have  nothing  in  this  world  but  love  for 

you. 
Lady    Giovanna.     Love?    it    is   love, 

love  for  my  dying  boy, 
Moves  me  to  ask  it  of  you. 

Count.  ^Yhat?  my  time? 

Is  it   my  time?     Well,   I    can  give   my 

time 
To  him  that  is  a  part  of  you,  your  son. 
Shall  I  return   to   the   castle   with  you? 

Shall  I 
Sit  by  him,  read    to   him,  tell    him  my 

tales, 
Sing  him  my  songs?     You  know  that  I 

can  touch 
The  ghittern  to  some  purpose. 

Lady  Giovanna.  No,  not  that  I 

I    thank    you   heartily    for    that  —  and 

you, 
I    doubt   not    from    your    nobleness    of 

nature, 
Will  pardon  me  for  asking  what  I  ask. 
Count.     Giovanna,   dear   Giovanna,   I 

that  once 
The    wildest   of    the    random   youth    of 

Florence 
Before  I  saw  you  —  all  my  nobleness 
Of  nature,  as  you  deign  to  call  it,  draws 
From  you,  and  from  my  constancy  to  you. 
No  more,  but  speak. 

Lady  Giovanna.      I  will.     You  know 

sick  people. 
More  specially  sick  children,  have  strange 

fancies, 
Strange   longings;    and   to   thwart  them 

in  their  mood 
May  work  them  grievous  harm  at  times, 

may  even 
Hasten  their  end.     I   would  you  had  a 

son  ! 
It  might  be  easier  then  for  you  to  make 
Allowance    for    a    mother  —  her  —  who 

comes 


THE  FALCON 


755 


To  rob  you  of  your  one  delight  on  earth. 
How  often  has  my  sick  boy  yearn'd  for 

this! 
I  have  put  him  off  as  often;   but  to-day 
I  dared  not  —  so  much  weaker,  so  much 

worse 
For  last  day's  journey.     I  was  weeping 

for  him; 
lie  gave  me  his  hand  :   '  I  should  be  well 

again 

If  the  good  Count  would  give  me ' 

Cotmt.  Give  me. 

Lady  Giovanna.  His  falcon. 

Count  {starts  back).      My  falcon! 
Lady  Giovanna.         Yes,  your  falcon, 

Federigo  ! 
Count.     Alas,  I  cannot ! 
Lady  Giovanna.     Cannot?     Even  so  ! 
I    fear'd    as    much.      O    this    unhappy 

world ! 
How  shall  I  break  it  to  him?  how  shall 

I  tell  him? 
The    boy   may  die :    more    blessed  were 

the  rags 
Of  some  pale  beggar-woman  seeking  alms 
For  her  sick  son,  if  he  were  like  to  live, 
Than    all    my  childless  wealth,   if   mine 

must  die. 
I  was  to  blame  —  the  love  you  said  you 

bore  me  — 
My  lord,  we  thank  you  for  your  enter- 
tainment  [  With  a  stately  curtsey. 
And  so  return  —  Heaven  help  him  !  —  to 

our  son.  [  Turns. 

Count  {rushes  foriuard).     Stay,  stay, 

I  am  most  unlucky,  most  unhappy. 

You  never  had  look'd  in  on  me  before. 

And   when    you    came    and    dipt   your 

sovereign  head 
Thro'  these  low  doors,  you  ask'd  to  eat 

with  me. 
I  had  but  emptiness  to  set  before  you, 
No  not  a  draught  of  milk,  no  not  an  egg, 
Nothing   but    my  brave  bird,  my   noble 

falcon. 
My  comrade  of  the  house,  and  of  the  field. 
She  had  to  die  for  it  —  she  died  for  you. 
Perhaps  I  thought  with  those  of  old,  the 

nobler 
The  victim  was,  the  more  acceptable 
Might  be  the  sacrifice.     I  fear  you  scarce 
Will   thank  me  for  your    entertainment 

now. 


L.ady  Giovanna   {returning).     I  bear 

with  him  no  longer. 
Count.  No,  Madonna ! 

And  he  will  have  to  bear  with  it  as  he 
may. 
L.ady   Giovanna.     I    break   with   him 

for  ever ! 
Count.  Yes,  Giovanna, 

But  he  will  keep    his  love  for   you  for 
ever ! 
Lady     Giovanna.      You?     you?    not 
you !       My    brother  I       my    hard 
brother ! 

0  Federigo,  Federigo,  I  love  you  I 
Spite  of  ten  thousand  brothers,  Federigo. 

[  Falls  at  his  feet. 
Count  {impetuously).     NYhy  then  the 
dying  of  my  noble  bird 
Hath  served  me  better  than  her  living  — 
then 

\_Takes  diamonds  from  table. 
These  diamonds  are  both  yours  and  mine 

—  have  won 

Their  value  again  —  beyond  all  markets 

—  there 

1  lay  them  for  the  first  time  round  your 

neck. 

\_Lays  necklace  round  her  neck. 
And  then  this  chaplet  —  No  more  feuds, 

but  peace, 
Peace  and  conciliation  !     I  will  make 
Your  brother  love  me.     See,  I  tear  away 
The  leaves  were  darken'd   by  the  bat- 
tle— 
\_Pulls  leaves  off  and  throws  them  dotvn. 

—  crown  you 
Again  with  the  same  crown  my  Queen 
of  Beauty. 

\^Places  zureath  on  her  head. 
Rise  —  I    could    almost    think    that    the 

dead  garland 
Will    break    once   more    into  the   living 

blossom. 
Nay,  nay,  I  pray  you  rise. 

\_Raises  her  with  both  hands. 

W'e  two  together 

W^ill   help  to  heal  your  son  —  your  son 

and  mine  — 
We  shall  do  it  —  we  shall  do  it. 

\_Embraces  her. 
The  purpose  of  my  being  is  accomplish'd, 
And  I  am  happy  ! 

Lady  Giovanna.     And  I  too,  Federigo. 


THE    PROMISE    OF    MAY. 

'  A  surface  man  of  theories,  true  to  none.' 


DRAMATIS  PERSON/E. 

Farmer  Dobson. 

Mr.  Philip  Edgar    {afterwards  Mr.  Harold). 
Farmer  Steer    (Dora  and  Eva's  Father), 
Mr.  Wilson    (a  Schoolmaster). 

HiGGINS 

James 
Dan  Smith 
Jackson 
Allen  > 

Dora  Steer. 
Eva  Steer. 
Sally  Allen 

MiLLY 

Farm  Servants,  Labourers,  etc. 


•  Farjii  Labonrers. 


Farm  Servants. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE.  —  Before  Farmhouse. 

Fanning  Men  and  Women.  Farmi7tg 
Men  carrying  forms,  etc.  Women 
carrying  baskets  of  knives  and  forks, 
etc. 


Be  thou  a-gawin' 
Ay,  to  be  sewer  ! 
Why,  o'   coorse, 


\st  Farming Ma7i. 
to  the  long  barn? 

2nd  Farming  Afan. 
Be  thou? 

\st  Far?ning  Alan. 
fur  it  be  the  owd  man's  birthdaay.  He 
be  heighty  this  very  daay,  and  'e  telled 
all  on  us  to  be  i'  the  long  barn  by  one 
o'clock,  fur  he'll  gie  us  a  big  dinner,  and 
haafe  th'  parish  '11  be  theer,  an'  Miss 
Dora,  an'  Miss  Eva,  an'  all ! 

2nd  Farming  Man.  Miss  Dora  be 
coomed  back,  then? 

\st  Farming  Man.  Ay,  haafe  an  hour 
ago.  She  be  in  theer  now.  (^Pointing 
to  house.)  Owd  Steer  wur  afeiird  she 
wouldn't  be  back  i'  time  to  keep  his 
birthdaay,  and  he  wur  in  a  tew  about  it 
all  the  murnin';  and  he  sent  me  wi'  the 
gig  to  Littlechester  to  fetch  'er;  and  'er 
an'  the  owd  man  they  fell  a-kissin'  o'  one 
another  like  two  sweet'arts  i'  the  poorch 
as  soon  as  he  clapt  eyes  of  'er. 


2nd  Farming  Alan.     Foalks  says  he 
likes  Miss  Eva  the  best. 

1st  Farming  Alaji.  Naay,  I  knaws 
nowt  o'  what  foalks  says,  an'  I  caares 
nowt  neither.  Foalks  doesn't  hallus 
knaw  thessens;  but  sewer  I  be,  they  be 
two  o'  the  purtiest  gels  ye  can  see  of  a 
summer  murnin'. 

2nd  Farming  Alan.  Beant  iSIiss  Eva 
gone  off  a  bit  of  'er  good  looks  o'  laate? 

\sl  Farming  A/an.     Noa,  not  a  bit. 

2nd  Far??ii}ig  A/an.  Why  coom 
awaay,  then,  to  the  long  barn. 

\^Exetini. 

Dora  looks  out  ofwindozu.  Enter  Dobson. 

Dora  {singing). 

The  town  lay  still  in  the  low  sun-light, 
The  hen  cluckt  late  by  the  white  farm  gate, 
The  maid  to  her  dairy  came  in  from  the 

cow. 
The  stock-dove  coo'd  at  the  fall  of  night, 
The  blossom  had  open'd  on  every  bough; 
O  joy  for  the  promise  of  May,  of  May, 
O  joy  for  the  promise  of  May. 
(Abiding  at  Dobson.)  I'm  coming 
down,  Mr.  Dobson.  I  haven't  seen  Eva 
yet.     Is  she  anywhere  in  the  garden? 

Dobson,  Noii,  Miss.  I  ha'n't  seed 
'er  neither. 


ACT   I. 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MA  Y. 


757 


Dora   (^enters  singing). 

But  a  red  fire  woke  in  the  heart  of  the 

town, 
And  a  fox  from  the  glen  ran  away  with 

the  hen, 
And  a  cat  to  the  cream,  and  a  rat  to  the 

cheese; 
And  the  stock-dove  coo'd,  till  a  kite  dropt 

down. 
And  a  salt  wind  burnt  the  blossoming 
trees; 

O  grief  for  the  promise  of  May,  of  May, 

O  grief  for  the  promise  of  May. 
I  don't  know  why  I  sing  that  song;   I 
don't  love  it. 

Dobson.  Blessings  on  your  pretty 
voice.  Miss  Dora.  Wheer  did  they  larn 
ye  that? 

Dora.     In  Cumberland,  Mr.  Dobson. 

Dobson.  An'  how  did  ye  leave  the 
owd  uncle  i'  Coomberland? 

Dora.  Getting  better,  Mr.  Dobson. 
But  he'll  never  be  the  same  man  again. 

Dobson.  An'  how  d'ye  find  the  owd 
man  'ere? 

Dora.  As  well  as  ever.  I  came  back 
to  keep  his  birthday. 

Dobson.  Well,  I  be  coomed  to  keep 
his  birthdaay  an'  all.  The  owd  man  be 
heighty  to-daay,  beant  he? 

Dora.  Yes,  Mr.  Dobson.  And  the 
day's  bright  like  a  friend,  but  the  wind 
east  like  an  enemy.  Help  me  to  move 
this  bench  for  him  into  the  sun.  (  They 
move  bench.)  No,  not  that  way  —  here, 
under  the  apple  tree.  Thank  you. 
Look  how  full  of  rosy  blossom  it  is. 

\_Pointing  to  apple  tree. 

Dobson.  Theer  be  redder  blossoms 
nor  them,  Miss  Dora. 

Dora.  Where  do  they  blow,  Mr. 
Dobson? 

Dobson.     Under  your  eyes,  Miss  Dora. 

Dora.     Do  they? 

Dobson.  And  your  eyes  be  as  blue 
as 

Dora.  What,  Mr.  Dobson?  A 
butcher's  frock? 

Dobson.  Noa,  Miss  Dora;  as  blue 
as 

Dora.  Bluebell,  harebell,  speedwell, 
bluebottle,  succory,  forget-me-not? 


Dobson. 


as- 


Noa,    Miss    Dora;    as   blue 

Dora.  The  sky?  or  the  sea  on  a  blue 
day? 

Dobson.  Naay  then.  I  mean'd  they 
be  as  blue  as  violets. 

Dora.     Are  they? 

Dobso7t.  Theer  ye  goas  agean.  Miss, 
niver  believing  owt  I  says  to  ye  —  hallus 
a-fobbing  ma  off,  tho'  ye  knaws  I  love  ye. 
I  warrants  ye'U  think  moor  o'  this  young 
Squire  Edgar  as  ha'  coomed  among  us  — 
the  Lord  knaws  how  —  ye'U  think  more 
on  'is  little  finger  than  hall  my  hand  at 
the  h altar. 

Dora.  Perhaps,  Master  Dobson.  I 
can't  tell,  for  I  have  never  seen  him.  But 
my  sister  wrote  that  he  was  mighty 
pleasant,  and  had  no  pride  in  him. 

Dobson.  He'll  be  arter  you  now.  Miss 
Dora. 

Dora. 

Dobson. 
haant  he? 

Dora. 

Dobson. 


Will  he?     How  can  I  tell? 
He's  been  arter   Miss  Eva, 


Not  that  I  know. 
Didn't  I  spy  'em  a-sitting  i' 
the  woodbine  harbour  togither? 

Dora.  What  of  that?  Eva  told  me 
that  he  was  taking  her  likeness.  He's 
an  artist. 

Dobson.  What's  a  hartist?  I  doant 
believe  he's  iver  a  'eart  under  his  waist- 
coat. And  I  tells  ye  what.  Miss  Dora  : 
he's  no  respect  for  the  Queen,  or  the 
parson,  or  the  justice  o'  peace,  or  owt. 
I  ha'  heard  'im  a-gawin'  on'  'ud  make 
your  'air  —  God  bless  it !  —  stan'  'on  end. 
And  wuss  nor  that.  When  theer  wur  a 
meeting  o'  farmers  at  Littlechester  t'other 
daay,  and  they  was  all  a-crying  out  at  the 
bad  times,  he  cooms  up,  and  he  calls 
out  among  our  oan  men,  '  The  land 
belongs  to  the  people  !  ' 

Dora.     And  what  did  yoti  say  to  that? 

Dobson.  Well,  I  says,  s'pose  my  pig's 
the  land,  and  you  says  it  belongs  to  the 
parish,  and  theer  be  a  thousand  i'  the 
parish,  taakin'  in  the  women  and  childer; 
and  s'pose  I  kills  my  pig,  and  gi'es  it 
among  'em,  why  there  wudn't  be  a 
dinner  for  nawbody,  and  I  should  ha'  lost 
the  pig. 

Dora.     And  what  did  he  say  to  that? 


758 


THE   PROMISE   OF  MA  Y. 


ACT   I. 


Dobson.  Nowt  — what  could  he  saay? 
But  I  taakes  'im  fur  a  bad  lot  and  a  burn 
fool,  and  I  haates  the  very  sight  on  him. 

Dora  (^looking  at  Dobson).  Master 
Dobson,  you  are  a  comely  man  to  look  at. 

Dobson.  I  thank  you  for  that,  Miss 
Dora,  onyhow. 

Dora.  Ay,  but  you  turn  right  ugly 
when  you're  in  an  ill  temper;  and  I 
promise  you  that  if  you  forget  yourself  in 
your  behaviour  to  this  gentleman,  my 
father's  friend,  I  will  never  change  word 
with  you  again. 

Enter  Farming  ^k:ii  from  barji. 

Farming  Man.  Miss,  the  farming 
men  'uU  hev  their  dinner  i'  the  long 
barn,  and  the  master  'ud  be  straange  an' 
pleased  if  you'd  step  in  fust,  and  see  that 
all  be  right  and  reg'lar  fur  'em  afoor  he 
coom.  S^Exit. 

Dora.  I  go.  Master  Dobson,  did 
you  hear  what  I  said? 

Dobsoji.  Yeas,  yeas  !  I'll  not  meddle 
wi'  'im  if  he  doant  meddle  wi'  mea. 
{Exit  Dora.)  Coomly,  says  she.  I 
niver  thowt  o'  mysen  i'  that  waay;  but 
if  she'd  taiik  to  ma  i'  that  waay,  or  ony 
waay,  I'd  slaave  out  my  life  fur  'er. 
*  Coomly  to  look  at,'  says  she  —  but  she 
said  it  spiteful-like.  To  look  at  —  yeas, 
'coomly';  and  she  mayn't  be  so  fur  out 
theer.  But  if  that  be  nowt  to  she,  then 
it  be  nowt  to  me.  {Looking  off  stage.) 
Schoolmaster !  Why  if  Steer  ha'n't 
haxed  schoolmaster  to  dinner,  thaw  'e 
knaws  I  was  hallus  agean  heving  school- 
master i'  the  parish  !  fur  him  as  be  handy 
wi'  a  book  bean't  but  haafe  a  hand  at  a 
pitchfork. 

Enter  Wilson. 

Well,  Wilson.  I  seed  that  one  cow 
o'  thine  i'  the  pinfold  agean  as  I  wur  a- 
coomin'  'ere. 

Wilson.  Very  likely,  Mr.  Dobson. 
She  7viil  break  fence.  I  can't  keep  her 
in  order. 

Dobson.  An'  if  tha  can't  keep  thy 
one  cow  i'  border,  how  can  tha  keep  all 
thy  scholards  i'  border?  But  let  that 
goa  by.  What  dost  a  knaw  o'  this  Mr. 
Hedgar    as    be    a-lodgin'    wi'    ye?      1 


coom'd  upon  'im  t'other  daay  lookin'  at 
the  coontry,  then  a-scrattin  upon  a  bit  o' 
paaper,  then  a-lookin'  agean;  and  I 
taaked  'im  fur  soom  sort  of  a  land-sur- 
veyor—  but  a  beant. 

Wilson.  He's  a  Somersetshire  man, 
and  a  very  civil-spoken  gentleman. 

Dobson.  Gentleman !  What  be  he 
a-doing  here  ten  mile  an'  moor  fro'  a 
rajiil?  We  laays  out  o'  the  waay  fur 
gentlefoalk  altogither  —  leastwaays  they 
niver  cooms  'ere  but  fur  the  trout  i'  our 
beck,  fur  they  be  knaw'd  as  far  as 
Littlechester.     But  'e  doant  fish  neither. 

Wilson.  Well,  it's  no  sin  in  a  gentle- 
man not  to  fish. 

Dobson.     Noa,  but  I  haates  'im. 

JVilson.  Better  step  out  of  his  road, 
then,  for  he's  walking  to  us,  and  with  a 
book  in  his  hand. 

Dobson.  An'  I  haates  boooks  an'  all, 
fur  they  puts  foalk  oft'  the  owd  waays. 

Enter  Edgar,  reading —  not  seeing 
Dobson  and  Wilson. 

Edgar.     This  author,  with  his  charm 

of  simple  style 
And  close  dialectic,  all  but  proving  man 
An  automatic  series  of  sensations. 
Has  often  numb'd  me  into  apathy 
Against  the  unpleasant  jolts  of  this  rough 

road 
That  breaks  off  short  into  the  abysses — 

made  me 
A  Quietist  taking  all  things  easily. 

Dobson.  (Aside.)  There  mun  be 
sumniat  wrong  theer,  Wilson,  fur  I  doant 
understan'  it. 

Wilson.  {Aside.)  Nor  I  either,  Mr. 
Dobson. 

Dobson  {scorn/idly).  An'  thou  doant 
understan'  it  neither  —  and  thou  school- 
master an'  all. 

Edgar.     What  can  a  man,  then,  live 

for  but  sensations. 
Pleasant  ones?    men  of  old  would    un- 
dergo 
Unpleasant  for  the  sake  of  pleasant  ones 
Hereafter,    like    the    Moslem    beauties 

waiting 
To  clasp  their  lovers  by  the  golden  gates. 
lM)r    me,  whose    cheerless    Ilouris    after 

death 


ACT    I. 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


759 


Are  Night  and  Silence,  pleasant  ones  — 

the  while  — 
If  possible,  here  I   to  crop  the  flower  and 
pass. 
Dobsoji.     Well,  I  never  'card  the  likes 
o'  that  afoor. 

IVilson.  (Aside.)  But  I  have,  Mr. 
Dobson.  It's  the  old  Scripture  text, 
'  Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we 
die.'  I'm  sorry  for  it,  for,  tho'  he  never 
comes  to  church,  I  thought  better  of 
him. 

Edgar.     '  What  are  we,'  says  the  blind 
old  man  in  Lear? 
*As  flies  to  the  Gods;    they  kill  us  for 
their  sport.' 
Dobson.     {Aside.)     Then  the  owd  man 
i'  Lear  should  be  shaamed  of  hissen,  but 
noan  o'  the  parishes  goas  by  that  naame 
'ereabouts. 

Edgar.      The    Gods !    but    they,    the 
shadows  of  ourselves, 
Have  past  for  ever.     It  is  Nature  kills. 
And  not  for  her  sport  either.    She  knows 

nothing. 
Man  only  knows,  the  worse  for  him  I  for 

why 
Cannot  he  take  his  pastime  like  the  flies? 
And  if  my  pleasure  breed  another's  pain, 
AVell  —  is  not  that  the  course  of  Nature 

too, 
From  the  dim  dawn  of  Being  —  her  main 

law 
Whereby  she  grows  in  beauty  —  that  her 

flies 
Must   massacre    each    other?    this    poor 
Nature  ! 
Dobson.      Natur !      Natur !      Well,    it 
be  i'  my  natur  to  knock  'im  o'  the  'ead 
now;    but  I  weant. 

Edgar.     A  Quietist  taking  all  things 
easily  —  why  — 
Have  I  been  dipping  into  this  again 
To  steel  myself  against  the  leaving  her? 
[  Closes  book,  seeing  Wilson. 
Good  day ! 

Wi/son.     Good  day,  sir. 

[Dobson  loohs  hard  at  Edgar. 
Edgar    {to    Dobson).       Have     I     the 
pleasure,  friend,  of  knowing  you? 
Dobson.     Dobson. 
Edgar.     Good  day,  then,  Dobson. 

lExit. 


Dobson.  '  Good  daay  then,  Dobson  I  ' 
Civil-spoken  i'deed  I  Why,  Wilson,  tha 
'eiird  'im  thysen  —  the  feller  couldn't  find 
a  Mister  in  his  mouth  fur  me,  as  farms 
five  hoonderd  haacre. 

IVilson.  You  never  find  one  for  me, 
Mr.  Dobson. 

Dobson.  Noa,  fur  thou  be  nobbut 
schoolmaster;  but  I  taakes  'im  for  a 
Lunnun  swindler,  and  a  burn  fool. 

IVilson.  He  can  hardly  be  both,  and 
he  pays  me  regular  every  Saturday. 

Dobson.     Yeas;   but  I  haates  'im. 

Enter  Steer,  Farm  Men  and  Women. 

Steer  {goes  atid  sits  under  apple  tree). 
Hev'  ony  o'  ye  seen  Eva? 

Dobson.     Noa,  Mr.  Steer. 

Steer.  Well,  I  reckons  they'll  hev'  a 
fine  cider-crop  to-year  if  the  blossom 
'owds.  Good  murnin',  neighbours,  and 
the  saame  to  you,  my  men.  I  taakes  it 
kindly  of  all  o'  you  that  you  be  coomed 

—  what's  the  newspaaper  word,  Wilson? 

—  celebrate  —  to  celebrate  my  birthdaay 
i'  this  fashion.  Niver  man  'ed  better 
friends,  and  I  will  saay  niver  master  'ed 
better  men  :  fur  thaw  I  may  ha'  fallen  out 
wi'  ye  sometimes,  the  fault,  mebbe,  wur 
as  much  mine  as  yours;  and,  thaw  I  says 
it  mysen,  niver  men  'ed  a  better  master  — 
and  I  knaws  what  men  be,  and  what 
masters  be,  fur  I  wur  nobbut  a  laabourer, 
and  now  I  be  a  landlord  —  burn  a  plow- 
man, and  now,  as  far  as  money  goas,  I  be 
a  gentleman,  thaw  I  beant  naw  scholard, 
fur  I  'edn't  naw  time  to  maake  mysen  a 
scholard  while  I  wur  maakin'  mysen  a 
gentleman,  but  I  ha'  taaen  good  care  to 
turn  out  boath  my  darters  right  down 
fine  laadies. 

Dobson.     An'  soa  they  be. 

\st  Farming  Man.  Soa  they  be  !  soa 
they  be ! 

ind  Farming  Alan.  The  Lord  bless 
boath  on  'em  ! 

yd  Farjning  Man.  An'  the  saame 
to  you.  Master, 

4//i  Farming  Man.  And  long  life  to 
boath  on  'em.  An'  the  saame  to  you, 
Master  Steer,  likewise. 

Steer.     Thank  ye  ! 


760 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


ACT   I, 


Ente7'  Eva. 

Wheer  'asta  been? 

Eva  {timidly^.  Many  happy  returns 
of  the  day,  father. 

Steer.  They  can't  be  many,  my  dear, 
but  I  'oapes  they'll  be  'appy. 

Dobson.  Why,  tha  looks  haale  anew 
to  last  to  a  hoonderd. 

Steer.  An'  why  shouldn't  I  last  to  a 
hoonderd?  Haale!  why  shouldn't  I  be 
haale?  fur  thaw  I  be  heigh ty  this  very 
daay,  I  niver  'es  sa  much  as  one  pin's 
prick  of  paain;  an'  I  can  taake  my  glass 
along  wi'  the  youngest,  fur  I  niver 
touched  a  drop  of  owt  till  my  oan  wed- 
ding-daay,  an'  then  I  wur  turned  huppads 
o'  sixty.  Why  shouldn't  I  be  haale?  I 
ha'  plowed  the  ten-aacre  —  it  be  mine 
now  —  afoor  ony  o'  ye  wur  burn  —  ye  all 
knaws  the  ten-aacre  —  I  mun  ha'  plowed 
it  moor  nor  a  hoonderd  times;  hallus 
hup  at  sunrise,  and  I'd  drive  the  plow 
straait  as  a  line  right  i'  the  faace  o'  the 
sun,  then  back  agean,  a-follering  my  oan 
shadder  —  then  hup  agean  i'  the  faace  o' 
the  sun.  Eh !  how  the  sun  'ud  shine, 
and  the  larks  'ud  sing  i'  them  daays,  and 
the  smell  o'  the  mou'd  an'  all.  Eh  !  if  I 
could  ha'  gone  on  wi'  the  plowin'  nobbut 
the  smell  o'  the  mou'd  'ud  ha'  maade  ma 
live  as  long  as  Jerusalem. 

Eva.     Methusaleh,  father. 

Steer.  Ay,  lass,  but  when  thou  be  as 
owd  as  me  thou'll  put  one  word  fur 
another  as  I  does. 

Dobson.  But,  Steer,  thaw  thou  be 
haale  anew  I  seed  tha  a-limpin'  up  just 
now  wi'  the  roomatics  i'  the  knee. 

Steer.  Roomatics!  Noa;  I  laame't 
my  knee  last  night  running  arter  a  thief. 
Beant  there  house-breakers  down  i'  Little- 
chester,  Dobson  —  doant  ye  hear  of  ony? 

Dobson.  Ay,  that  there  be.  Im- 
manuel  Goldsmith's  was  broke  into  o' 
Monday  night,  and  ower  a  hoonderd 
pounds'  worth  o'  rings  stolen. 

Steer.  So  I  thowt,  and  I  heard  the 
winder  —  that's  the  winder  at  the  end  o' 
the  passage,  that  goas  by  thy  chaumber. 
( Turning  to  Eva.)  Why,  lass,  what 
maakcs  tha  sa  red  ?  Did  'e  git  into  thy 
chaumber? 


Eva.     Father ! 

Steer.  Well,  I  runned  arter  thief  i' 
the  dark,  and  fell  agean  coalscuttle  and 
my  kneea  gev  waay  or  I'd  ha'  cotched 
'im,  but  afoor  I  coomed  up  he  got  thruff 
the  winder  agean. 

Eva.     Got  thro'  the  window  again? 

Steer.  Ay,  but  he  left  the  mark  of  'is 
foot  i'  the  flower-bed;  now  theer  be  noan 
o'  my  men,  thinks  I  to  mysen,  'ud  ha' 
done  it  'cep'  it  were  Dan  Smith,  fur  I 
cotched  'im  once  a-stealin'  coals,  an'  I 
sent  fur  'im,  an'  I  measured  his  foot  wi' 
the  mark  i'  the  bed,  but  it  wouldn't  fit 
—  seeams  to  me  the  mark  wur  maade  by 
a  Lunnun  boot.  {Looks  at  Eva.)  Why, 
now,  what  maakes  tha  sa  white? 

Eva.     Fright,  father  ! 

Steer.  Maake  thysen  easy.  I'll  hev 
the  winder  naailed  up,  and  put  Towser 
under  it. 

Eva  {clasping  her  hands).  No,  no, 
father !    Towser'U  tear  him  all  to  pieces. 

Steer.  Let  him  keep  awaay,  then; 
but  coom,  coom  !  let's  be  gawin'.  They 
ha'  broached  a  barrel  of  aale  i'  the  long 
barn,  and  the  fiddler  be  theer,  and  the 
lads  and  lasses  'uU  hev  a  dance. 

Eva.  {Aside.)  Dance !  small  heart 
have  I  to  dance.  I  should  seem  to  be 
dancing  upon  a  grave. 

Steer.  Wheer  be  Mr.  Edgar?  about 
the  premises? 

Dobsoji.     Hallus  about  the  premises  ! 

Steer.  So  much  the  better,  so  much 
the  better.  I  likes  'im,  and  Eva  likes 
'im.  Eva  can  do  owt  wi'  'im;  look  for 
'im,  Eva,  and  bring  'im  to  the  barn. 
He  'ant  naw  pride  in  'im,  and  we'll  git 
'im  to  speechify  for  us  arter  dinner. 

Eva.     Yes,  father  !  \_Exit. 

Steer.  Coom  along  then,  all  the  rest 
o'  ye  !  Churchwarden  be  a-coomin',  thaw 
me  and  'im  we  niver  'grees  about  the 
tithe;  and  Parson  mebbe,  thaw  he  niver 
mended  that  gap  i'  the  glebe  fence  as  I 
telled  'im;  and  Blacksmith,  thaw  he 
niver  shoes  a  herse  to  my  likings;  and 
Baakcr,  thaw  I  sticks  to  hoam-maade  — 
but  all  on  'em  welcome,  all  on  'em  wel- 
come ;  and  I've  hed  the  long  barn  cleared 
out  of  all  the  machines,  and  the  sacks, 
and    the  taiiters,  and  the    mangles,  and 


ACT  I. 


THE   PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


761 


theer'll   be    room    anew    for    all    o'    ye. 
Foller  me. 

All.  Yeas,  yeas !  Three  cheers  for 
Mr.  Steer  ! 

\_A II  exeunt  except  Dobson  into  ba7-n. 

Enter  Edgar. 

Dobson  (who  is  going,  turns') .     Squire  ! 
—  if  so  be  you  be  a  squire. 
Edgar.     Dobbins,  I  think. 
Dobson.     Dobbins,  you  thinks;   and  I 
thinks  ye  wears  a  Lunnun  boot. 
Edgar.     Well? 

Dobson.  And  I  thinks  I'd  like  to 
taake  the  measure  o'  your  foot. 

Edgar.  Ay,  if  you'd  like  to  measure 
your  own  length  upon  the  grass. 

Dobson.  Coom,  coom,  that's  a  good 
un.  Why,  I  could  throw  four  o'  ye; 
but  I  promised  one  of  the  Misses  I 
wouldn't  meddle  wi'  ye,  and  I  weant. 

\_Exit  into  barn. 
Edgar.     Jealous  of  me  with  Eva  I     Is 

it  so? 
Well,  tho'  I  grudge  the  pretty  jewel,  that 

I 
Have    worn,    to    such    a    clod,    yet    that 

might  be 
The  best  way  out  of  it,  if  the  child  could 

keep 
Her    counsel.      I    am   sure    I    wish    her 

happy. 
But    I    must   free   myself   from  this   en- 
tanglement. 
I  have   all  my  life  before  me  —  so  has 

she  — 
Give  her  a  month  or  two,  and  her  affec- 
tions 
Will  flower  toward  the  light  in  some  new 

face. 
Still  I  am  half-afraid  to  meet  her  now. 
She  will  urge  marriage  on  me.     I  hate 

tears. 
Marriage  is  but  an  old  tradition.     I  hate 
Traditions,  ever  since  my  narrow  father, 
After  my  frolic  with  his  tenant's  girl, 
Made   younger    elder   son,   violated    the 

whole 
Tradition  of  our  land,  and  left  his  heir. 
Born,  happily,  with  some  sense  of  art.  to 

live 
By  brush  and  pencil.     By  and  by,  when 

Thought 


Comes  down  among  the  crowd,  and  man 

perceives  that 
The  lost  gleam  of  an  after-life  but  leaves 

him 
A  beast  of  prey  in  the  dark,  why  then 

the  crowd 
]May  wreak  my  wrongs  upon  my  wrongers. 

Marriage  I 
That  fine,  fat,  hook-nosed  uncle  of  mine, 

old  Harold, 
Who   leaves  me   all  his  land  at   Little- 

chester, 
He,   too,  would   oust  me  from  his  will, 

if  I 
Made  such  a  marriage.     And   marriage 

in  itself  — 
The   storm  is  hard  at   hand  will  sweep 

away 
Thrones,     churches,     ranks,     traditions, 

customs,  marriage 
One  of  the  feeblest  I     Then  the  man,  the 

woman. 
Following  their  best  affinities,  will  each 
Bid  their  old  bond  farewell  with  smiles, 

not  tears; 
Good  wishes,  not   reproaches;    with  no 

fear 
Of  the  world's  gossiping  clamour,  and  no 

need 
Of  veiling  their  desires. 

Conventionalism, 
Who  shrieks  by  day  at  what  she  does  by 

night. 
Would  call  this  vice;   but  one  time's  vice 

may  be 
The   virtue  of  another;    and   Vice   and 

Virtue 
Are  but  two  masks   of  self;    and  what 

hereafter 
Shall  mark  out  Vice  from  Virtue  in  the 

gulf 
Of  never-dawning  darkness? 

Enter  Eva. 

My  sweet  Eva, 
Where  have  you  lain  in  ambush  all  the 

morning? 
They  say  your  sister,  Dora,  has  return'd. 
And  that  should  make  you  happy,  if  you 

love  her ! 
But  you  look  troubled. 

Eva.  Oh,  I  love  her  so, 

I  was  afraid  of  her,  and  I  hid  myself. 


762 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


ACT   I. 


We  never  kept  a  secret  from  each  other; 
She  would  have   seen  at   once  into  my 

trouble, 
And  ask'd  me  what  I  could  not  answer. 

Oh,  Philip, 
Father  heard  you  last  night.     Our  savage 

mastiff. 
That    all  but    kill'd  the  beggar,  will  be 

placed 
Beneath  the  window,  Philip. 

Edgar.  Savage,  is  he? 

What   matters?      Come,    give    me    your 

hand  and  kiss  me 
This  beautiful  May-morning. 

Eva.  The  most  beautiful 

May  we  have  had  for  many  years ! 

Edgar.  And  here 

Is   the    most   beautiful  morning  of   this 

May. 
Nay,  you  must  smile  upon  me  !     There 

—  you  make 
The  May  and  morning  still  more  beauti- 
ful. 
You,  the  most  beautiful  blossom  of  the 

May. 
Eva.     Dear    Philip,   all  the    world    is 

beautiful 
If  we  were  happy,  and  could  chime  in 

with  it. 
Edgar.      True;    for  the    senses,  love, 

are  for  the  world; 
That  for  the  senses. 
F.va.  Yes. 

Edgar.  And  when  the  man, 

The  child  of  evolution,  flings  aside 
His  swaddling-bands,  the  morals  of  the 

tribe. 
He,   following  his  own   instincts  as  his 

God, 
Will  enter  on  the  larger  golden  age; 
No  pleasure  then  taboo'd :   for  when  the 

tide 
Of  full  democracy  has  overwhelm'd 
This  Old  world,  from  that  flood  will  rise 

the  New, 
Like  the   Love-goddess,  with   no   bridal 

veil. 
Ring,  trinket  of  the  Church,  but  naked 

Nature 
In  all  her  loveliness. 

K7>a.  What  are  you  saying? 

Edgar.     That,  if  we  did  not  strain  to 

make  ourselves 


Better  and  higher  than  Nature,  we  might  be 
As   happy    as    the    bees    there    at    their 

honey 
In  these  sweet  blossoms. 

Eva.  Yes;   how  sweet  they  smell ! 

Edgar.      There  I   let  me    break   some 
off  for  you. 

\_Breaking  branch  off. 

Eva.  My  thanks. 

But,  look,  how  wasteful  of  the  blossom 

you  are  ! 
One,    two,    three,    four,    Ave,    six  —  you 

have  robb'd  poor  father 
Of  ten  good  apples.     Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell 

you 
He  wishes  you  to  dine  along  with  us, 
And  speak  for  him  after  —  you  that  are 
so  clever  ! 
Edgar.     I   grieve  I  cannot;    but,  in- 
deed   

Eva.  What  is  it? 

Edgar.     Well,  business.     I  must  leave 

you,  love,  to-day. 
Eva.     Leave  me,  to-day  !     And  when 

will  you  return? 
Edgar.       I     cannot      tell     precisely; 

but 

Eva.  But  what? 

Edgar.     I  trust,  my  dear,  we  shall  be 

always  friends. 
Eva.     After  all  that  has  gone  between 
us  —  friends ! 
What,  only  friends?  \_Drops  branch. 

Edgar.  All  that  has  gone 

between  us 
Should  surely  make  us  friends. 

Eva.  But  keep  us  lovers. 

Edgar.     Child,  do  you  love  me  now? 

Eva.  Yes,  now  and  ever. 

Edgar.       Then   you   should    wish    us 

both  to  love  for  ever. 

But  if  you  will  bind  love  to  one  for  ever, 

Altho'    at    first    he    take    his   bonds    for 

flowers, 
As  years  go  on,  he  feels  them  press  upon 

him, 
Begins  tt)  flutter  in  them,  and  at  last 
Breaks  thro'  them,  and  so  flies  away  for 

ever; 
While,  had  you  left  him  free   use  of  his 

wings, 
Win;  knows  that  he  had  ever  dream'd  of 
flying? 


ACT   I. 


THE  PROMISE    OF  J/A  V. 


763 


Eva.     But  all  that  sounds  so  wicked 
and  so  strange; 
'Till  death  us  part '  —  those  are  the  only 

words, 
The  true  ones  —  nay,  and  those  not  true 

enough. 
For  they  that  love  do  not  believe  that 

death 
Will  part  them.     Why  do  you  jest  with 

me,  and  try 
To  fright  me?     Tho'  you  are  a  gentle- 
man, 

I  but  a  farmer's  daughter 

Edgar.  Tut !    you  talk 

Old  feudalism.     When  the  great  Democ- 
racy 

Makes  a  new  world 

Eva.  And  if  you  be  not  jesting, 

Neither  the  old  world,  nor  the  new,  nor 

father, 
Sister,  nor  you,  shall  ever  see  me  more. 
Edgar  {vioved) .   Then  —  {aside)  Shall 
I  say  it?  —  {alottd)   fly  with    me 
to-day. 
Eva.     No  !     Philip,  Philip,  if  you  do 
not  marry  me, 
I    shall    go    mad    for    utter    shame    and 
die. 
Edgar.     Then,   if  we   needs  must  be 
conventional, 
W'hen  shall  your  parish-parson  bawl  our 

banns 
Before  your  gaping  clowns? 

Ez'a.  Not  in  our  church  — 

I  think  I  scarce  could  hold  my  head  up 

there. 
Is  there  no  other  way  ? 

Edgar.  Yes,  if  you  cared 

To  fee  an  over-opulent  superstition. 
Then    they  would  grant  you  what  they 

call  a  license 
To  marry.     Do  you  wish  it? 

Eva.  Do  I  wish  it? 

Edgar.      In  London. 
Eva.  You  will  write  to  me? 

Edgar.  I  will. 

Eva.     And  I  will  fly  to  you  thro'  the 
night,  the  storm  — 
Yes,  tho'  the  fire  should  run   along  the 

ground, 
As  once  it  did  in  Egypt.     Oh,  you  see, 
I    was    just    out    of    school,    I    had    no 
mother  —■ 


My  sister  far  away  —  and  you,  a  gentle- 
man. 
Told   me   to    trust   you :    yes,    in    every- 
thing — 
yyiat   was    the    only    true   love;    and    I 

trusted  — 
Oh,  yes,  indeed,  I  would  have  died  for 

you. 
How  could   you — oh,  how  could  you? 

—  nay,  how  could  I  ? 
But  now   you   will   set  all   right    again, 

and  I 
Shall  not  be  made  the  laughter   of  the 

village. 
And  poor  old  father  not  die  miserable. 
Dora  {singing  ill  the  distatice). 

O  joy  for   the   promise  of  May,  of 

May, 
O  joy  for  the  promise  of  May. 
Edgar.     Speak    not   so   loudly;     that 
must  be  your  sister. 
You  never  told  her,  then,  of  what  has 

past 
Between  us. 

E.va.         Never ! 

Edgar.  Do  not  till  I  bid  you. 

Eva.     No,  Philip,  no.     [  Ttirjis  away. 

Edgar    {moved).        How     gracefully 

there  she  stands. 

Weeping  —  the  little  Niobe  I     What !  we 

prize 
The  statue  or  the  picture  all  the  more 
When  we  have  made  them  ours  1     Is  she 

less  lovable, 
Less   lovely,    being   wholly   mine?      To 

stay  — 
Follow  my  art  among  these  quiet  fields. 

Live  with  these  honest  folk 

And  play  the  fool ! 
No  !  she  that  gave  herself  to  me  so  easily 
^Vill  yield  herself  as  easily  to  another. 
Eva.     Did  you  speak,  Philip? 
Edgar.  Nothing  more,  farewell. 

[  They  embrace. 
Dora  {cofniug  nearer). 

O  grief  for  the  promise  of  May,  of 

May, 
O  grief  for  the  promise  of  May. 
Edgar   {still  embracing    her).     Keep 
up    your    heart     until    we    meet 
again. 
Eva.     If  that  should  break  before  we 
nieet  again? 


764 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


ACT   II. 


Edgar.       Break !     nay,    but    call    for 
Philip  when  you  will, 
And  he  returns. 

Eva.        Heaven     hears    you,     Philip 

Edgar  ! 
Edgar  {tnoved).     And  he  would  hear 
you  even  from  the  grave. 
Heaven  curse  him    if  he    come    not    at 
your  call !  [^Exit. 

Enter  Dora. 

Dora.     Well,  Eva ! 

Eva.  Oh,  Dora,  Dora,  how  long  you 
have  been  away  from  home  !  Oh,  how 
often  I  have  wished  for  you !  It  seemed 
to  me  that  we  were  parted  for  ever. 

Dora.  For  ever,  you  foolish  child ! 
What's  come  over  you?  We  parted  like 
the  brook  yonder  about  the  alder  island, 
to  come  together  again  in  a  moment  and 
to  go  on  together  again,  till  one  of  us  be 
married.  But  where  is  this  Mr.  Edgar 
whom  you  praised  so  in  your  first  letters? 
You  haven't  even  mentioned  him  in  your 
last? 

Eva.     He  has  gone  to  London. 

Dora.  Ay,  child;  and  you  look  thin 
and  pale.  Is  it  for  his  absence?  Have 
you  fancied  yourself  in  love  with  him? 
That's  all  nonsense,  you  know,  such  a 
baby  as  you  are.  But  you  shall  tell  me 
all  about  it. 

Eva.  Not  now,  —  presently.  Yes,  I 
have  been  in  trouble,  but  I  am  happy  — 
I  think,  quite  happy  now. 

Dora  {taking  Eva's  hand).  Come, 
then,  and  make  them  happy  in  the  long 
barn,  for  father  is  in  his  glory,  and  there 
is  a  piece  of  beef  like  a  house-side,  and  a 
plum-pudding  as  big  as  the  round  hay- 
stack. But  see  they  are  coming  out  for 
the  dance  already.  Well,  my  child,  let 
us  join  them. 

Enter  all  from  barn  laughing.  EvA  sits 
reluctantly  under  apple  tree.  Steer 
enters  smoking,  sits  by  Eva. 

Dance. 


ACT   II. 

Five  years  have  elapsed  between  Acts 
I.  and  II. 

SCENE.  —  A  Meadow.  On  one  side 
A  Pathway  going  over  a  rustic 
Bridge.  At  back  the  Farmhouse 
AMONG  Trees.  In  the  distance  a 
Church  Spire. 

Dobson  and  Dora. 

Dobson.  So  the  owd  uncle  i'  Coom- 
berland  be  dead.  Miss  Dora,  beant  he? 

Dora.  Yes,  Mr.  Dobson,  I've  been 
attending  on  his  deathbed  and  his  burial. 

Dobson.  It  be  five  year  sin'  ye  went 
afoor  to  him,  and  it  seems  to  me  nobbut 
t'other  day.     Hesn't  he  left  ye  nowt? 

Dora.     No,  Mr.  Dobson. 

Dobson.  But  he  were  mighty  fond  o' 
ye,  warn't  he? 

Dora.  Fonder  of  poor  Eva  —  like 
everybody  else. 

Dobson  {haiiding  Dora  basket  of  roses) . 
Not  like  me.  Miss  Dora;  and  I  ha' 
browt  these  roses  to  ye  ■ —  I  forgits  what 
they  calls  'em,  but  I  hallus  gi'ed  soom 
on  'em  to  Miss  Eva  at  this  time  o'  year. 
Will  ya  taake  'em?  fur  Miss  Eva,  she 
set  the  bush  l:)y  my  dairy  winder  afoor 
she  went  to  school  at  Littlechester  —  so 
I  alius  browt  soom  on  'em  to  her;  and 
now  she  be  gone,  will  ye  taake  'em,  Miss 
Dora? 

Dora.  I  thank  you.  They  tell  me 
that  yesterday  you  mentioned  her  name 
too  suddenly  before  my  father.  See  that 
you  do  not  do  so  again  ! 

Dobson.  Noa;  I  knaws  a  deal  better 
now.     I  seed  how  the  owd  man  wurvext. 

Dora.  I  take  them,  then,  for  Eva's 
sake. 

[  I'akes  basket,  places  some  in  her  dress. 

Dobson.  Eva's  saake.  Yeas.  Poor 
gel,  poor  gel !  I  can't  abear  to  think  on 
'er  now,  fur  I'd  ha'  done  owt  fur  'er  my- 
sen;  an'  ony  o'  Steer's  men,  an'  ony  o' 
my  men  'ud  ha'  done  owt  fur  'er,  an'  all 
the  parish  'ud  ha'  done  owt  fur  'er,  fur 
we  was  all  on  us  proud  on  'er,  an'  them 
theer  be  soom  of  her  oan  roses,  an'  she 
wur  as  sweet  as  ony  on  'em  — the  Lord 


ACT   II. 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


765 


bless  'er  —  'er  oan  sen;  an'  weiint  ye 
taake  'em  now,  Miss  Dora,  fur  'er  saake 
an'  fur  my  saake  an'  all? 

Dora.     Do  you  want  them  back  again  ? 

Dobson.  Noa,  noa !  Keep  'em.  But 
I  hed  a  word  to  saay  to  ye. 

Dora.  Why,  Farmer,  you  should  be 
in  the  hayfield  looking  after  your  men; 
you  couldn't  have  more  splendid  weather. 

Dobsoji.  I  be  a-going  theer;  but  I 
thowt  I'd  bring  tha  them  roses  fust.  The 
weather's  well  anew,  but  the  glass  be  a 
bit  shaaky.     S'iver  we've  led  moast  on  it. 

Dora.  Ay  !  but  you  must  not  be  too 
sudden  with  it  either,  as  you  were  last 
year,  when  you  put  it  in  green,  and  your 
stack  caught  tire. 

Dobson.  I  were  insured.  Miss,  an'  I 
lost  nowt  by  it.  But  I  weant  be  too 
sudden  wi'  it;  and  I  feel  sewer,  Miss 
Dora,  that  I  ha'  been  noan  too  sudden 
wi'  you,  fur  I  ha'  sarved  for  ye  well  nigh 
as  long  as  the  man  sarved  for  'is  sweet'art 
i'  Scriptur'.  Weant  ye  gi'e  me  a  kind 
answer  at  last? 

Dora.  I  have  no  thought  of  marriage, 
ray  friend.  We  have  been  in  such  grief 
these  five  years,  not  only  on  my  sister's 
account,  but  the  ill  success  of  the  farm, 
and  the  debts,  and  my  father's  breaking 
down,  and  his  blindness.  How  could  I 
think  of  leaving  him? 

Dobson.  Eh,  but  I  be  well  to  do; 
and  if  ye  would  nobbut  hev  me,  I  would 
taake  the  owd  blind  man  to  my  oan  fire- 
side.    You  should  hev  him  alius  wi'  ye. 

Dora.  You  are  generous,  but  it  can- 
not be.  I  cannot  love  you  ;  nay,  I  think 
I  never  can  be  brought  to  love  any  man. 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  hate  men,  ever 
since  my  sister  left  us.  Oh,  see  here. 
{Ptills  out  a  letter.^  I  wear  it  next  my 
heart.  Poor  sister,  I  had  it  five  years 
ago.  *  Dearest  Dora,  —  I  have  lost  my- 
self, and  am  lost  for  ever  to  you  and  my 
poor  father.  I  thought  Mr.  Edgar  the 
best  of  men,  and  he  has  proved  himself 
the  worst.  Seek  not  for  me,  or  you  may 
find  me  at  the  bottom  of  the  river.  —  Eva.' 

Dobson.     Be  that  my  fault? 

Dora.  No;  but  how  should  I,  with 
this  grief  still  at  my  heart,  take  to  the 
milking  of  your  cows,  the  fatting  of  your 


calves,   the  making  of  your  butter,  and 
the  managing  of  your  poultry? 

Dobson.  Naay,  but  I  hev  an  owd 
woman  as  'ud  see  to  all  that;  and  you 
should  sit  i'  your  oan  parlour  quite  like  a 
laady,  ye  should ! 

Dora.     It  cannot  be. 

Dobson.  An'  plaay  the  planner,  if  ye 
liked,  all  daay  long,  like  a  laady,  ye 
should  an'  all. 

Dora.     It  cannot  be. 

Debson.  And  I  would  loove  tha  moor 
nor  ony  gentleman  'ud  loove  tha. 

Dora.     No,  no  ;   it  cannot  be. 

Dobson.  And  p'raps  ye  hears  'at  I 
soomtimes  taakes  a  drop  too  much;  but 
that  be  all  along  o'  you,  Miss,  because 
ye  weant  hev  me;  but,  if  ye  would,  I 
could  put  all  that  o'  one  side  easy  anew. 

Dora.  Cannot  you  understand  plain 
words,  Mr.  Dobson?  I  tell  you,  it  can- 
not be. 

Dobson.  Eh  lass  !  Thy  feyther  eddi- 
cated  his  darters  to  marry  gentlefoalk, 
and  see  what's  coomed  on  it. 

Dora.  That  is  enough.  Farmer  Dob- 
son. You  have  shown  me  that,  though 
fortune  had  homyoti  into  the  estate  of  a 
gentleman,  you  would  still  have  been 
Farmer  Dobson.  You  had  better  attend 
to  your  hayfield.     Good  afternoon. 

\^Exit. 

Dobson.  '  Farmer  Dobson  ! '  Well, 
I  be  Farmer  Dobson;  but  I  thinks 
Farmer  Dobson's  dog  'ud  ha'  knaw'd 
better  nor  to  cast  her  sister's  misfortin 
inter  'er  teeth  arter  she'd  been  a-readin' 
me  the  letter  wi'  'er  voice  a-shaakin',  and 
the  drop  in  'er  eye.  Theer  she  goas ! 
Shall  I  foller  'er  and  ax  'er  to  maake  it 
up?  Noa,  not  yet.  Let  'er  cool  upon 
it;  I  likes  'er  all  the  better  fur  taakin' 
me  down,  like  a  laady,  as  she  be. 
Farmer  Dobson  !  I  be  Farmer  Dobson, 
sewer  anew;  but  if  iver  I  cooms  upo' 
Gentleman  Hedgar  agean,  and  doant 
laay  my  cartwhip  athurt  'is  shou'ders, 
why  then  I  beant  Farmer  Dobson,  but 
summun  else  —  blaame't  if  I  beant ! 

Enter  Haymakers  with  a  load  of  hay. 

The  last  on  it,  eh? 
\st  Haymaker.     Yeas. 


766 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


ACT   11, 


Dobson.     Iluam  \vi'  it,  then. 

\^Exit  stiriiiv. 

1st  Haymaker.  Well,  it  be  the  last 
load  ho  am. 

2nd  Haytnaker.  Yeas,  an'  owd  Dob- 
son  should  be  glad  on  it.  What  maakes 
'im  alius  sa  glum? 

Sally  Allen.  Glum  !  he  be  wuss  nor 
glum.  He  coom'd  up  to  me  yisterdaay 
i'  the  haayfield,  when  mea  and  my 
sweet'art  was  a-working  along  o'  one 
side  wi'  one  another,  and  he  sent  'im 
awaay  to  t'other  end  o'  the  field;  and 
when  I  axed  'im  why,  he  telled  me  'at 
svveet'arts  niver  worked  well  togither; 
and  I  telled  Hvi  'at  sweet'arts  alius 
worked  best  togither;  and  then  he 
called  me  a  rude  naame,  and  I  can't 
abide  'im. 

James.  Why,  lass,  doant  tha  knaw  he 
be  sweet  upo'  Dora  Steer,  and  she  weant 
sa  much  as  look  at  'im?  And  wheniver 
'e  sees  two  sweet'arts  togither  like  thou 
and  me,  Sally,  he  be  fit  to  bust  hissen  wi' 
spites  and  jalousies. 

Sally.  Let  'im  bust  hissen,  then,  for 
owt  /  cares. 

\st  Haymaker.  Well  but,  as  I  said 
afoor,  it  be  the  last  load  hoam;  do  thou 
and  thy  sweet'art  sing  us  hoam  to  supper 
—  'The  Last  Load  Hoam.' 

All.     Ay!     'The  Last  Load  Hoam.' 

Song. 

W^hat  did  ye  do,  and  what  did  ye  saay, 
Wi'  the  wild  white  rose,  an'  the  wood- 
bine sa  gaay, 
An'  the  midders  all  mow'd,  an'  the  sky 

sa  blue  — 
What  did  ye  saay,  and  what  did  ye  do, 
When   ye    thovvt    there    were    nawbody 

watchin'  o'  you, 
And  you  an'  your  Sally  was  forkin'  the 
haay. 
At  the  end  of  the  daay, 
For  the  last  load  hoam? 

What  did  we  do,  and  what  did  we  saay, 
Wi'  the  briar  sa  green,  an'  the  wilier  sa 

graay, 
An'  the  midders  all  mow'd,  an'  the  sky 

sa  blue  — 
Do  ye  think  I  be  gawin'  to  tell  it  to  you, 


What  we  mowt  saay,  and  what  we  mowt 

do. 
When  me  an'  my  Sally  was  forkin'  the 
haay, 
At  the  end  of  the  daay, 
Lor  the  last  load  hoam? 

But  what  (lid  ye  saay,  and  what  did  ye  do, 
Wi'  the  butterflies  out,  and  the  swallers 

at  plaay. 
An'  the  midders  all  mow'd,  an'  the  sky 

sa  blue? 
Why,  coom  then,  owd  feller,  I'll  tell  it  to 

you; 
For  me  an'  my  Sally  we  swear'd  to  be 

true. 
To  be  true  to  each  other,  let  'appen  what 

maay. 
Till  the  end  of  the  daay 
And  the  last  load  hoam. 

All.     Well  sung ! 

James.  Fanny  be  the  naame  i'  the 
song,  but  I  swopt  it  fur  she. 

\_Poijiting  to  Sally. 

^ally.  Let  ma  aloan  afoor  foalk,  wilt 
tha? 

1st  Haymaker.  Ye  shall  sing  that 
agean  to-night,  fur  owd  Dobson'U  gi'e  us 
a  bit  o'  supper. 

Sally.  I  weant  goa  to  owd  Dobson; 
he  wur  rude  to  me  i'  tha  haayfield,  and 
he'll  be  rude  to  me  agean  to-night.  Owd 
Steer's  gotten  all  his  grass  down  and 
wants  a  hand,  and  I'll  goa  to  him. 

1st  Haymaker.  Owd  Steer  gi'es  nub- 
but  cowd  tea  to  Us  men,  and  owd  Dob- 
son gi'es  beer. 

Sally.  But  I'd  like  owd  Steer's  cowd 
tea  better  nor  Dobson's  beer.     Good-bye. 

[  Going. 

James.     Gi'e  us  a  buss  fust,  lass. 

Sally.     I  telled  tha  to  let  ma  aloan  ! 

James.  Why,  wasn't  thou  and  me 
a-bussin'  o'  one  another  t'other  side  o' 
the  haaycock,  when  owd  Dobson  coom'd 
upo'  us?  I  can't  let  tha  aloiin  if  I 
would,  Sally.  \^Offering  to  kiss  her. 

Sally.     Git  along  wi'  ye,  do  !       [^Exit. 
\_All  laugh  ;  exeunt  sifjging. 

'  To  be   true  to   each    other,  let   'appen 
what  maiiy, 


ACT   II. 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


767 


Till  the  end  o'  the  daay 
An'  the  last  load  hoam.' 

Elite?-  Harold. 

Harold.     Not  Harold  !     '  Philip  Edgar, 

Philip  Edgar !  ' 
Her  phantom  call'd  me  by  the  name  she 

loved. 
I  told  her  I  should   hear  her  from  the 

grave. 
Ay !    yonder    is    her    casement.      I    re- 
member 
Her  bright  face  beaming  starlike  down 

upon  me 
Thro'  that  rich  cloud  of  blossom.     Since 

I  left  her 
Here  weeping,  I  have  ranged  the  world, 

and  sat 
Thro'  every  sensual  course  of  that   full 

feast 
That  leaves  but  emptiness. 

Song. 

'To  be  true  to   each   other,  let  'appen 
what  maay, 
To  the  end  o'  the  daay 
An'  the  last  load  hoam.' 

Harold.     Poor   Eva !     O  my  God,   if 

man  be  only 
A  willy-nilly  current  of  sensations  — 
Reaction  needs  must  follow  revel  — yet  — 
Why  feel  remorse,  he,  knowing  that  he 

7nust  have 
Moved  in  the  iron  grooves  of  Destiny? 
Remorse  then  is  a  part  of  Destiny, 
Nature  a  liar,  making  us  feel  guilty 
Of  her  own  faults. 

My  grandfather  —  of  him 
They  say,  that  women  — 

O  this  mortal  house. 
Which  we  are  born  into,  is  haunted  by 
The  ghosts  of  the  dead  passions  of  dead 

men; 
And  these  take  flesh  again  with  our  own 

flesh. 
And  bring  us  to  confusion. 

He  was  only 
A  poor  philosopher  who  call'd  the  mind 
Of  children  a  blank  page,  a  tabula  rasa. 
There,  there,  is  written  in  invisible  inks 
*  Lust,    Prodigality,   Covetousness,   Craft, 


Cowardice,  Murder'  —  and  the  heat  and 

fire 
Of  life  will   bring  them   out,  and   black 

enough. 
So  the   child  grow  to  manhood:  better 

death 
With  our  first  wail  than  life  — 

Song  (^further  off). 

'Till  the  end  o'  the  daay 
An'  the  last  load  hoam, 
Load  hoam.' 

This  bridge  again  !     {Steps  on  the  triage.) 

How  often  have  I  stood 

With  Eva  here  !     The  brook  among  its 

flowers ! 
Forget-me-not,     meadowsweet,     willow- 
herb. 
I  had  some  smattering  of  science  then, 
Taught  her  the  learned  names,  anatomised 
The  flowers  for  her  —  and  now  I  only  wish 
This    pool    were    deep    enough,   that    I 

might  plunge 
And  lose  myself  for  ever. 

Enter  Dan  Smith  {singing). 

Gee  oop  !  whoa  !     Gee  oop  !  whoa  ! 
Scizzars  an'  Pumpy  was  good  uns  to  goa 
Thruf  slush  an'  squad 
When  roads  was  bad. 
But  hallus  'ud  stop  at  the  Vine-an'-the- 
Hop, 
Fur  boath  on  'em  knawed  as  well  as 

mysen 
That  beer    be   as  good    fur    'erses    as 

men. 
Gee    oop  !    whoa  I     Gee   oop  !    whoa  ! 
Scizzars   an'    Pumpy   was    good  uns   to 
goa. 

The  beer's  gotten  oop  into  my  'ead. 
S'iver  I  mun  git  along  back  to  the  farm, 
fur  she  telled  ma  to  taake  the  cart  to 
Littlechester. 

Enter  Dora. 

Half  an  hour  late  I  why  are  you  loiter- 
ing here?     Away  with  you  at  once. 

\_Exit  Dan  Smith. 
{Seeing  Harold  on  bridge.) 

Some  madman,  is  it, 


768 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


ACT   II. 


Gesticulating  there  upon  the  bridge? 
I  am  half  afraid  to  pass. 

Harold.  Sometimes  I  wonder, 

When  man  has  surely  learnt  at  last  that 

all 
His  old-world  faith,  the  blossom  of  his 

youth, 
Has  faded,  falling  fruitless  —  whether  then 
All  of  us,  all  at  once,  may  not  be  seized 
With  some  fierce  passion,  not  so  much 

for  Death 
As  against  Life  !  all,  all,  into  the  dark  — 
No  more  !  — and  science  now  could  drug 

and  balm  us 
Back  into  nescience  with  as  little  pain 
As  it  is  to  fall  asleep. 

This  beggarly  life, 
This  poor,  flat,  hedged-in  field  —  no  dis- 
tance—  this 
Hollow  Pandora-box, 
With  all  the  pleasures  flown,  not  even 

Hope 
Left  at  the  bottom  ! 

Superstitious  fool. 
What    brought   me   here?     To    see    her 

grave?  her  ghost? 
Her  ghost  is  everyway  about  me  here. 
Dora   {coming  forivard).     Allow  me, 

sir,  to  pass  you. 
Harold.  Eva ! 

Dora.  Eva ! 

Harold.     What  are  you?     Where  do 

you  come  from? 
Dora.  From  the  farm 

Here,  close  at  hand. 

Harold.         Are  you  —  you  are  —  that 
Dora, 
The  sister.     I  have  heard  of  you.     The 

likeness 
Is  very  striking. 

Dora.  You  knew  Eva,  then? 

Harold.     Yes  —  I  was  thinking  of  her 
when  —  Oh  yes, 
Many  years  back,  and  never  since  have 

met 
Her  equal  for  pure  innocence  of  nature, 
And  loveliness  of  feature. 

Dora.  No,  nor  L 

Harold.     Except,  indeed,  I  have  found 
it  once  again 
In  your  own  self. 

Dora.     You    flatter     me.     Dear    Eva 
Was  always  thought  the  prettier. 


Harold.  And  her  charm 

Of  voice  is  also  yours;    and  I  was  brood- 
ing 
Upon    a   great   unhappiness   when    you 
spoke. 
Dora.     Indeed,  you  seem'd  in  trouble, 

sir. 
Harold.     And  you 
Seem  my  good  angel  who  may  help  me 
from  it. 
Dora.    {Aside.')     How  worn  he  looks, 
poor  man  !   who  is  it,  I  wonder. 
How  can  I  help  him?     {Alotid.')     Might 
I  ask  your  name? 
Harold.     Harold. 

Dora.     I  never  heard  her  mention  you. 
Harold.     I  met  her  first  at  a  farm  in 
Cumberland  — 
Her  uncle's. 

Dora.         She  was  there  six  years  ago. 
Harold.     And  if  she  never  mention'd 
me,  perhaps 
The     painful     circumstances     which    I 

heard  — 
I  will  not  vex  you  by  repeating  them  — 
Only  last  week  at  Littlechester,  drove  me 
From    out   her   memory.     She   has  dis- 

appear'd, 
They   told     me,    from    the    farm  —  and 
darker  news. 
Dora.     She     has     disappear'd,     poor 
darling,  from  the  world  — 
Left  but  one  dreadful  line  to  say,  that  we 
Should    find   her  in  the  river;   and  we 

dragg'd 
The  Littlechester  river  all  in  vain : 
Have  sorrow'd  for  her  all  these  years  in 

vain. 
And  my  poor  father,  utterly  broken  down 
By   losing   her  —  she    was    his   favourite 

child  — 
Has  let  his  farm,  all  his  affairs,  I  fear. 
But  for  the  slender  help  that  I  can  give, 
Fall  into  ruin.     Ah  !  that  villain,  Edgar, 
If  he  should  ever  show  his  face  among  us, 
Our  men  and  boys  would  hoot  him,  stone 

him,  hunt  him 
With    pitchforks  off  the  farm,  for  all  of 

them 
Loved  her,   and  she  was  worthy  of  all 
love. 
Harold.     They  say,  we  should  forgive 
our  enemies. 


ACT   II. 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MA  Y. 


769 


Dora.     Ay,  if  the  wretch  were  dead  I 
might  forgive  him; 
We    know    not   whether  he   be  dead  or 
living. 
Harold.     What  Edgar? 
Dora.  Philip  Edgar  of  Toft  Hall 

In  Somerset.     Perhaps  you  know  him? 

Harold.  Slightly. 

(^Aside.^     Ay,    for    how    slightly  have  I 
known  myself. 
Dora.     This  Edgar,  then,  is  living? 
Harold.  Living?  well  — 

One  Philip  Edgar  of  Toft  Hall  in  Som- 
erset 
Is  lately  dead. 

Dora.     Dead  !  —  is  there  more   than 

one? 
Harold.     Nay — now — not  one,  {aside) 

for  I  am  Philip  Harold. 
Dora.     That  one,  is  he  then  —  dead  ! 
Harold.     {Aside.)     My  father's  death, 
Let  her   believe  it  mine;   this,    for   the 

moment, 
Will  leave  me  a  free  field. 

Dora.  Dead !   and   this  world 

Is  brighter  for  his  absence  as  that  other 
Is  darker  for  his  presence. 

Harold.  Is  not  this 

To  speak  too  pitilessly  of  the  dead? 
Dora.     My    five-years'    anger   cannot 
die  at  once. 
Not  all  at  once  with  death  and  him.     I 

trust 
I    shall    forgive    him  —  by-and-by  —  not 

now. 
O  sir,  you  seem  to  have  a  heart;   if  you 
Had  seen  us  that  wild  morning  when  we 

found 
Her   bed   unslept   in,  storm  and  shower 

lashing 
Her  casement,  her  poor  spaniel  wailing 

for  Jier, 
That    desolate    letter,    blotted  with    her 

tears. 
Which  told  us  we  should  never  see  her 

more  — 
Our    old  nurse  crying  as  if  for  her  own 

child, 
My  father  stricken  with  his  first  paralysis, 
And  then  with  blindness  —  had  you  been 

one  of  us 
And  seen  all  this,  then  you  would  know 
it  is  not 

3D 


So  easy  to  forgive  —  even  the  dead. 
Harold.     But  sure  am  I  that  of  your 

gentleness 
You  will  forgive  him.     She,  you  mourn 

for,  seem'd 
A  miracle  of  gentleness  —  would  not  blur 
A  moth's  wing  by  the  touching ;  would 

not  crush 
The  fly  that  drew  her  blood;   and,  were 

she  living, 
Would  not  —  if  penitent  —  have  denied 

him  her 
Forgiveness.       And    perhaps    the    man 

himself. 
When  hearing  of  that  piteous  death,  has 

suffer'd 
More    than   we   know.      But   wherefore 

waste  your  heart 
In  looking  on  a  chill  and  changeless  Past  ? 
Iron  will  fuse,  and  marble  melt;  the  Past 
Remains  the   Past.     But  you  are  young, 

and  —  pardon  me  — 
As  lovely  as  your  sister.     Who  can  tell 
What  golden  hours,  with  what  full  hands, 

may  be 
Waiting  you  in  the  distance?     Might  I 

call 
Upon    your  father  —  I    have    seen    the 

world  — 
And  cheer  his  blindness  with  a  traveller's 

tales? 
Dora.     Call  if  you  will,  and  when  you 

will.     I  cannot 
Well  answer  for  my  father;   but  if  you 
Can  tell  me  anything  of  our  sweet  Eva 
When  in  her  brighter  girlhood,  I  at  least 
Will  bid  you  welcome,  and  will  listen  to 

you. 
Now  I  must  go. 

Harold.     But  give  me  first  your  hand  : 
I    do    not    dare,  like  an    old    friend,  to 

shake  it. 
I  kiss  it  as  a  prelude  to  that  privilege 
When  you  shall  know  me  better. 

Dora.  {Aside.)     How  beautiful 

His  manners  are,  and  how   unlike    the 

farmer's ! 
You  are  staying  here  ? 

Harold.  Yes,  at  the  wayside  inn 

Close  by  that  alder-island  in  your  brook, 
'The  Angler's  Home.' 

Dora.  Art  you  one.1 

Harold.  No,  but  I 


770 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


ACT    II. 


Take  some  delight  in  sketching,  and  the 

country 
Has  many  charms,  altho'  the  inhabitants 
Seem  semi-barbarous. 

Dora.  I  am  glad  it  pleases  you; 

Vet    I,    born    here,    not    only    love    the 

country, 
But  its  inhabitants  too;  and  you,  I  doubt 

not, 
Would   take   to  them  as    kindly,  if  you 

cared 
To  live  some  time  among  them. 

Harold.  If  I  did. 

Then  one  at  least  of  its  inhabitants 
Might  have  more  charm  for  me  than  all 
the  country. 
Dora.     That    one,     then,    should    be 

grateful  for  your  preference. 
Harold.     I   cannot  tell,  tho'  standing 
in  her  presence. 
{Aside.)     She  colours  ! 
Dora.  Sir ! 

Harold.  Be  not  afraid  of  me. 

For  these  are  no  conventional  flourishes. 
I  do  most  earnestly  assure  you  that 

Your  likeness 

\_Shoiits  and  cries  without. 
Dora.     What    was    that?      my    poor 
blind  father 

Enter  Farming  Man. 

Farming  Man.  Miss  Dora,  Dan 
Smith's  cart  hes  runned  ower  a  laady  i' 
the  holler  laane,  and  they  ha'  ta'en  the 
body  up  inter  your  chaumber,  and  they 
be  all  a-callin'  for  ye. 

Dora.  The  body  !  —  Heavens  !  I  come  ! 

Harold.  But  you  are  trembling. 

Allow  me  to  go  with  you  to  the  farm. 

S^ExeiDit. 

Enter  DoBSON. 

Dobson.  What  feller  wur  it  as  'a'  been 
a-talkin'  fur  haafe  an  hour  wi'  my  Dora? 
{Looking  after  him.)  Seeams  I  ommost 
knaws  the  back  on  'im  —  drest  like  a 
gentleman,  too.  Damn  all  gentlemen, 
says  I !  I  should  ha'  thowt  they'd  hed 
anew  o'  gentlefoiik,  as  I  telled  'er  to-daiiy 
when  she  fell  foul  upo'  me. 

Minds  ma  o'  summun.  I  could  swear 
to  that;  but  that  be  all  one,  fur  I  haates 
'im  afoor  I  knaws  what  'e  be.     Theer ! 


he  turns  round.  Philip  Hedgar  o' 
Soomerset !  Philip  Hedgar  o'  Soomer- 
set !  —  Noa  - — •  yeas  —  thaw  the  feller's 
gone  and  maade  such  a  litter  of  his  faace. 
Eh  lad,  if  it  be  thou,  I'll  Philip  tha ! 
a-plaayin'  the  saame  gaame  wi'  my  Dora 
—  I'll  Soomerset  tha. 

I'd  like  to  drag  'im  thruf  the  herse- 
pond,  and  she  to  be  a-lookin'  at  it.  I'd 
like  to  leather  'im  black  and  blue,  and 
she  to  be  a-laughin'  at  it.  I'd  like  to 
fell  'im  as  dead  as  a  bullock  !  (  Clench- 
ing his  fist.) 

But  what  'ud  she  saay  to  that?  She 
telled  me  once  not  to  meddle  wi'  'im,  and 
now  she  be  fallen  out  wi'  ma,  and  I  can't 
coom  at  'er. 

It  mun  be  him.  Noa !  Fur  she'd 
niver  'a'  been  talkin'  haafe  an  hour  wi' 
the  divil  'at  killed  her  ocin  sister,  or  she 
beant  Dora  Steer. 

Yeas !  Fur  she  niver  knawed  'is  faace 
when  'e  wur  'ere  afoor;  but  I'll  maake 
'er  knaw  !     I'll  maake  'er  knaw  ! 

Enter  HAROLD. 

Naay,  but  I  mun  git  out  on  'is  waay 
now,  or  I  shall  be  the  death  on  'im. 

{Exit. 
Harold.     How   the    clown   glared    at 

me  !   that  Dobbins,  is  it. 
With  whom  I  used  to  jar?    but  can  he 

trace  me 
Thro'  five  years'  absence,  and  my  change 

of  name. 
The  tan  of  southern    summers  and  the 

beard? 
I  may  as  well  avoid  him. 

Ladylike ! 
Lilylike  in  her  stateliness  and  sweetness ! 
How  came  she  by  it?  —  a  daughter    of 

the  fields. 
This  Dora ! 
She  gave  her  hand,  unask'd,  at  the  farm 

gate; 
I    almost    think    she    half    return'd    the 

pressure 
Of  mine.     What,  I  that  held  the  orange 

blossom 
Dark  as  the  yew?   but    may  not    those, 

who  march 
Before  their  age,  turn  back  at  times,  and 

make 


ACT    II. 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


771 


Courtesy    to     custom?     and     now     the 

stronger  motive, 
Misnamed    free-will  —  the   crowd  would 

call  it  conscience  — 
Moves  me  —  to  what?     I  am  dreaming; 

for  the  past 
Look'd    thro'    the    present,    Eva's    eyes 

thro'  hers  — 
A  spell  upon  me  !     Surely  I  loved  Eva 
More  than  I  knew  I  or  is  it  but  the  past 
That   brightens   in   retiring?      Oh,    last 

night, 
Tired,  pacing   my  new  lands    at   Little- 

chester, 
I  dozed  upon  the  bridge,  and  the  black 

river 
Flow'd  thro'  my  dreams  —  if  dreams  they 

were.     She  rose 
From  the  foul  flood  and  pointed  toward 

the  farm, 
And  her  cry  rang  to  me  across  the  years, 
.'I  call  you,  Philip  Edgar,  Philip  Edgar  I 
Come,  you  will  set  all  right  again,  and 

father 
Will  not  die  miserable.'     I  could  make 

his  age 
A  comfort  to  him  —  so  be  more  at  peace 
With  mine  own  self.     Some  of  my  former 

friends 
W^ould   find  my  logic   faulty;    let  them. 

Colour 
Flows   thro'  my  life    again,  and  I  have 

lighted 
On  a  new  pleasure.     Anyhow  we  must 
Move  in  the  line  of  least  resistance  when 
The  stronger  motive  rules. 

But  she  hates  Edgar. 
May  not  this  Dobbins,  or  some  other,  spy 
Edgar    in    Harold?     Well  then,  I  must 

make  her 
Love  Harold  first,  and  then  she  will  for- 
give 
Edgar  for  Harold's  sake.     She  said  her- 
self 
She  would   forgive  him,  by-and-by,  not 

now  — 
For  her  own  sake  then,  if  not  for  mine  — 

not  now  — 
But  by-and-by. 

Enter  DoBSON  behind. 

Dobson.     By-and-by  —  eh,    lad,    dosta 
knaw  this  paaper?     Ye  dropt  it  upo'  the 


road.  'Philip  Edgar,  Esq.'  Ay,  you  be 
a  pretty  squire.  I  ha'  fun'  ye  out,  I  hev. 
Eh,  lad,  dosta  knaw  what  tha  means  wi' 
by-and-by?  p^ur  if  ye  be  goin'  to  sarve 
our  Dora  as  ye  sarved  our  Eva  —  then, 
by-and-by,  if  she  wejint  listen  to  me  when 
I  be  a-tryin'  to  saave  'er  —  if  she  weant 
—  look  to  thysen,  for,  by  the  Lord,  I'd 
think  na  moor  o'  maakin'  an  end  o'  tha 
nor  a  carrion  craw  —  noa  —  thaw  they 
hanged  ma  at  'Size  fur  it. 

Harold.     Dobbins,  I  think  ! 

Dobson.     I  beant  Dobbins. 

Harold.  Nor  am  I  Edgar,  my  good 
fellow. 

Dobson.  Tha  hes  1  What  hasta  been 
saayin'  to  my  Dora? 

Harold.  I  have  been  telling  her  of 
the  death  of  one  Philip  Edgar  of  Toft 
Hall,  Somerset. 

Dobson.     Tha  lies ! 

Harold  (^pulling  out  a  neivspaper') . 
Well,  my  man,  it  seems  that  you  can 
read.     Look  there  —  under  the  deaths. 

Dobson.  'O'  the  17th,  Philip  Edgar, 
o'  Toft  Hall,  Soomerset.'  How  coom 
thou  to  be  sa  like  'im,  then? 

Harold.  Naturally  enough;  for  I  am 
closely  related  to  the  dead  man's  family. 

Dobson.  An'  'ow  coom  thou  by  the 
letter  to  'im? 

Harold.  Naturally  again;  for  as  I 
used  to  transact  all  his  business  for  him, 
I  had  to  look  over  his  letters.  Now 
then,  see  these  (Jakes  out  letters').  Half 
a  score  of  them,  all  directed  to  me  — 
Harold. 

Dobson.  'Arold!  'Arold !  'Arold,  so 
they  be. 

Harold.  My  name  is  Harold  !  Good 
day,  Dobbins!  \^Exit. 

Dobson.  'Arold  I  The  feller's  clean 
daazed,  an'  maazed,  an'  maated,  an'  mud- 
dled ma.  Dead  !  It  mun  be  true,  fur  it 
wur  i'  print  as  black  as  owt.  Naay,  but 
'  Good  daay,  Dobbins.'  Why,  that  wur 
the  very  twang  on  'im.  Eh,  lad,  but 
whether  thou  be  Hedgar,  or  Hedgar's 
business  man,  thou  hesn't  naw  business 
'ere  wi'  viy  Dora,  as  I  knaws  on,  an' 
whether  thou  calls  thysen  Hedgar  or 
Harold,  if  thou  stick  to  she  I'll  stick  to 
thee  —  stick  to  tha  like  a  weasel   to    a 


772 


THE   PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


ACT    III. 


rabbit,  I  will.  Ay  !  and  I'd  like  to  shoot 
tha  like  a  rabbit  an'  all.  'Good  daay, 
Dobbins.'     Dang  tha ! 

ACT   III. 

SCENE.  —  A  Room  in  Steer's  House. 
Door  leading  into  Bedroom  at  the 

BACK. 

Dora  (^ringing  a  handbell).     Milly  ! 

Enter  Milly. 

Milly.  The  little  'ymn?  Yeas,  Miss; 
but  I  wur  so  ta'en  up  wi'  leadin'  the  owd 
man  about  all  the  blessed  murnin'  'at  I 
ha'  nobbut  larned  mysen  haafe  on  it. 

'  O  man,  forgive  thy  mortal  foe, 
Nor  ever  strike  him  blow  for  blow; 
For  all  the  souls  on  earth  that  live 
To  be  forgiven  must  forgive. 
Forgive  him  seventy  times  and  seven; 
For  all  the  blessed  souls  in  Heaven 
Are  both  forgivers  and  forgiven.' 

But  I'll  git  the  book  agean,  and  larn 
mysen  the  rest,  and  saay  it  to  ye  afoor 
dark;   ye  ringed  fur  that,  Miss,  didn't  ye? 

Dora.  No,  Milly;  but  if  the  farming 
men  be  come  for  their  wages,  to  send 
them  up  to  me. 

Milly.     Yeas,  Miss.  {Exit. 

Dora  (^sitting  at  desk  counting  money) . 
Enough  at  any  rate  for  the  present. 
(^Enter  Farming  Men.)  Good  afternoon, 
my  friends.  I  am  sorry  Mr.  Steer  still 
continues  too  unwell  to  attend  to  you, 
but  the  schoolmaster  looked  to  the  paying 
you  your  wages  when  I  was  away,  didn't 
he? 

Men.     Yeas;   and  thanks  to  ye. 

Dora.  Some  of  our  workmen  have 
left  us,  but  he  sent  me  an  alphabetical 
list  of  those  that  remain,  so,  Allen,  I  may 
as  well  begin  with  you. 

Allen  (with  his  hand  to  his  ear). 
Halfabitical !  Taake  one  o'  the  young 
'uns  fust,  Miss,  fur  I  be  a  bit  deaf,  and  I 
wur  hallus  scaared  by  a  big  word;  least- 
waays,  I  should  be  wi'  a  lawyer. 

Dora.  I  spoke  of  your  names,  Allen, 
as  they  are  arranged  here  {shows  book)  — 
according  to  their  first  letters. 


Allen.  Letters !  Yeas,  I  sees  now. 
Them  be  what  they  larns  the  childer'  at 
school,  but  I  were  burn  afoor  schoolin- 
time. 

Dora.  But,  Allen,  tho'  you  can't  read, 
you  could  whitewash  that  cottage  of  yours 
where  your  grandson  had  the  fever. 

Allen.     I'll  hev  it  done  o'  Monday. 

Dora.  Else  if  the  fever  spread,  the 
parish  will  have  to  thank  you  for  it. 

Allen.  Mea?  why,  it  be  the  Lord's 
doin',  noan  o'  mine;  d'ye  think  I'd  gi'Q 
'em  the  fever?  But  I  thanks  ye  all  the 
saame,  Miss.     (Takes  money.) 

Dora  (calling  out  najnes).  Higgins, 
Jackson,  Luscombe,  Nokes,  Oldham, 
Skipworth  !  (All  take  money.)  Did  you 
find  that  you  worked  at  all  the  worse 
upon  the  cold  tea  than  you  would  have 
done  upon  the  beer? 

Higgins.  Noa,  Miss;  we  worked  naw 
wuss  upo'  the  cowd  tea;  but  we'd  ha' 
work'd  better  upo'  the  beer. 

Dora.  Come,  come,  you  worked  well 
enough,  and  I  am  much  obliged  to  all 
of  you.  There's  for  you,  and  you,  and 
you.  Count  the  money  and  see  if  it's  all 
right. 

Men.  All  right,  Miss;  and  thank  ye 
kindly. 

{Exeunt    Luscombe,    Nokes,    Old- 
ham, Skipworth. 

Dora.  Dan  Smith,  my  father  and  I 
forgave  you  stealing  our  coals. 

[Dan  Smith  advances  to  Dora. 

Daft  Smith  (bellowing).  Whoy,  O 
lor.  Miss !  that  wur  sa  long  back,  and 
the  walls  sa  thin,  and  the  winders  brok- 
ken,  and  the  weather  sa  cowd,  and  my 
missus  a-gittin'  ower  'er  lyin'-in. 

Dora.  Didn't  I  say  that  we  had  for- 
given you?  But,  Dan  Smith,  they  tell 
me  that  you — and  you  have  six  children 
—  spent  all  your  last  Saturday's  wages  at 
the  ale-house;  that  you  were  stupid 
drunk  all  Sunday,  and  so  ill  in  conse- 
quence all  Monday  that  you  did  not 
come  into  the  hayfield.  Why  should  I 
pay  you  your  full  w-ages? 

Dan  Smith.  I  be  ready  to  taake  the 
pledge. 

Dora.  And  as  ready  to  break  it  again. 
Besides  it  was  you  that  were  driving  the 


ACT    III. 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MA  V. 


773 


cart  —  and  I  fear  you  were  tipsy  then, 
too  —  when  you  lamed  the  lady  in  the 
hollow  lane. 

Dan  Smith  {bellowing).  O  lor,  Miss! 
noa,  noa,  noa  !  Ye  sees  the  holler  laane 
be  hallus  sa  dark  i'  the  arternoon,  and 
wheere  the  big  eshtree  cuts  athurt  it,  it 
gi'es  a  turn  like,  and  'ow  should  I  see  to 
laame  the  laady,  and  mea  coomin'  along 
pretty  sharp  an'  all  ? 

Dora.  Well,  there  are  your  wages; 
the  next  time  you  waste  them  at  a  pot- 
house you  get  no  more  from  me.  {Exit 
Dan  Smith.)  Sally  Allen,  you  worked 
for  Mr.  Dobson,  didn't  you? 

Sally  {advancing).  Yeas,  Miss;  but 
he  wur  so  rough  wi'  ma,  I  couldn't 
abide  'im. 

Dora.  Why  should  he  be  rough  with 
you?  You  are  as  good  as  a  man  in  the 
hayfield.  What's  become  of  your 
brother? 

Sally.  'Listed  for  a  soadger,  Miss,  i' 
the  Queen's  Real  Hard  Tillery. 

Dora.  And  your  sweetheart  —  when 
are  you  and  he  to  be  married? 

Sally.  At  Michaelmas,  Miss,  please 
God. 

Dora.  You  are  an  honest  pair.  I 
will  come  to  your  wedding. 

Sally.  An'  I  thanks  ye  fur  that.  Miss, 
moor  nor  fur  the  waage. 

(  Going —  returns. )  'A  cotched  ma 
about  the  waaist,  Miss,  when  'e  wur  'ere 
afoor,  an'  axed  ma  to  be  'is  little  sweet- 
'art,  an  'soa  I  knaw'd  'im  when  I  seed 
'im  agean  an'  I  telled  feyther  on  'im. 

Dora.     What  is  all  this,  Allen? 

Allejt.  Why,  Miss  Dora,  mea  and 
my  maates,  us  three,  we  wants  to  hev 
three  words  wi'  ye. 

Higgins^     That  be  'im,  and  mea,  Miss. 

Jackson.     An'  mea,  Miss. 

Allen.  An'  we  weant  mention  naw 
naames,  we'd  as  lief  talk  o'  the  Divil 
afoor  ye  as  'im,  fur  they  says  the  master 
goas  clean  off  his  'ead  when  he  'ears  the 
naame  on  'im;  but  us  three,  arter  Sally'd 
telled  us  on  'im,  we  fun'  'im  out  a-walkin' 
i'  West  Field  wi'  a  white  'at,  nine  o'clock, 
upo'  Tuesday  murnin',  and  all  on  us,  wi' 
your  leave,  we  wants  to  leather  'im, 

Dora.     Who? 


Allen.  Him  as  did  the  mischief  here, 
five  year  sin'. 

Dora.     Mr.  Edgar? 

Allen.  Theer,  Miss  !  You  ha'  naamed 
'im  —  not  me. 

Dora.  He's  dead,  man  —  dead;  gone 
to  his  account  —  dead  and  buried. 

Allen.  I  beant  sa  sewer  o'  that,  fur 
Sally  knaw'd  'im.     Now  then? 

Dora.  Yes;  it  was  in  the  Somerset- 
shire papers. 

Allen.  Then  yon  mun  be  his  brother, 
an'  we'll  leather  Hm. 

Dora.  I  never  heard  that  he  had  a 
brother.  Some  foolish  mistake  of 
Sally's;  but  what!  would  you  beat  a 
man  for  his  brother's  fault?  That  were 
a  wild  justice  indeed.  Let  bygones  be 
bygones.  Go  home !  Good-night !  {All 
exeunt.)  I  have  once  more  paid  them 
all.  The  work  of  the  farm  will  go  on 
still,  but  for  how  long?  We  are  almost 
at  the  bottom  of  the  well :  little  more  to  be 
drawn  from  it  —  and  what  then  ?  Encum- 
bered as  we  are,  who  would  lend  us  any- 
thing? We  shall  have  to  sell  all  the 
land,  which  Father,  for  a  whole  life,  has 
been  getting  together,  again,  and  that,  I 
am  sure,  would  be  the  death  of  him. 
What  am  I  to  do?  Farmer  Dobson, 
were  I  to  marry  him,  has  promised  to 
keep  our  heads  above  water;  and  the 
man  has  doubtless  a  good  heart,  and  a 
true  and  lasting  love  for  me  :  yet  —  though 
I  can  be  sorry  for  him  —  as  the  good  Sally 
says,  '  I  can't  abide  him  '  —  almost  brutal, 
and  matched  with  my  Harold  is  like  a 
hedge  thistle  by  a  garden  rose.  But 
then,  he,  too  —  will  he  ever  be  of  one 
faith  with  his  wife?  which  is  my  dream 
of  a  true  marriage.  Can  I  fancy  him 
kneeling  with  me,  and  uttering  the  same 
prayer;  standing  up  side  by  side  with  me, 
and  singing  the  same  hymn?  I  fear  not. 
Have  I  done  wisely,  then,  in  accepting 
him?  But  may  not  a  girl's  love-dream 
have  too  much  romance  in  it  to  be  real- 
ised all  at  once,  or  altogether,  or  any- 
where but  in  Heaven?  And  yet  I  had 
once  a  vision  of  a  pure  and  perfect  mar- 
riage, where  the  man  and  the  woman, 
only  differing  as  the  stronger  and  the 
weaker,  should  walk  hand  in  hand    to- 


774 


THE  PROMISE    OF  A/AY. 


ACT   III. 


gether  down  this  valley  of  tears,  as  they 
call  it  so  truly,  to  the  grave  at  the  bottom, 
and  lie  down  there  together  in  the  dark- 
ness which  would  seem  but  for  a  moment, 
to  be  wakened  again  together  by  the  light 
of  the  resurrection,  and  no  more  part- 
ings for  ever  and  for  ever.  (  IValks  up 
and  doivn.     She  sings.^ 

'  O  happy  lark,  that  warblest  high 

Above  thy  lowly  nest, 
O  brook,  that  brawlest  merrily  by 

Thro'  fields  that  once  were  blest, 
O  tower  spiring  to  the  sky, 

O  graves  in  daisies  drest, 
O  Love  and  Life,  how  weary  am  I, 

And  how  I  long  for  rest.' 

There,  there,  I  am  a  fool !  Tears !  I 
have  sometimes  been  moved  to  tears  by 
a  chapter  of  fine  writing  in  a  novel;  but 
what  have  I  to  do  with  tears  now?  All 
depends  on  me —  Father,  this  poor  girl, 
the  farm,  everything;  and  they  both  love 
me  —  I  am  all  in  all  to  both;  and  he 
loves  me  too,  I  am  quite  sure  of  that. 
Courage,  courage !  and  all  will  go  well. 
(Goes  to  bedroom  door ;  opens  it.)  How 
dark  your  room  is !  Let  me  bring  you 
in  here  where  there  is  still  full  daylight. 
{Brings  Eva  forward^  Why,  you  look 
better. 

Eva.  And  I  feel  so  much  better,  that 
I  trust  I  may  be  able  by-and-by  to  help 
you  in  the  business  of  the  farm;  but  I 
must  not  be  known  yet.  Has  anyone 
found  me  out,  Dora? 

Dora,  Oh,  no;  you  kept  your  veil 
too  close  for  that  when  they  carried  you 
in;  since  then,  no  one  has  seen  you  but 
myself. 

Eva.     Yes  — this  Milly. 

Dora.  Poor  blind  Father's  little  guide, 
Milly,  who  came  to  us  three  years  after 
you  were  gone,  how  should  she  know  you? 
But  now  that  you  have  been  brought  to 
us  as  it  were  from  the  grave,  dearest  Eva, 
and  have  been  here  so  long,  will  you  not 
speak  with  I'^ather  to-day? 

E.va.  Do  you  think  that  I  may?  No, 
not  yet.      1  am  not  equal  to  it  yet. 

Dora.  Why?  Do  you  still  suffer 
from  your  fall  in  the  hollow  lane? 


Eva.     Bruised;    but  no  bones  broken. 

Dora.  I  have  always  told  Father  that 
the  huge  old  ashtree  there  would  cause 
an  accident  some  day;  but  he  would 
never  cut  it  down,  because  one  of  the 
Steers  had  planted  it  there  in  former  times. 

Eva.  If  it  had  killed  one  of  the  Steers 
there  the  other  day,  it  might  have  been 
better  for  her,  for  him,  and  for  you. 

Dora.  Come,  come,  keep  a  good 
heart !  Better  for  me !  That's  good. 
How  better  for  me? 

Eva.  You  tell  me  you  have  a  lover. 
Will  he  not  fly  from  you  if  he  learn  the 
story  of  my  shame  and  that  I  am  still 
living? 

Dora.  No;  I  am  sure  that  when  we 
are  married  he  will  be  willing  that  you 
and  Father  should  live  with  us;  for,  in- 
deed, he  tells  me  that  he  met  you  once  in 
the  old  times,  and  was  much  taken  with 
you,  my  dear. 

Eva.  Taken  with  me;  who  was  he? 
Have  you  told  him  I  am  here? 

Dora.     No;   do  you  wish  it? 

Eva.  See,  Dora;  you  yourself  are 
ashamed  of  me  (weeps'),  and  I  do  not 
wonder  at  it. 

Dora.  But  I  should  wonder  at  myself 
if  it  were  so.  Have  we  not  been  all  in 
all  to  one  another  from  the  time  when 
we  first  peeped  into  the  bird's  nest, 
waded  in  the  brook,  ran  after  the  butter- 
flies, and  prattled  to  each  other  that  we 
would  marry  fine  gentlemen,  and  played 
at  being  fine  ladies? 

Eva.  That  last  was  my  Father's  fault, 
poor  man.  And  this  lover  of  yours  — 
this  Mr.  Harold  —  is  a  gentleman? 

Dora.  That  he  is,  from  head  to  foot. 
I  do  believe  I  lost  my  heart  to  him  the 
very  first  time  we  met,  and  I  love  him  so 
much 

Eva.     Poor  Dora ! 

Dora.  That  I  dare  not  tell  him  how 
much  I  love  him. 

Eva.  Better  not.  Has  he  offered  you 
marriage,  this  gentleman? 

Dora.     Could  I  love  him  else? 

E.va.  And  are  you  quite  sure  that 
after  marriage  this  gentleman  will  not  be 
shamed  of  his  jioor  fanner's  daughter 
among  the  ladies  in  his  (U"awing-rooin? 


ACT    III. 


THE   PROMISE    OF  MA  V. 


775 


Dora.  Shamed  of  me  in  a  drawing- 
room !  Wasn't  Miss  Vavasour,  our 
schoolmistress  at  Littlechester,  a  lady 
born?  Were  not  our  fellow-pupils  all 
ladies?  Wasn't  dear  mother  herself  at 
least  by  one  side  a  lady?  Can't  I  speak 
like  a  lady;  pen  a  letter  like  a  lady;  talk 
a  little  French  like  a  lady;  play  a  little 
like  a  lady?  Can't  a  girl  when  she  loves 
her  husband,  and  he  her,  make  herself 
anything  he  wishes  her  to  be?  Shamed 
of  me  in  a  drawing-room,  indeed  !  See 
here  !  '  I  hope  your  Lordship  is  quite 
recovered  of  your  gout?'  (^Ctirtseys.) 
'  Will  your  Ladyship  ride  to  cover  to-day? 
(  Curtseys.^  I  can  recommend  our  Volti- 
geur.'  '  I  am  sorry  that  we  could  not 
attend  your  Grace's  party  on  the  loth  I  ' 
(^Curtseys.)  There,  I  am  glad  my  non- 
sense has  made  you  smile  I 

Eva.  I  have  heard  that  'your  Lord- 
ship,' and  '  your  Ladyship,'  and  '  your 
Grace  '  are  all  growing  old-fashioned  I 

Dora.  But  the  love  of  sister  for  sister 
can  never  be  old-fashioned.  I  have  been 
unwilling  to  trouble  you  with  questions, 
but  you  seem  somewhat  better  to-day. 
We  found  a  letter  in  your  bedroom  torn 
into  bits.  I  couldn't  make  it  out. 
W^hat  was  it? 

Eva.  From  him !  from  him !  He 
said  we  had  been  most  happy  together, 
and  he  trusted  that  sometime  we  should 
meet  again,  for  he  had  not  forgotten  his 
promise  to  come  when  I  called  him. 
But  that  was  a  mockery,  you  know,  for 
he  gave  me  no  address,  and  there  was 
no  word  of  marriage;  and,  O  Dora,  he 
signed  himself '  Yours  gratefully  '  —  fancy, 
Dora,  '  gratefully  '  I   '  Yours  gratefully  '  I 

Dora.  Infamous  wretch  I  (Asic/e.) 
Shall  I  tell  her  he  is  dead?  No;  she  is 
still  too  feeble. 

Eva.  Hark  !  Dora,  some  one  is  com- 
ing. I  cannot  and  I  will  not  see  any- 
body. 

Dora.     It  is  only  Milly. 

Enter  MiLLY  luith  basket  of  roses. 

Dora.  Well,  Milly,  why  do  you  come 
in  so  roughly  ?  The  sick  lady  here  might 
have  been  asleep. 

Milly.      Please,    Miss,    Mr.    Dobson 


telled  me  to  saay  he's  browt  some  of  Miss 
Elva's  roses  for  the  sick  laady  to  smell  on. 

Dora.  Take  them,  dear.  Say  that 
the  sick  lady  thanks  him  !     Is  he  here? 

Milly.  Yeas,  Miss;  and  he  wants  to 
speak  to  ye  partic'lar, 

Dora.  Tell  him  I  cannot  leave  the 
sick  lady  just  yet. 

Milly.  Yeas,  Miss;  but  he  says  he 
wants  to  tell  ye  summut  very  partic'lar. 

Dora.  Not  to-day.  What  are  you 
staying  for? 

Milly.  Why,  Miss,  I  be  afeard  I  shall 
set  him  a-swearing  like  onythink. 

Dora.  And  what  harm  will  that  do 
you,  so  that  you  do  not  copy  his  bad 
manners?  Go,  child.  {Exit  Milly.) 
But,  Eva,  why  did  you  write,  '  Seek  me  at 
the  bottom  of  the  river  '  ? 

Eva.  Why?  because  I  meant  it  I  — 
that  dreadful  night  I  that  lonely  walk  to 
Littlechester,  the  rain  beating  in  my  face 
all  the  way,  dead  midnight  when  I  came 
upon  the  bridge;  the  river,  black,  slimy, 
swirling  under  me  in  the  lamplight,  by 
the  rotten  wharfs  —  but  I  was  so  mad, 
that  I  mounted  upon  the  parapet 

Dora.     You  make  me  shudder  I 

Eva.  To  fling  myself  over,  when  I 
heard  a  voice,  '  Girl,  what  are  you  doing 
there?'  It  was  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  come 
from  the  death-bed  of  a  pauper,  who  had 
died  in  his  misery  blessing  God,  and  the 
Sister  took  me  to  her  house,  and  bit  by 
bit  —  for  she  promised  secrecy  —  I  told 
her  all. 

Dora.     And  what  then? 

Eva.  She  would  have  persuaded  me 
to  come  back  here,  but  I  couldn't. 
Then  she  got  me  a  place  as  nursery 
governess,  and  when  the  children  grew 
too  old  for  me,  and  I  asked  her  once 
more  to  help  me,  once  more  she  said, 
'  Go  home;'  but  I  hadn't  the  heart  or  face 
to  do  it.  And  then  —  what  would  Father 
say?  I  sank  so  low  that  I  went  into 
service  —  the  drudge  of  a  lodging-house 

—  and  when  the  mistress  died,  and  I 
appealed  to  the  Sister  again,  her  answer 

—  I  think  I  have  it  aljout  me  —  yes,  there 
it  is  : 

Dora  {reads).  'My  dear  Child,  —  I 
can  do  no  more  for  you.     I  have  done 


776 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MA  Y. 


ACT   III. 


wrong  in  keeping  your  secret ;  your  Father 
must  be  now  in  extreme  old  age.  Go 
back  to  him  and  ask  his  forgiveness  be- 
fore he  dies.  —  Sister  Agatha.'  Sister 
Agatha  is  right.  Don't  you  long  for 
Father's  forgiveness? 

Eva.     I  would  almost  die  to  have  it ! 

Dora.  And  he  may  die  before  he 
gives  it;  may  drop  off  any  day,  any  hour. 
You  must  see  him  at  once.  {^Rings  bell. 
Enter  Milly.)  Milly,  my  dear,  how  did 
you  leave  Mr.  Steer? 

Milly.  He's  been  a-moanin'  and  a- 
groanin'  in  'is  sleep,  but  I  thinks  he  be 
wakkenin'  oop. 

Dora.  Tell  him  that  I  and  the  lady 
here  wish  to  see  him.  You  see  she  is 
lamed,  and  cannot  go  down  to  him. 

Milly.     Yeas,  Miss,  I  will. 

{^Exit  Milly. 

Dora.  I  ought  to  prepare  you.  You 
must  not  expect  to  find  our  Father  as  he 
was  five  years  ago.  He  is  much  altered; 
but  I  trust  that  your  return  —  for  you 
know,  my  dear,  you  were  always  his 
favourite  —  will  give  him,  as  they  say,  a 
new  lease  of  life. 

Eva  (^clinging  to  Dora).  Oh,  Dora, 
Dora! 

Enter  Steer  led  by  Milly. 

Steer.     Has  the  cow  cawved? 

Dora.     No,  Father. 

Steer.     Be  the  colt  dead? 

Dora.     No,  father. 

Steer.  He  wur  sa  bellows'd  out  wi' 
the  wind  this  murnin',  'at  I  telled  'em  to 
gallop  'im.     Be  he  dead? 

Dora.     Not  that  I  know. 

Steer.  What  hasta  sent  fur  me,  then, 
fur? 

Dora  {taking  Steer's  ami).  Well, 
Father,  I  have  a  surprise  for  you. 

Steer.  I  ha'  niver  been  surprised  but 
once  i'  my  life,  and  I  went  blind  upon  it. 

Dora.     Eva  has  come  home. 

Steer.  Hoam?  fro'  the  bottom  o' the 
river? 

Dora.  No,  Father,  that  was  a  mis- 
take.    She's  here  again. 

Steer.  The  Steers  were  all  gentlefoalks 
i'  the  owd  times,  an'  I  worked  early  an' 
laate  to  maake  'em  all  gentlefoalks  agean. 


The  land  belonged  to  the  Steers  i'  the 
owd  times,  an'  it  belongs  to  the  Steers 
agean :  I  bowt  it  back  agean ;  but  I 
couldn't  buy  my  darter  back  agean  when 
she  lost  hersen,  could  I?  I  eddicated 
boath  on  'em  to  marry  gentlemen,  an'  one 
on  'em  went  an'  lost  hersen  i'  the  river. 

Dora.     No,  Father,  she's  here. 

Steer.  Here  !  she  moant  coom  here. 
What  would  her  mother  saay?  If  it  be 
her  ghoast,  we  mun  abide  it.  We  can't 
keep  a  ghuast  out. 

Eva  (Jailing  at  his  feet^ .  Oh,  forgive 
me  !  forgive  me  ! 

Steer.  Who  said  that?  Taake  me 
avvaay,  little  gell.  It  be  one  o'  my  bad 
daays.  \_Ejcit  Steer  led  by  Milly. 

Dora  {smoothing  Eva's  forehead') .  Be 
not  so  cast  down,  my  sweet  Eva.  You 
heard  him  say  it  was  one  of  his  bad  days. 
He  will  be  sure  to  know  you  to-morrow. 

Eva.  It  is  almost  the  last  of  my  bad 
days,  I  think.  I  am  very  faint.  I 
must  lie  down.  Give  me  your  arm. 
Lead  me  back  again. 

[Dora  takes  Eva  into  inner  room. 

Enter  Milly. 

Milly.     Miss  Dora  !   Miss  Dora  ! 

Dora  {returning  and  leaving  the  bed- 
room door  ajar).  Quiet;  quiet!  What 
is  it? 

Milly.     Mr.  'Arold,  Miss. 

Dora.     Below? 

Milly.  Yeas,  Miss.  He  be  saayin' 
a  \vord  to  the  owd  man,  but  he'll  coom 
up  if  ye  lets  'im. 

Dora.  Tell  him,  then,  that  I'm  wait- 
ing for  him. 

Milly.     Yeas,  Miss. 

\^Exit.     Dora  sits  pensively  and  waits. 

Enter  HAROLD. 

Harold.      You    are    pale,   my   Dora ! 

but  the  ruddiest  cheek 
That  ever  charm'd  the  plowman  of  your 

wolds 
Might  wish  its  rose  a  lily,  could  it  look 
But    half   as   lovely.      I    was    speaking 

with 
Your    father,  -asking  his  consent  —  you 

wish'd  me  — 


ACT   III. 


THE   PROMISE    OF  MA  Y. 


777 


That  we  should  marry  :   he  would  answer 

nothing, 
I  could  make  nothing  of  him;   but,  my 

flower, 
You  look  so  weary  and  so  worn !     What 

is  it 
Has  put  you  out  of  heart? 

Dora.  It  puts  me  in  heart 

Again  to  see  you;  but  indeed  the  state 
Of  my  poor  father  puts  me  out  of  heart. 
Is  yours  yet  living? 

Harold.  No  —  I  told  you. 

Dora.  When? 

Flarold.     Confusion  !  —  Ah  well,  well ! 
the  state  we  all 
Must  come  to  in  our  spring-and-winter 

world 
If  we  live  long  enough  !  and  poor  Steer 

looks 
The  very  type  of  Age  in  a  picture,  bow'd 
To  the  earth  he  came  from,  to  the  grave 

he  goes  to. 
Beneath  the  burthen  of  years. 

Dora.  More  like  the  picture 

Of  Christian  in  my  '  Pilgrim's  Progress ' 

here, 
Bow'd  to  the  dust  beneath  the  burthen 
of  sin. 
Harold.    Sin  !    What  sin  ? 
Dora.  Not  his  own. 

Harold.  That  nursery-tale 

Still  read,  then? 

Dora.  Yes;    our  carters   and 

our  shepherds 
Still  find  a  comfort  there. 

Harold.  Carters  and  shepherds  ! 

Dora.      Scorn !       I    hate    scorn.      A 
soul  with  no  religion  — 
My  mother  used  to  say  that  such  a  one 
Was  without  rudder,  anchor,  compass  — 

might  be 
Blown    everyway   with    every   gust   and 

wreck 
On  any  rock ;  and  tho'  you  are  good  and 
gentle, 

Yet  if  thro'  any  want 

Harold.  Of  this  religion? 

Child,  read  a  little  history,  you  will  find 
The   common   brotherhood  of  man  has 

been 
Wrong'd  by  the  cruelties  of  his  religions 
More  than  could  ever  have  happen'd  thro' 
the  want 


Of  any  or  all  of  them. 

Dora.  —  But,  O  dear  friend, 

If  thro'  the  want  of  any  —  I  mean  the  true 

one  — 
And  pardon  me  for  saying  it  —  you  should 

ever 
Be  tempted  into  doing  what  might  seem 
Not  altogether  worthy  of  you,  I  think 
That  I  should  break  my  heart,  for  you 

have  taught  me 
To  love  you. 

Harold.     What  is  this?  some  one  been 
stirring 
Against  me?  he,  your  rustic  amourist, 
The  polish'd  Damon  of  your  pastoral  here, 
This  Dobson  of  your  idyll  ? 

Dora.  No,  Sir,  no  ! 

Did  you  not  tell  me  he  was  crazed  with 

jealousy, 
Had  threaten'd  ev'n  your  life,  and  would 

say  anything? 
Did  /not  promise  not  to  listen  to  him. 
Nor  ev'n  to  see  the  man? 

Harold.  Good ;  then  what  is  it 

That  makes  you  talk  so  dolefully? 

Dora.  I  told  you  — 

My  father.     Well,  indeed,  a  friend  just 

now. 
One  that  has  been  much  wrong'd,  whose 

griefs  are  mine. 
Was  warning  me  that  if  a  gentleman 
Should   wed    a    farmer's    daughter,    he 

would  be 
Sooner  or  later  shamed  of  her  among 
The  ladies,  born  his  equals. 

Harold.  More  fool  he  ! 

What  I  that  have  been  call'd  a  Socialist, 
A    Communist,    a    Nihilist  —  what    you 

will ! 

Dora.     What  are  all  these? 
Harold.  Utopian  idiotcies. 

They   did    not    last   three   Junes.     Such 

rampant  weeds 
Strangle  each  other,  die,  and  make  the 

soil 
For  Caesars,  Cromwells,  and  Napoleons 
To  root  their  power  in.     I   have  freed 

myself 
From  all  such  dreams,  and  some  will  say 

because 
I  have  inherited  my  Uncle.     Let  them. 
But  —  shamed  of  you,  my  Empress !     I 
should  prize 


778 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


ACT    III. 


The  pearl  of  Beauty,  even  if  I  found  it 
Dark  with  the  soot  of  slums. 

Dora.  But  I  can  tell  you. 

We  Steers  are  of  old  blood,  tho'  we  be 

fallen. 
See  there  our  shield.     (^Pointing  to  arms 
on  mantelpiece?) 

For  I  have  heard  the  Steers 
Had  land  in  Saxon  times;   and  your  own 

name 
Of  Harold  sounds  so  English  and  so  old 
I  am  sure  you  must  be  proud  of  it. 

Harold.  Not  I ! 

As  yet  I  scarcely  feel  it  mine.     I  took  it 
For  some  three  thousand  acres.     I  have 

land  now 
And  wealth,  and  lay  both  at  your  feet. 

Dora.  And  ivhat  was 

Your  name  before? 

Harold.     Come,  come,  my  girl,  enough 
Of  this  strange  talk.     I  love  you  and  you 

me. 
True,  I  have  held  opinions,  hold  some  still, 
Which  you  would  scarce  approve  of:  for 

all  that, 
I  am  a  man  not  prone  to  jealousies. 
Caprices,    humours,    moods;      but    very 

ready 
To  make  allowances,  and  mighty  slow 
To  feel  offences.     Nay,  I  do  believe 
I  could  forgive  —  well,  almost  anything  — 
And  that  more  freely  than  your  formal 

priest. 
Because  I  know  more  fully  than  he  can 
What  poor  earthworms  are  all  and  each 

of  us, 
Here  crawling  in  this  boundless  Nature. 

Dora, 
If  marriage  ever  brought  a  woman  happi- 
ness 
I  doubt  not  I  can  make  you  happy. 

Dora.  You  make  me 

Happy  already. 

Harold.  And  I  never  said 

As  much  before  to  any  woman  living. 
Dora.     No  ? 

Harold.     No  !     by  this  true  kiss,  yoii 
are  the  first 
I  ever  have  loved  truly. 

[  They  kiss  each  other. 
Eva  (zvith  a  wild  cry).     Philip  Edgar  ! 
Harold.     The  phantom  cry!       Yon  — 
did  yoti  hear  a  cry  ? 


Dora.     She  must  be  crying  out '  Edgar ' 

in  her  sleep. 
Harold.     Who    must    be    crying   out 

'Edgar'  in  her  sleep? 
Dora.     Your    pardon    for    a    minute. 

She  must  be  waked. 
Harold.     Who  must  be  waked? 
Dora.     I  am  not  deaf:  you  fright  me. 
What  ails  you? 
Harold.     Speak. 

Dora.  You  know  her,  Eva. 

Harold.  Eva ! 

\^Eva  opens  the  door  and  stands  in  the  entry. 
She! 

Eva.     Make  her  happy,  then,  and   I 

forgive  you.  \_Falls  dead. 

Dora.     Happy!    What?     Edgar?     Is 

it  so?     Can  it  be? 

They  told  me  so.      Yes,  yes !      I  see  it 

all  now. 
Oh,  she  has  fainted.     Sister,  Eva,  sister ! 
He    is   yours   again  —  he  will   love  you 

again; 
I  give  him  back  to  you  again.     Look  up  ! 
One  word,  or  do  but  smile !     Sweet,  do 
you  hear  me? 

\_P2its  her  hand  on  Eva's  heart. 
There,  there  —  the  heart,  O  God!  —  the 

poor  young  heart 
Broken  at  last  —  all  still  —  and  nothing  left 
To  live  for. 

\_Falls  on  body  of  her  sister. 
Harold.  Living    .    .    .    dead    .    .    . 

She  said  '  all  still. 
Nothing  to  live  for.' 

She  —  she  knows  me  —  now  .  .  . 
(^A  pause.') 
She  knew  me  from  the  first,  she  juggled 

with  me, 
She  hid  this  sister,  told  me  she  was  dead  — 
I    have  wasted  pity  on    her — not  dead 

now  — 
No  !  acting,  playing  on  me,  both  of  them. 
They  drag  the  river    for   her !     no,  not 

they! 
Playing  on  me  —  not  dead  now  —  a  swoon 

—  a  scene  — 
Yet  —  how  she  made  her  wail  as  for  the 
dead  ! 


Enter  MiLLY. 

Milly.     Please,  Mister  'Arold. 
Harold  (^roughly). 


Well? 


ACT   III. 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


779 


Mill}'.     The  owd  man's  coom'd  agean 
to  'issen,  an'  wants 
To  hev  a  word  wi'  ye  about  the  marriage. 
Harold.     The  what? 
Mill}'.  The  marriage. 

Harold.  The  marriage? 

Mill}'.  Yeas,  the  marriage. 

Granny  says  marriages  be  maade  i'  'eaven. 
Harold.       She  lies !      They  are  made 
in  Hell.     Child,  can't  you  see? 
Tell  them  to  fly  for  a  doctor. 

Milly.  Oh,  law  —  yeas.  Sir! 

I'll  run  fur  'im  mysen,  \_Exit. 

Harold.  All  silent  there. 

Yes,   deathlike  I       Dead?       I   dare   not 

look :    if  dead, 
Were  it  best  to  steal  away,  to  spare  my- 
self, 
And  her  too,  pain,  pain,  pain? 

My  curse  on  all 
This  world  of  mud,  on  all  its  idiot  gleams 
Of  pleasure,  all  the  foul  fatalities 
That   blast    our    natural    passions    into 
pains ! 

Enter  DoBsON. 

Dobson.     You,  Master  Hedgar,  Harold, 
or  whativer 
They  calls  ye,  for  I  warrants  that  ye  goas 
By  haafe  a  scoor  o'  naames  —  out  o'  the 
chaumber. 

\_Dragging  him  past  the  body. 
Harold.     Not  that  way,  man !     Curse 
on  your  brutal  strength  ! 
I  cannot  pass  that  way. 

Dobson.  Out  o'  the  chaumber  ! 

I'll  mash  tha  into  nowt. 

Harold.  The  mere  wild-beast  I 

Dobson.     Out  o'  the  chaumber,  dang 

tha! 
Harold.  Lout,  churl,  clown  ! 

[  While  they  are  shouting  and  strug- 
gling Dora    rises   and  conies    be- 
tween thetn. 
Dora  {to  Dobson).    Peace,  let  him  be  : 
it  is  the  chamber  of  Death  ! 
Sir,  you  are  tenfold  more  a  gentleman, 
A  hundred  times  more  worth  a  woman's 

love, 
Than  this,  this  —  l)ut  I  waste  no  words 

upon  him : 
His  wickedness  is  like  my  wretchedness  — 
Beyond  all  language. 


(  To  Harold.) 
You  —  you  see  her  there  ! 
Only  fifteen  when  first  you  came  on  her. 
And  then  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the 

wolds. 
So  lovely  in  the  promise  of  her  May, 
So  winsome  in  her  grace  and  gaiety, 
So  loved  by  all  the  village  people  here, 

So  happy  in  herself  and  in  her  home 

Dobson  {agitated^.     Theer,  theer  !  ha' 
done.     I  can't  abear  to  see  her. 

\_Exit. 
Dora.     A  child,  and  all  as  trustful  as 
a  child  ! 
Five  years  of  shame  and  suffering  broke 

the  heart 
That    only   beat    for    you;     and    he,  the 

father, 
Thro'  that  dishonour  which  you  brought 

upon  us. 
Has  lost  his    health,  his  eyesight,  even 
his  mind. 
Harold  {covering  his  face) .     Enough  ! 
Dora.     Itseem'dso;  only  there  was  left 
A  second  daughter,  and  to  her  you  came 
Veiling  one  sin  to  act  another. 

Harold.  No ! 

You  wrong  me   there  I    hear,  hear  me  ! 

I  wish'd,  if  you \_Fauses. 

Dora.     If  I 

Harold.  Could  love  me,  could  be 

brought  to  love  me 

As  I  loved  you 

Dora.  \Vhat  then? 

Harold.  I  wish'd,  I  hoped 

To  make,  to  make 

Dora.      What  did  you  hope  to  make? 
Harold.     'Twere  best  to  make  an  end 
of  my  lost  life. 
O  Dora,  Dora ! 

Dora.      What  did  you  hope  to  make  ? 
Harold.     Make,  make  !     I  cannot  find 
the  word  —  forgive  it  — 
Amends. 

Dora.     For  what?  to  whom? 
Harold.  To  him,  to  you! 

\_Falling  at  her  feet. 
Dora.     To  him  !  to  me  ! 

No,  not  with  all  your  wealth. 
Your  land,  your  life  !     Out  in  the  fiercest 

storm 
That    ever    made    earth    tremble  —  he, 
nor  I  — 


780 


THE  PROMISE    OF  MAY. 


ACT   III. 


The  shelter  oi  your  roof — not  for  one 

moment  — 
Nothing  from  you  ! 
Sunk  in  the  deepest  pit  of  pauperism, 
Push'd  from  all  doors  as  if  we  bore  the 

plague, 
Smitten  with  fever  in  the  open  field, 
Laid    famine-stricken    at    the    gates    of 

Death  — 


Nothing  from  you ! 

But  she  there  —  her  last  word 
Forgave  —  and   I    forgive   you.     If  you 

ever 
Forgive  yourself,  you  are  even  lower  and 

baser 
Than  even  I  can  well  believe  you.     Go ! 
\_He  lies  at  her  feet.     Curtain  falls. 


D  E  M  E  T  E  R 

AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


TO  THE   MARQUIS   OF   DUF- 
FERIN    AND    AVA. 


At  times  our  Britain  cannot  rest, 

At  times  her  steps  are  swift  and  rash; 
She  moving,  at  her  girdle  clash 

The  golden  keys  of  East  and  West. 

II. 

Not  swift  or  rash,  when  late  she  lent 
The  sceptres  of  her  West,  her  East, 
To  one,  that  ruling  has  increased 

Her  greatness  and  her  self-content. 

III. 

Your  rule  has  made  the  people  love 
Their  ruler.  Your  viceregal  days 
Have  added  fulness  to  the  phrase 

Of '  Gauntlet  in  the  velvet  glove.' 

IV. 

But  since  your  name  will  grow  with  Time, 
Not  all,  as  honouring  your  fair  name 
Of  Statesman,  have  I  made  the  name 

A  golden  portal  to  my  rhyme : 

V. 

But  more,  that  you  and  yours  may  know 
From  me  and  mine,  how  dear  a  debt 
We  owed  you,  and  are  owing  yet 

To  you  and  yours,  and  still  would  owe. 

VI. 

For  he  —  your  India  was  his  Fate, 
And  drew  him  over  sea  to  you  — 
He  fain  had  ranged  her  thro'  and  thro'. 

To  serve  her  myriads  and  the  State,  — 

VII. 

A  soul  that,  watch'd  from  earliest  youth, 
And  on  thro'  many  a  brightening  year. 


Had  never  swerved  for  craft  or  fear. 
By  one  side-path,  from  simple  truth; 

VIII. 

Who    might    have    chased    and    claspt 
Renown 
And   caught    her  chaplet  here — and 

there 
In  haunts  of  jungle-poison'd  air 
The  flame  of  life  went  wavering  down; 

IX. 

But  ere  he  left  your  fatal  shore. 
And  lay  on  that  funereal  boat, 
Dying, '  Unspeakable,'  he  wrote, 

'  Their  kindness,'  and  he  wrote  no  more; 

X. 

And  sacred  is  the  latest  word; 

And   now  the  Was,  the  Might-have- 
been, 

And  those  lone  rites  I  have  not  seen, 
And  one  drear  sound  I  have  not  heard, 

XI. 

Are  dreams  that  scarce  will  let  me  be, 
Not  there  to  bid  my  boy  farewell. 
When  That  within  the  cofiin  fell. 

Fell  —  and  flash'd  into  the  Red  Sea, 

XII. 

Beneath  a  hard  Arabian  moon 

And  alien  stars.     To  question,  why 
The  sons  before  the  fathers  die, 

Not  mine  !  and  I  may  meet  him  soon; 

XIII. 

But  while  my  life's  late  eve  endures,. 
Nor  settles  into  hueless  gray, 
My  memories  of  his  briefer  day 

Will  mix  with  love  for  you  and  yours. 


7S2 


ON   THE  JUBILEE    OE  QUEEN   VICT0RL4. 


ON  THE    JUBILEE   OF  QUEEN 
VICTORIA. 


Fifty  times  the  rose  has   flower'd   and 

faded, 
Fifty  times  the  golden  harvest  fallen, 
Since  our  Queen  assumed  the  globe,  the 

sceptre. 

II. 

She  beloved  for  a  kindliness 
Rare  in  Fable  or  History, 
Queen,  and  Empress  of  India, 
Crown'd  so  long  with  a  diadem 
Never  worn  by  a  worthier, 
Now  with  prosperous  auguries 
Comes  at  last  to  the  bounteous 
Crowning  year  of  her  Jubilee. 

III. 

Nothing  of  the  lawless,  of  the  Despot, 
Nothing  of  the  vulgar,  or  vainglorious, 
All  is  gracious,  gentle,  great  and  Queenly. 

IV. 

You  then  joyfully,  all  of  you, 
Set  the  mountain  aflame  to-night. 
Shoot  your  stars  to  the  firmament, 
Deck  your  houses,  illuminate 
All  your  towns  for  a  festival. 
And  in  each  let  a  multitude 
Loyal,  each,  to  the  heart  of  it. 
One  full  voice  of  allegiance, 
Hail  the  fair  Ceremonial 
Of  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 

V. 

Queen,  as  true  to  womanhood  as  Queen- 
hood, 
Glorying  in  the  glories  of  her  people, 
Sorrowing  with  the  sorrows  of  the  lowest ! 

VI. 

You,  that  wanton  in  affluence. 
Spare  not  now  to  be  bountiful, 
Call  your  poor  to  regale  with  you. 
All  the  lowly,  the  destitute, 
Make  their  neighbourhood    health- 
fuller, 
Give  your  gold  to  the  Hospital, 


Let  the  weary  be  comforted. 
Let  the  needy  be  banqueted. 
Let  the  maim'd  in  his  heart  rejoice 
At  this  glad  Ceremonial, 
And  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 


VII. 

Henry's  fifty  years  are  all  in  shadow, 
Gray  with   distance  Edward's  fifty  sum- 
mers, 
Ev'n  her  Grandsire's  fifty  half  forgotten. 

VIII. 

You,  the  Patriot  Architect, 
You  that  shape  for  Eternity, 
Raise  a  stately  memorial, 
Make  it  regally  gorgeous. 
Some  Imperial  Institute, 
Rich  in  symbol,  in  ornament. 
Which  may  speak  to  the  centuries, 
All  the  centuries  after  us. 
Of  this  great  Ceremonial, 
And  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 

IX. 

Fifty    years    of    ever-broadening    Com- 
merce ! 
Fifty  years  of  ever-brightening  Science ! 
Fifty  years  of  ever-widening  Empire  ! 


You,  the  Mighty,  the  Fortunate, 
You,  the  Lord-territorial, 
You,  the  Lord-manufacturer, 
You,  the  hardy,  laborious. 
Patient  children  of  Albion, 
You,  Canadian,  Indian, 
Australasian,  African, 
All  your  hearts  be  in  harmony, 
All  your  voices  in  unison, 
Singing  '  Hail  to  the  glorious 
Golden  year  of  her  Jubilee  !  ' 

XI. 

Are  there  thunders  moaning  in  the  dis- 
tance? 

Are  there  spectres  moving  in  the  dark- 
ness? 

Trust  the  Hand  of  Light  will  lead  her 
people, 

Till  the  thunders  pass,  the  spectres 
vanish, 


DEMETER   AND   PERSEPHONE. 


783 


And  the  Light  is  Victor,  and  the  dark- 
ness 
Dawns  into  the  Jubilee  of  the  Ages. 

TO   PROFESSOR  JEBB, 

WITH  THE  Following  Poem. 

Fair  things  are  slow  to  fade  away, 
Bear  witness  you,  that  yesterday  1 

From  out    the    Ghost  of  Pindar  in 
you 
Roll'd  an  Olympian;   and  they  say- 

That  here  the  torpid  mummy  wheat 
Of  Egypt  bore  a  grain  as  sweet 

As   that  which    gilds   the   glebe   of 
England, 
Sunn'd  with  a  summer  of  milder  heat. 

So  may  this  legend  for  awhile, 
If  greeted  by  your  classic  smile, 

Tho'  dead  in  its  Trinacrian  Enna, 
Blossom  again  on  a  colder  isle. 

DEMETER  AND   PERSEPHONE. 

(In  Enna.) 

Faint  as  a  climate-changing  bird   that 

flies 
All   night   across  the    darlsness,  and   at 

dawn 
Falls  on  the  threshold  of  her  native  land, 
And  can  no  more,  thou  camest,  O   my 

child, 
Led  upward  by  the  God  of  ghosts  and 

dreams. 
Who   laid   thee    at    Eleusis,    dazed    and 

dumb 
With    passing  thro'  at    once    from  state 

to  state, 
Until    I    brought   thee   hither,    that    the 

day, 
When  here  thy  hands  let  fall  the  gather'd 

flower. 
Might    break    thro'    clouded    memories 

once  again 
On  thy  lost  self.     A  sudden  nightingale 
Saw  thee,  and    flash'd   into    a    frolic    of 

song 

1  In  Bologna. 
2  They  say,  for  the  tact  is  doubtful. 


And  welcome;    and    a  gleam  as  of  the 

moon. 
When  first  she  peers  along  the  tremulous 

deep. 
Fled  wavering  o'er  thy  face,  and  chased 

away 
That  shadow  of  a  likeness  to  the  king 
Of  shadows,  thy  dark  mate.    Persephone  I 
Queen  of  the  dead  no  more  —  my  child  ! 

Thine  eyes 
Again  were  human-godlike,  and  the  Sun 
Burst  from  a  swimming  fleece  of  winter 

gray, 
And   robed    thee  in  his    day  from  head 

to  feet  — 
'  Mother  I '    and    I  was    folded    in  thine 

arms. 

Child,  those  imperial,  disimpassion'd 
eyes 

Awed  even  me  at  first,  thy  mother  —  eyes 

That  oft  had  seen  the  serpent-wanded 
power 

Draw  downward  into  Hades  with  his 
drift 

Of  flickering  spectres,  lighted  from  below 

By  the  red  race  of  fiery  Phlegethon; 

But  when  before  have  Gods  or  men  be- 
held 

The  Life  that  had  descended  re-arise, 

And  lighted  from  above  him  by  the  Sun? 

So  mighty  was  the  mother's  childless 
cry, 

A  cry  that  rang  thro'  Hades,  Earth,  and 
Heaven ! 

So  in  this  pleasant  vale  we  stand  again, 
The  field  of  Enna,  now  once  more  ablaze 
With  flowers  that  brighten  as  thy  foot- 
step falls. 
All  flowers  —  but  for  one  black  blur  of 

earth 
Left  by  that  closing  chasm,  thro'  which 

the  car 
Of  dark  Aidoneus  rising  rapt  thee  hence. 
And  here,  my  child,  thu'  folded  in  thine 

arms, 
I  feel  the  deathless  heart  of  motherhood 
Within  me  shudder,  lest  the  naked  glebe 
Should  yawn   once   more  into  the  gulf, 

and  thence 
The  shrilly  whinny ings  of  the    team   of 
Hell, 


784 


DEMETER  AND  PERSEPHONE. 


Ascending,  pierce  the  glad  and  songful 

air, 
And  all  at  once  their  arch'd  necks,  mid- 

night-maned, 
Jet  upward  thro'  the  mid-day  blossom. 

No! 
For,  see,  thy  foot  has  touch'd  it;   all  the 

space 
Of    blank    earth-baldness   clothes    itself 

afresh. 
And  breaks  into  the  crocus-purple  hour 
That  saw  thee  vanish. 

Child,  when  thou  wert  gone, 
I  envied  human  wives,  and  nested  birds, 
Yea,  the  cubb'd  lioness;   went  in  search 

of  thee 
Thro'   many  a  palace,  many  a  cot,  and 

gave 
Thy  breast  to  ailing  infants  in  the  night. 
And  set  the  mother  waking  in  amaze 
To  find  her  sick  one  whole;    and  forth 

again 
Among  the  wail  of  midnight  winds,  and 

cried, 
'  Where  is  my  loved   one  ?      Wherefore 

do  ye  wail  ?  ' 
And  out  from  all  the  night  an  answer 

shrill'd, 

*  We  know  not,  and  we  know  not  why 

we  wail.' 
I    climb'd    on   all   the    cliffs    of   all    the 

seas. 
And  ask'd  the  waves  that  moan   about 

the  world, 
'Where?  do  ye  make  your  moaning  for 

my  child  ?  * 
And  round  from  all  the  world  the  voices 

came, 
'  We  know  not,  p.iid  we  know  not  why 

we  moan.' 

*  Where  ?  '  and  I  stared  from  every  eagle- 

peak, 
I   thridded   the   black    heart    of  all    the 

woods, 
I  peer'd  thro'  tomb  and  cave,  and  in  the 

storms 
Of  Autumn  swept  across  the  city,   and 

heard 
The  murmur  of  their  temples  chanting 

me. 
Me,  me,  the  desolate  Mother  !     '  Where  ? ' 

—  and  turn'd, 


And  fled  by   many   a  waste,   forlorn    of 

man. 
And  griev'd  for  man  thro'  all  my  grief 

for  thee, — 
The  jungle  rooted  in  his  shatter'd  hearth, 
The  serpent  coil'd  about  his  broken  shaft, 
The     scorpion     crawling     over     naked 

skulls;  — 
I  saw  the  tiger  in  the  ruin'd  fane 
Spring  from  his  fallen  God,  but  trace  of 

thee 
I  saw  not;  and  far  on,  and,  following  out 
A  league  of  labyrinthine  darkness,  came 
On  three  gray  heads  beneath  a  gleaming 

rift. 

*  Where  ? '    and  I  heard  one  voice  from 

all  the  three, 

*  We  know  not,  for  we  spin  the  lives  of 

men. 
And  not  of  Gods,  and  know  not  why  we 

spin  ! 
There   is  a  Fate  beyond   us.'     Nothing 

knew. 

Last,  as  the  likeness  of  a  dying  man. 
Without  his  knowledge,  from  him  flits  to 

warn 
A   far-off  friendship  that  he  comes   no 

more, 
So  he,  the  God  of  dreams,  who  heard 

my  cry. 
Drew  from  thyself  the  likeness  of  thyself 
Without  thy  knowledge,  and  thy  shadow 

past 
Before  me,  crying,  '  The  Bright  one   in 

the  highest 
Is  brother  of  the  Dark  one  in  the  lowest. 
And  Bright  and  Dark  have  sworn  that  I, 

the  child 
Of  thee,  the  great   Earth-Mother,  thee, 

the  Power 
That  lifts  her  buried  life  from  gloom  to 

bloom. 
Should  be  for  ever  and  for  evermore 
The  Bride  of  Darkness.' 

So  the  Shadow  wail'd. 
Then  I,  Earth-Goddess,  cursed  the  Gods 

of  Heaven. 
I  would  not  mingle  with  their  feasts;   to 

me 
Their  nectar  smack'd  of  hemlock  on  the 

lips. 


DE METER  AND  PERSEPHONE  —  OWD  ROA. 


785 


Their  rich  ambrosia  tasted  aconite. 

The  man,  that  only  lives  and  loves  an 

hour, 
Seem'd  nobler  than  their  hard  Eternities. 
My    quick    tears   kill'd    the    flower,    my 

ravings  hush'd 
The  bird,  and  lost  in  utter  grief  I  fail'd 
To   send    my   life    thro'    olive-yard    and 

vine 
And  golden  grain,  my  gift  to   helpless 

man. 
Rain-rotten  died  the  wheat,  the  barley- 
spears 
Were  hoUow-husk'd,   the  leaf  fell,  and 

the  sun. 
Pale  at  my  grief,  drew  down  before  his 

time 
Sickening,   and  /Etna   kept    her   winter 

snow. 
Then  He,  the  brother  of  this  Darkness, 

He 
Who  still  is  highest,  glancing  from  his 

height 
On    earth    a   fruitless   fallow,    when    he 

miss'd 
The  wonted  steam  of  sacrifice,  the  praise 
And  prayer  of  men,  decreed  that  thou 

should'st  dwell 
For  nine  white  moons  of  each  whole  year 

with  me. 
Three  dark  ones  in  the  shadow  with  thy 

King. 

Once  more  the  reaper  in  the  gleam  of 

dawn 
Will  see  me  by  the  landmark  far  away. 
Blessing  his  field,  or  seated  in  the  dusk 
Of  even,  by  the  lonely  threshing-floor. 
Rejoicing  in  the  harvest  and  the  grange. 
Yet    I,    Earth-Goddess,    am    but    ill- 
content 
With  them,  who  still  are  highest.    Those 

gray  heads. 
What  meant  they  by  their  *  Fate  beyond 

the  Fates ' 
But   younger  kindlier  Gods  to  bear   us 

down, 
As  we  bore  down  the  Gods  before  us? 

Gods, 
To  quench,  not  hurl  the  thunderbolt,  to 

stay, 
Not  spread  the  plague,  the  famine;  Gods 

indeed, 

3E 


To  send  the   noon  into  the    night    and 

break 
The  sunless  halls  of  Hades  into  Heaven? 
Till  thy  dark  lord  accept  and   love  the 

Sun, 
And  all  the  Shadow  die  into  the  Light, 
When  thou  shalt  dwell  the  whole  bright 

year  with  me. 
And   souls    of  men,   who  grew   beyond 

their  race. 
And  made  themselves  as  Gods   against 

the  fear 
Of  Death  and  Hell;   and  thou  that  hast 

from  men. 
As  Queen  of  Death,  that  worship  which 

is  Fear, 
Henceforth,  as  having  risen  from  out  the 

dead, 
Shalt  ever  send  thy  life  along  with  mine 
From  buried  grain  thro'  springing  blade, 

and  bless 
Their  garner'd  Autumn  also,  reap  with 

me, 
Earth-mother,   in  the  harvest  hymns  of 

Earth 
The  worship  which  is  Love,  and  see  no 

more 
The     Stone,    the     Wheel,    the     dimly- 
glimmering  lawns 
Of  that  Elysium,  all  the  hateful  fires 
Of   torment,   and    the    shadowy   warrior 

glide 
Along  the  silent  field  of  Asphodel. 


OWD   ROA.i 

Naay,  noa  mander^  o'  use  to  be  callin' 

'im  Roa,  Roa,  Roa, 
Fur  the  dog's  stoan-deaf,  an'  e's  blind,  'e 

can  naither  stan'  nor  goa. 

But  I  means  fur  to  maake  'is  owd  aage 

as  'appy  as  iver  I  can, 
Fur  I  owas  owd  Roaver  moor  nor  I  iver 

owiid  mottal  man. 

Thou's  rode  of  'is  back  when  a  babby, 
afoor  thou  was  gotten  too  owd, 

Fur  'e'd  fetch  an'  carry  like  owt,  'e  was 
alius  as  good  as  gowd. 


1  Old  Rover. 


^  Manner. 


786 


OI'Vn   ROA. 


Eh,  but  'e'd  fight  wi'  a  will  zvhen  'e 
fowt;   'e  could  howd  ^  'is  oan, 

An'  Roa  was  the  dog  as  knaw'd  when 
an'  wheere  to  bury  his  boane. 

An'  'e  kep'  his  head  hoop  like  a  king,  an' 
'e"d  niver  not  down  wi'  'is  taail, 

Fur  'e'd  niver  done  nowt  to  be  shaamed 
on,  when  we  was  i'  Hovvlaby 
Daale. 

An'  'e  sarved  me  sa  well  when  'e  lived, 
that,  Dick,  when  'e  cooms  to  be 
dead, 

I  thinks  as  I'd  like  fur  to  hev  soom  soort 
of  a  sarvice  read. 

Fur  'e's  moor  good  sense  na  the  Parlia- 
ment man  'at  stans  fur  us  'ere, 

An'  I'd  voat  fur  'im,  my  oan  sen,  if  'e 
could  but  Stan'  fur  the  Shere. 

*  Faaithful  an'  True '  —  them  words  be  i' 
Scriptur  —  an'  Faaithful  an'  True 

'Ull  be  fun'  ^  upo'  four  short  legs  ten  times 
fur  one  upo'  two. 

An'  maaybe  they'll  walk  upo'  two  but  I 
knaws  they  runs  upo'  four,^  — 

Bedtime,  Dicky !  but  waait  till  tha  'ears 
it  be  strikin'  the  hour. 

Fur  I  wants  to  tell  tha  o'  Roa  when  we 

lived  i'  Howlaby  Daale, 
Ten  year  sin' —    Naay  —  naay!  tha  mun 

nobbut  hev'  one  glass  of  aale. 

Straange  an'  owd-farran'd  ^  the  'ouse,  an' 
belt  ^  long  afoor  my  daay 

Wi'  haafe  o'  the  chimleys  a-tvvizzen'd^ 
an'  twined  like  a  band  o'  haay. 

The  fellers  as  maakes  them  picturs,  'ud 
coom  at  the  fall  o'  the  year, 

An'  sattle  their  ends  upo'  stools  to  pictur 
the  door-poorch  theere, 

An'  the  Heagle  'as  hed  two  heads  stannin' 
theere  o'  the  brokken  stick;  '^ 

An'  they  niver  'ed  seed  sich  ivin'  ^  as 
graw'd  hall  ower  the  brick; 

^  Hold.       2  Found.       ^  '  Ou  '  as  in  '  house.' 
*  '  Owd-farran'd,'  old-fashioned.  ^  Built. 

^  '  Twizzen'd,'  twisted.         "  On  a  staff  ragiile. 
8  Ivy. 


An'  theere  i'  the  'ouse  one  night  —  but 
it's  down,  an'  all  on  it  now 

Goan  into  mangles  an'  tonups,i  an' 
raaved  slick  thruf  by  the  plow  — 

Theere,  when  the  'ouse  wur  a  house,  one 
night  I  wur  sittin'  aloan, 

Wi'  Roaver  athurt  my  feeat,  an'  sleeapin 
still  as  a  stoan, 

Of  a  Christmas  Eave,  an'  as  cowd  as 
this,  an'  the  midders^  as  white, 

An'  the  fences  all  on  'em  bolster'd  oop 
wi'  the  windle^  that  night; 

An'  the  cat  wur  a-sleeapin  alongside 
Roaver,  but  I  wur  awaake, 

An'  smoakin'  an'  thinkin'  o'  things  — 
Doant  maake  thysen  sick  wi'  the 
caake. 

Fur  the  men  ater  supper  'ed  sung  their 
songs  an'  'ed  'ed  their  beer, 

An'  'ed  goan  their  waays;  ther  was  nob- 
but  three,  an'  noan  on  'em  theere. 

They  was  all  on  'em  fear'd  o'  the  Ghoast 
an'  dussn't  not  sleeiip  i'  the  'ouse, 

But  Dicky,  the  Ghoast  moastlins'*  was 
nobbut  a  rat  or  a  mouse. 

An'  I  loookt  out  wonst^  at  the  night, 
an'  the  daale  was  all  of  a  thaw, 

Fur  I  seed  the  beck  coomin'  down  like  a 
long  black  snaake  i'  the  snaw, 

An'  I  heard  great  heaps  o'  the  snaw 
slushin'  down  fro'  the  bank  to  the 
beck, 

An'  then  as  I  stood  i'  the  doorwaay,  I 
feeald  it  drip  o'  my  neck. 

Saw  I  turn'd  in  agean,  an'  I  thowt  o' 
the  good  owd  times  'at  was  goan. 

An'  the  munney  they  maade  by  the  war, 
an'  the  times  'at  was  coomin'  on; 

Fur  I  thowt  if  the  Staate  was  a-gawin' 
to  let  in  furriners'  wheat, 

Howiver  was  British  farmers  to  stan' 
agean  o'  their  feeat. 

1  Mangolds  and  turnips. 

2  Meadows.  ^  Drifted  snow. 

*  '  Moastlins,'  for  the  most  part,  generally. 

°  Once. 


own   ROA. 


1^1 


Ilowiver  was  I  fur  to  find  my  rent  an' 

to  paay  my  men  ? 
An'  all  along  o'  the  feller  ^  as  turn'd   'is 

back  of  hissen. 

Thou  slep'  i'  the  chaumber  above  us,  we 
couldn't  ha'  'card  tha  call, 

Sa  JNIoother  'ed  tell'd  ma  to  bring  tha 
down,  an'  thy  craadle  an'  all; 

■P'ur  the  gell  o'  the  farm  'at  slep'  wi'  tha 
then  'ed  gotten  wer  leave, 

Fur  to  goa  that  night  to  'er  foalk  by  cause 
o'  the  Christmas  Eave; 

But  I  clean  forgot  tha,  my  lad,  when 
Moother  'ed  gotten  to  bed, 

An'  I  slep'  i'  my  chair  hup-on-end,  an' 
the  Freea  Traade  runn'd  i'  my 
'ead, 

Till  I  dream'd  'at  Squire  walkt  in,  an'  I 
says  to  him,  '  Squire,  ya're  laate,' 

Then  I  seed  at  'is  faace  wur  as  red  as  the 
Yule-block  theere  i'  the  graate. 

An'  'e  says,  '  Can  ya  paay  me  the  rent  to- 
night?' an'  I  says  to  'im,  'Noa,' 

An'  'e  cotch'd  howd  hard  o'  my  hairm,^ 
'  Then  hout  to-night  tha  shall  goa.' 

'Tha'll  niver,'  says  I,  'be  a-turnin'  ma 
hout  upo'  Christmas  Eiive?' 

Then  I  waaked  an'  I  fun  it  was  Roaver 
a-tuggin'  an'  tearin'  my  sheave. 

An'  I  thowt  as  'e'd  goan  clean-wud,^  fur 
I  noavvaays  knaw'd  'is  intent; 

An'  I  says,  '  Git  awaay,  ya  beast,'  an'  I 
fetcht  'im  a  kick  an'  'e  went. 

Then  'e  tummled  up  stairs,  fur  I  'card 
'im,  as  if  'e'd  'a  brokken  'is  neck. 

An'  I'd  clear  forgot,  little  Dicky,  thy 
chaumber  door  wouldn't  sneck;'* 

An'  I  slep'  i'  my  chair  agean  wi'  my 
hairm  hingin'  down  to  the  floor. 

An'  I  thowt  it  w'as  Roaver  a-tuggin'  an' 
tearin'  me  wuss  nor  afoor, 


1  Peel. 


2  Arm. 


3  Mad. 


*  Latch. 


An'  I  thowt  'at  I  kick'd  'im  agean,  but  I 
kick'd  thy  Moother  istead. 

'  What  arta  snorin'  theere  fur?  the  house 
is  afire,'  she  said. 

Thy  Moother  'ed   bean  a-naggin'  about 

the  gell  o'  the  farm, 
She  oftens  'ud  spy  summut  wrong  when 

there  warn't  not  a  mossel  o'  harm ; 

An'  she  didn't  not  solidly  mean  I  wur 
gawin'  that  waay  to  the  bad. 

Fur  the  gell  ^  was  as  howry  a  trollope  as 
iver  traapes'd  i'  the  squad. 

But  Moother  was  free  of  'er  tongue,  as  I 
offens  'ev  tell'd  'er  mysen, 

Sa  I  kep'  i'  my  chair,  fur  I  thowt  she 
was  nobbut  a-rilin'  ma  then. 

An'  I  says,  '  I'd  be  good  to  tha,  Bess,  if 
tha'd  onywaays  let  ma  be  good,' 

But  she  skelpt  ma  haafe  ower  i'  the  chair, 
an'  scread  like  a  Howl  gone 
wud^  — 

'  Ya  mun  run  fur  the  lether.^  Git  oop, 
if  ya're  onywaays  good  for  owt.' 

And  I  says,  'If  I  beant  noavvaays  —  not 
nowadaays  —  good  fur  nowt  — 

'  Yit  I  beant  sich  a  Nowt  ^  of  all  Nowts 
as  'uU  hallus  do  as  'e's  bid.' 

'  But  the  stairs  is  afire,'  she  said;  then  I 
seed  'er  a-cryin',  I  did. 

An'  she  beald,  *  Ya  mun  saave  little  Dick, 
an'  be  sharp  about  it  an'  all,' 

Sa  I  runs  to  the  yard  fur  a  lether,  an' 
sets  'im  ageiin  the  wall. 

An'  I  claums  an'  I  mashes  the  winder 
hin,  when  I  gits  to  the  top, 

But  the  heat  druv  hout  i'  my  heyes  till  I 
feald  mysen  ready  to  drop. 

^  The  girl  was  as  dirty  a  slut  as  ever  trudged 
in  the  mud,  but  there  is  a  sense  of  slatternliness 
in  '  traapes'd'  which  is  not  expressed  in  '  trudged. ' 

2  She  half  overturned  me  and  shrieked  like  an 
owl  gone  mad.  •*  Ladder. 

^  A  thoroughly  insignificant  or  worthless 
person. 


788 


OWD   ROA  —  VASTNESS. 


Thy  Moother  was  hovvdin'  the  lether,  an' 
tellin'  me  not  to  be  skeard, 

An'  I  wasn't  afeard,  or  I  thinks  leaiist- 
waays  as  I  wasn't  afeard; 

But  I  couldn't  see  fur  the  smoake  wheere 
thou  was  a-liggin,  my  lad, 

An'  Roaver  was  theere  i'  the  chaumber 
a-yowlin'  an'  yaupin'  like  mad; 

An'  thou  was  a-bealin'  likewise,  an'  a- 
squealin',  as  if  tha  was  bit, 

An'  it  wasn't  a  bite  but  a  burn,  fur  the 
merk's^  o'  thy  shou'der  yit; 

Then  I  call'd  out  Roa,  Roa,  Roa,  thaw 
I  didn't  haafe  think  as  'e'd  'ear, 

But  '^  cootn''  d  thriif  the  fire  toV  my  bairn 
i'  Hs  mouth  to  the  %uinder  theere! 

He  coom'd  like  a  Hangel  o'  marcy  as 
soon  as  'e  'eard  'is  naame. 

Or  like  tother  Hangel  i'  Scriptur  'at 
summun  seed  i'  the  flaame, 

When  summun  'ed  hax'd  fur  a  son,  an' 
'e  promised  a  son  to  she, 

An'  Roa  was  as  good  as  the  Hangel  i' 
saavin'  a  son  fur  me. 

Sa  I  browt  tha  down,  an'  I  says,  '  I  mun 

gaw  up  agean  fur  Roa.' 
'  Gaw  up  agean  fur  the  varmint?  '  I  tell'd 

'er,  'Yeas  I  mun  goa.' 

An'  I  claumb'd  up  agean  to  the  winder, 
an'  clemm'd  ^  owd  Roa  by  the  'ead. 

An'  'is  'air  coom'd  off  i'  my  'ands  an'  I 
taaked  'im  at  fust  fur  dead; 

Fur  'e  smell'd  like  a  herse  a-singein',  an' 
seeam'd  as  blind  as  a  poop, 

An'  haafe  on  'im  bare  as  a  bublin'.^  I 
couldn't  wakken  'im  oop. 

But  I  browt  'im  down,  an'  we  got  to  the 
barn,  fur  the  barn  wouldn't  burn 

Wi'  the  wind  blawin'  hard  tother  waay, 
an'  the  wind  wasn't  like  to  turn. 

1  Mark.  2  Clutched. 

3  '  Bubbling,"  a  young  unfledged  bird. 


An'  /  kep'  a-callin'  o'  Roa  till  'e  waggled 

'is  taail  fur  a  bit. 
But  the  cocks  kep'  a-crawin'  an'  crawin' 

all  night,  an'  I  'ears  'em  yit; 

An'  the  dogs  was  a-yowiin'  all  round,  and 
thou  was  a-squealin'  thysen, 

An'  Moother  was  naggin'  an'  groanin'  an' 
moanin'  an'  naggin'  agean; 

An'  I  'eard  the  bricks  an'  the  baulks  ^ 
rummle  down  when  the  roof  gev 
waay, 

Fur  the  fire  was  a-raagin'  an'  raavin'  an' 
roarin'  like  judgment  daay. 

Warm  enew  theere  sewer-ly,  but  the  barn 

was  as  cowd  as  owt, 
An'  we  cuddled  and  huddled  togither,  an' 

happt^  wersens  oop  as  we  mowt. 

An'  I  browt  Roa  round,  but  Moother  'ed 
bean  sa  soak'd  wi'  the  thaw 

'At  she  cotch'd  'er  death  o'  cowd  that 
night,  poor  soul,  i'  the  straw. 

Haafe  o'  the  parish  runn'd  oop  when  the 
rigtree  ^  was  tummlin'  in  — 

Too  laate  —  but  it's  all  ower  now  —  hall 
hower —  an'  ten  year  sin'; 

Too  laate,  tha  mun  git  tha  to  bed,  but 
I'll  coom  an'  Til  squench  the  light. 

Fur  we  moant  'ev  naw  moor  fires  —  and 
soa  little  Dick,  good-night. 

VASTNESS. 
I. 

Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs 
after  many  a  vanish'd  face, 

Many  a  planet  by  many  a  sun  may  roll 
with  the  dust  of  a  vanish'd  race. 


Raving  politics,  never  at  rest  —  as  this 
poor  earth's  pale  history  runs, — 

What  is  it  all  but  a  trouble  of  ants  in  the 
gleam  of  a  million  million  of  suns? 

^  Beams.  -  Wrapt  ourselves. 

3  The  beam  that  runs  along  the  roof  of  the 
house  just  beneath  the  ridge. 


VASTNESS. 


789 


III. 


Lies  upon  this  side,  lies  upon  that  side, 
truthless  violence  mourn'd  by  the 
Wise, 

Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own  in 
a  popular  torrent  of  lies  upon  lies; 


IV. 

Stately  purposes,  valour  in  battle,  glorious 
annals  of  army  and  fleet, 

Death  for  the  right  cause,  death  for  the 
wrong  cause,  trumpets  of  victory, 
groans  of  defeat; 

V. 

Innocence  seethed  in  her  mother's  milk, 

and   Charity    setting    the    martyr 

aflame ; 
Thraldom  who  walks  with  the  banner  of 

Freedom,  and  recks  not  to  ruin  a 

realm  in  her  name. 

VI. 

Faith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in  the 

gloom  of  doubts  that  darken  the 

schools; 
Craft  with    a   bunch  of  all-heal   in  her 

hand,  follow'd    up  by  her  vassal 

legion  of  fools; 

VII. 

Trade  flying  over  a  thousand  seas  with 
her  spice  and  her  vintage,  her  silk 
and  her  corn; 

Desolate  offing,  sailorless  harbours, 
famishing  populace,  wharves  for- 
lorn; 

VIII. 

Star  of  the  morning,  Hope  in  the  sunrise; 
gloom  of  the  evening.  Life  at  a 
close; 

Pleasure  who  flaunts  on  her  wide  down- 
way  with  her  flying  robe  and  her 
poison'd  rose ; 

IX. 

Pain,  that  has  crawl'd  from  the  corpse  of 
Pleasure,  a  worm  which  writhes 
all  day,  and  at  night 


Stirs  up  again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper, 
and  stings  him  back  to  the  curse 
of  the  light; 


Wealth  with  his  wines  and  his  wedded 

harlots;   honest  Poverty,  bare   to 

the  bone; 
Opulent     Avarice,     lean     as     Poverty; 

Flattery    gilding    the    rift     in    a 

throne; 

XI. 

Fame  blowing  out  from  her  golden 
trumpet  a  jubilant  challenge  to 
Time  and  to  Fate; 

Slander,  her  shadow,  sowing  the  nettle  on 
all  the  laurel'd  graves  of  the  Great; 

XII. 

Love  for  the  maiden,  crown'd  with 
marriage,  no  regrets  for  aught 
that  has  been, 

Household  happiness,  gracious  chil- 
dren, debtless  competence,  golden 
mean; 

XIII. 

National  hatreds  of  whole  generations, 
and  pigmy  spites  of  the  village 
spire; 

Vows  that  will  last  to  the  last  death- 
ruckle,  and  vows  that  are  snapt 
in  a  moment  of  fire; 

XIV. 

He   that   has  lived   for  the  lust    of  the 

minute,  and  died  in  the  doing  it, 

flesh  without  mind; 
He  that  has  nail'd  all  flesh  to  the  Cross, 

till  Self  died  out  in  the   love  of 

his  kind; 

XV. 

Spring  and  Summer  and  Autumn  and 
Winter,  and  all  these  old  revolu- 
tions of  earth; 

All  new-old  revolutions  of  Empire  — 
change  of  the  tide  —  what  is  all  of 
it  worth? 

XVI, 

What  the  philosophies,  all  the  sciences, 
poesy,  varying  voices  of  prayer? 


790 


THE   RING. 


All  that  is  noblest,  all  that  is  basest,  all 
that  is  filthy  with  all  that  is  fair? 

XVII. 

What  is  it  all,  if  we  all  of  us  end  but  in 
being  our  own  corpse-coffins  at 
last, 

Swallow'd  in  Vastness,  lost  in  Silence, 
drown'd  in  the  deeps  of  a  mean- 
ingless Past? 

XVIII. 

What  but  a  murmur  of  gnats  in  the 
gloom,  or  a  moment's  anger  of 
bees  in  their  hive?  — 


Peace,  let  it  be  !  for  I  loved  him,  and 
love  him  for  ever :  the  dead  are 
not  dead  but  alive. 


IBetiicatcti  to  \\\z  l^on.  3.  Husscll 
ILobjrlL 

THE  RING. 

Miriam  and  her  Father, 

Miriam  (^singing). 

Mellow  moon  of  heaven, 

Bright  in  blue, 
Moon  of  married  hearts, 

Hear  me,  you ! 

Twelve  times  in  the  year 

Bring  me  bliss, 
Globing  Honey  Moons 

Bright  as  this. 

Moon,  you  fade  at  times 

From  the  night. 
Young  again  you  grow 

Out  of  sight. 

Silver  crescent-curve, 

Coming  soon, 
Globe  again,  and  make 

Honey  Moon. 

Shall  not  my  love  last. 
Moon,  with  you, 


For  ten  thousand  years 
Old  and  new? 

Father.     And  who  was  he  with  such 

love-drunken  eyes 
They  made  a  thousand  honey  moons  of 

one? 
Miriam.     The  prophet  of  his  own,  my 

Hubert  —  his 
The  words,  and  mine  the  setting.     '  Air 

and  Words,' 
Said  Hubert,  when  I  sang  the  song,  '  are 

bride 
And  bridegroom.'     Does  it  please  you? 

Father.  Mainly,  child. 

Because  I  hear  your  Mother's  voice  in 

yours. 
She Why,  you  shiver  tho'  the  wind 

is  west 
With  all  the  warmth  of  summer. 

Miriam.  Well,  I  felt 

On  a  sudden  I  know  not  what,  a  breath 

that  past 
With  all  the  cold  of  winter. 

Father  {inutteririg  to  himself^.     Even 

so. 
The  Ghost  in  Man,  the  Ghost  that  once 

was  Man, 
But  cannot  wholly  free  itself  from  Man, 
Are  calling  to  each  other  thro'  a  dawn 
Stranger  than  earth  has  ever  seen;   the 

veil 
Is  rending,  and  the  Voices  of  the  day 
Are  heard  across  the  Voices  of  the  dark. 
No  sudden  heaven,  nor  sudden  hell,  for 

man. 
But    thro'   the  Will   of  One  who  knows 

and  rules  — 
And  utter  knowledge  is  but  utter  love  — 
.Flonian  Evolution,  swift  or  slow. 
Thro'  all  the  Spheres  —  an  ever  opening 

height. 
An  ever  lessening  earth — and  she  per- 
haps, 
My  Miriam,  breaks  her  latest  earthly  link 
With  me  to-day. 

Miriam.     You  speak  so  low,  what  is 

it? 
Your  '  Miriam  breaks  '  —  is  making  a  new 

link 
Breaking  an  old  one? 

Father.  Nt),  for  we,  my  child, 

Have  been  till  now  each  other's  all-in-all. 


THE  RING. 


791 


Miriam.     And  you  the  lifelong  guar- 
dian of  the  child. 
Father.     I,  and  one  other  whom  you 

have  not  known. 
Miriam.     And  who?  what  other? 
Father.  Whither  are  you  bound  ? 

For  Naples  which  we  only  left  in  May? 
Aliriam.     No !      father,     Spain,     but 
Hubert  brings  me  home 
With  April  and   the  swallow.     Wish  me 
joy! 
Father.     What    need     to    wish    when 
Hubert  weds  in  you 
The  heart  of  Love,  and  you  the  soul  of 

Truth 
In  Hubert? 

Miriam.     Tho'  you   used  to  call   me 
once 
The  lonely  maiden-Princess  of  the  wood, 
Who  meant  to  sleep  her  hundred  sum- 
mers out 
Before  a  kiss  should  wake  her. 

Father.  Ay,  but  now 

Your  fairy  Prince  has  found    you,  take 
this  ring. 
Miriam.     '  to  t'amo  '  —  and  these  dia- 
monds —  beautiful ! 
'  From  Walter,'  and  for  me  from  you  then  ? 
Father.  Well, 

One  way  for  Miriam. 

Miriam.  Miriam  am  I  not? 

Father.     This  ring  bequeath'd  you  by 
your  mother,  child, 
Was  to  be  given  you  —  such  her  dying 

wish  — 
Given  on  the  morning  when  you  came  of 

age 
Or   on  the  day  you  married.     Both  the 

days 
Now  close  in  one.     The  ring  is  doubly 

yours. 
Why  do  you  look  so  gravely  at  the  tower? 
Miriam.     I    never   saw  it   yet  so   all 
ablaze 
WMth   creepers   crimsoning   to    the    pin- 
nacles. 
As  if  perpetual  sunset  linger'd  there, 
And  all  ablaze  too  in  the  lake  below ! 
And  how  the  birds  that  circle  round  the 

tower 
Are  cheeping  to  each  other  of  their  flight 
To  summer  lands ! 

Father.     And  that  has  made  you  grave  ? 


Fly  —  care  not.     Birds  and  brides  must 

leave  the  nest. 
Child,  I  am  happier  in  your  happiness 
Than  in  mine  own. 

Miriam.  It  is  not  that ! 

Father.  What  else? 

Miriam.     That  chamber  in  the  tower. 
Father.  What  chamber,  child? 

Your  nurse  is  here? 

Miriam.    My  Mother's  nurse  and  mine. 

She  comes  to  dress  me  in  my  bridal  veil. 

Father.     What  did  she  say? 

Miriam.  She  said,  that  you  and  I 

Had  been  abroad  for  my  poor  health  so 

long 
She   fear'd  I  had  forgotten  her,  and   I 

ask'd 
About  my  Mother,  and  she  said,  'Thy 

hair 
Is  golden  like  thy  Mother's,  not  so  fine.' 
Father.     What  then?  what  more? 
Miriam.      She  said  —  perhaps  indeed 
She  wander'd,  having  wander'd  now  so 

far 
Beyond  the  common  date  of  death  —  that 

you. 
When  I  was  smaller  than  the  statuette 
Of  my   dear    Mother    on   your    bracket 

here  — 
You   took   me   to   that   chamber   in    the 

tower, 
The  topmost  —  a  chest  there,  by  which 

you  knelt  — 
And  there  were  books  and  dresses  —  left 

to  me, 
A  ring  too  which  you  kiss'd,  and  I,  she 

said, 
I  babbled,  Mother,  Mother  — as  I  used 
To  prattle  to  her  picture —  stretch'd  my 

hands 
As  if  I  saw  her;   then  a  woman  came 
And  caught  me  from  my  nurse.     I  hear 

her  yet  — 
A  sound  of  anger  like  a  distant  storm. 
Father.     Garrulous  old  crone. 
Miriam.  Poor  nurse ! 

Father.  I  bade  her  keep, 

Like  a  seal'd  book,  all  mention   of  the 

ring. 
For  I  myself  would  tell  you  all  to-day. 
Miriam.      '  She  too  might   speak'  to- 
day,' she  mumbled.     Still, 
I  scarce  have  learnt  the  title  of  your  book, 


792 


THE  RING. 


But  you  will  turn  the  pages. 

Father.  Ay,  to-day ! 

I  brought  you  to  that  chamber  on  your 

third 
September  birthday  with  your  nurse,  and 

felt 
An  icy  breath  play  on  me,  while  I  stoopt 
To  take  and  kiss  the  ring. 

Miriam.  This  very  ring 

lo  t'amo? 

Father.     Yes,  for  some  wild  hope  was 

mine 
That,  in  the  misery  of  my  married  life, 
Miriam  your    Mother    might    appear    to 

me. 
She  came  to  you,  not  me.     The  storm, 

you  hear 
Far-off,   is    Muriel  —  your    stepmother's 

voice. 
Miriam.     Vext,  that  you  thought  my 

Mother  came  to  me? 
Or  at  my  crying  *  Mother '?  or  to  find 
My  Mother's  diamonds  hidden  from  her 

there, 
Like  worldly  beauties   in    the  Cell,  not 

shown 
To  dazzle  all  that  see  them? 

Father.  Wait  awhile. 

Your  Mother  and  step-mother  —  Miriam 

Erne 
And  Muriel  Erne  —  the  two  were  cousins 

—  lived 
With  Muriel's  mother  on  the  down,  that 

sees 
A  thousand  squares  of  corn  and  meadow, 

far 
As   the   gray  deep,    a   landscape    which 

your  eyes 
Have  many  a  time  ranged  over  when  a 

babe. 
Miriam.      I    climb'd    the    hill   with 

Hubert  yesterday. 
And    from    the    thousand    squares,    one 

silent  voice 
Came  on  the  wind,  and  seem'd    to  say 

'Again.' 
We  saw  far  off  an  old  forsaken  house, 
Then  home,  and  past  the  ruin'd  mill. 

Father.  And  there 

I  found  these  cousins  often  by  the  brook. 
For  Miriam  sketch'd  and  Muriel  threw 

the  fly; 
The  girls  of  equal  age,  but  one  was  fair, 


And  one  was  dark,  and  both  were  beauti- 
ful. 
No  voice  for  either  spoke  within  my  heart 
Then,  for  the  surface  eye,  that  only  dotes 
On  outward  beauty,  glancing  from  the  one 
To    the    other,   knew    not    that   which 

pleased  it  most. 
The  raven  ringlet  or  the  gold;   but  both 
Were  dowerless,  and  myself,  I  used    to 

walk 
This      Terrace  —  morbid,     melancholy; 

mine 
And  yet  not  mine  the  hall,  the  farm,  the 

field; 
For  all  that  ample  woodland  whisper'd 

'debt,' 
The  brook  that  feeds  this  lakelet  mur- 

mur'd  '  debt,' 
And  in  yon  arching  avenue  of  old  elms, 
Tho'  mine,  not  mine,  I  heard  the  sober 

rook 
And  carrion  crow  cry  'mortgage.' 

Miriam.  Father's  fault 

Visited  on  the  children  ! 

Father.  Ay,  but  then 

A    kinsman,    dying,    summon'd    me    to 

Rome  — 
He  left  me  wealth  —  and  while  I  jour- 

ney'd  hence. 
And    saw    the  v/orld    fly   by   me   like  a 

dream. 
And  while  I  communed  with  my  truest 

self, 
I  woke  to  all  of  truest  in  myself. 
Till,  in  the  gleam  of  those  mid-summer 

dawns. 
The  form  of  Muriel  faded,  and  the  face 
Of  Miriam  grew  upon  me,  till  I  knew; 
And  past  and    future    mix'd  in  Heaven 

and  made 
The  rosy  twilight  of  a  perfect  day. 

Miriam.     So  glad?  no  tear  for  him, 

who  left  you  wealth, 
Your  kinsman? 

Father.    I  had  seen  the  man  but  once ; 
He  loved  my  name  not  me;   and  then  I 

pass'd 
Home,  and  thro'  Venice,  where  a  jeweller, 
So  far  gone  down,  or  so  far  up  in  life. 
That  he  was  nearing  his  own  hundred, 

sold 
This  ring  to  me,  tlien  laugh'd,  'The  ring 

is  weird.' 


THE  RING. 


793 


And  weird  and  worn  and  wizard-like  was 

he. 
'  Why  weird?  '  1  ask'd  him;   and  he  said, 

'  The  souls 
Of  two  repentant  Lovers  guard  the  ring;  ' 
Then  with  a  ribald  twinkle  in  his  bleak 

eyes  — 
'  And  if  you  give  the  ring  to  any  maid, 
They  still  remember  what  it  cost  them 

here, 
And  bind  the  maid  to  love  you  by  the 

ring; 
And  if  the  ring   were   stolen    from   the 

maid, 
The  theft  were  death  or  madness  to  the 

thief, 
So  sacred  those  Ghost  Lovers  hold  the 

gift.' 
And  then  he  told  their  legend : 

*  Long  ago 
Two  lovers  parted  by  a  scurrilous  tale 
Had  quarrell'd,   till  the   man   repenting 

sent 
This  ring  "  lo  t'amo  "  to  his  best  beloved. 
And    sent  it    on   her  birthday.     She    in 

wrath 
Return'd  it  on  her  birthday,  and  that  day 
His  death-day,  when,  half-frenzied  by  the 

ring, 
He  wildly  fought  a  rival  suitor,  him 
The  causer  of  that  scandal,  fought  and 

fell; 
And  she  that  came  to  part  them  all  too 

late, 
And  found  a  corpse  and  silence,  drew  the 

ring 
From  his   dead  finger,   wore  it   till    her 

death. 
Shrined  him   within   the  temple  of  her 

heart, 
Made  every  moment  of  her  after  life 
A  virgin  victim  to  his  memory. 
And  dying  r'ose,  and  rear'd  her  arms,  and 

cried 
"I  see  him,  lo  t'amo,  lo  t'amo.'" 

Miriam.     Legend  or  true?  so  tender 

should  he  true  ! 
Did  he  believe  it?  did  you  ask  him? 

Father.  Ay ! 

But    that   half  skeleton,    like    a    barren 

ghost 
From  out  the  fleshless  world  of  spirits, 

laugh' d  : 


A  hollow  laughter ! 

Miriam.  Vile,  so  near  the  ghost 

Himself,  to  laugh  at  love  in  death  !     But 

you? 
Father.     Well,    as    the    bygone    lover 

thro'  this  ring 
Had  sent  his  cry  for  her  forgiveness,  I 
Would  call  thru'   this  *  lo  t'amo  '  to  the 

heart 
Of  Miriam;    then  I   bade  the  man  en- 
grave 
*  From  Walter '  on  the  ring,  and  send  it 

—  wrote 
Name,  surname,  all  as  clear  as  noon,  but 

he  — 
Some  younger  hand  must  have  engraven 

the  ring  — 
His  fingers  were  so  stiffen'd  by  the  frost 
Of  seven    and    ninety   winters,    that    he 

scrawl'd 
A  'Miriam'  that  might  seem  a  'Muriel'; 
And  Muriel  claim'd  and  open'd  what  I 

meant 
For  Miriam,  took  the  ring,  and  flaunted 

it 
Before  that  other  whom  I  loved  and  love. 
A  mountain  stay'd  me  here,  a  minster 

there, 
A  galleried  palace,  or  a  battlefield. 
Where  stood  the  sheaf  of  Peace:  but  — 

coming  home  — 
And  on  your  Mother's  birthday  —  all  but 

yours  — 
A  week  betwixt — and  when  the  tower  as 

now 
Was  all  ablaze  with  crimson  to  the  roof, 
And  all  ablaze  too  plunging  in  the  lake 
Head-foremost  —  who    were    those    that 

stood  between 
The  tower  and  that  rich  phantom  of  the 

tower? 
Muriel  and  Miriam,  each  in  white,  and 

like 
May-blossoms   in  mid  autumn  —  was    it 

they? 
A  light  shot  upward  on  them  from  the 

lake. 
What  sparkled   there?  whose  hand  was 

that?  they  stood 
So  close  together.      I    am    not   keen  of 

sight. 
But    coming   nearer  —  Muriel    had    the 

ring  — 


794 


THE   RING. 


*  O  Miriam  !  have  you  given  your  ring  to 

her? 
O  Miriam !  '     Miriam    redden'd,   Muriel 

clench'd 
The  hand  that  wore  it,  till  I  cried  again  : 

*  O  Miriam,  if  you  love  me  take  the  ring  ! ' 
She  glanced  at  me,  at  Muriel,  and  was 

mute. 

*  Nay,  if  you  cannot  love  me,  let  it  be.' 
Then  —  Muriel  standing  ever  statue-like  — 
She  turn'd,  and  in  her  soft  imperial  way 
And    saying    gently :    '  Muriel,    by    your 

leave,' 
Unclosed  the  hand,  and  from  it  drew  the 

ring, 
And  gave  it  me,  who  pass'd  it  down  her 

own, 

*  lo  t'amo,  all  is  well  then.'     Muriel  fled. 

Miriam.     Poor  Muriel ! 

Father.  Ay,  poor  Muriel 

when  you  hear 
What  follows !     Miriam  loved  me  from 

the  first. 
Not  thro'  the  ring;   but  on  her  marriage- 
morn 
This  birthday,  death-day,  and  betrothal 

ring, 
Laid  on  her  table  overnight,  was  gone; 
And  after  hours  of  search  and  doubt  and 

threats, 
And    hubbub,    Muriel    enter'd    with    it, 

*  See !  — 
Found  in  a  chink  of  that  old  moulder'd 

floor ! ' 
My  Miriam  nodded  with  a  pitying  smile. 
As  who  should  say  '  that  those  who  lose 

can  find.' 
Then   I  and  she  were   married   for  a 

year. 
One    year  without  a  storm,   or    even   a 

cloud; 
And  you   my   Miriam    born    within    the 

year; 
And  she  my  Miriam  dead  within  the  year. 
I  sat  beside  her  dying,  and  she  gaspt : 
'The  books,  the  miniature,  the  lace  are 

hers. 
My  ring  too  when  she  comes  of  age,  or 

when 
She  marries;   you  —  you  loved  me,  kept 

your  word. 
You  love  me  still  "  lo  t'amo."  —  Muriel 

—  no  — 


She    cannot   love;    she   loves    her    own 

hard  self. 
Her  firm  will,  her  fix'd  purpose.     Prom- 
ise me, 
Miriam  not  Muriel  —  she  shall  have  the 

ring.' 
And  there  the  light  of  other  life,  which 

lives 
Beyond  our  burial  and  our  buried  eyes, 
Gleam'd  for  a  moment   in  her   own   on 

earth. 
I   swore    the   vow,  then  with   my  latest 

kiss 
Upon  them,  closed  her  eyes,  which  would 

not  close. 
But  kept  their  watch  upon  the  ring  and 

you. 
Your  birthday  was  her  death-day. 

Aliriam.  O  poor  Mother  ! 

And    you,    poor    desolate    Father,    and 

poor  me. 
The  little  senseless,  worthless,  wordless 

babe, 
Saved  when  your  life  was  wreck'd ! 

Father.  Desolate?  yes! 

Desolate  as  that  sailor,  whom  the  storm 
Had  parted  from  his  comrade  in  the  boat, 
And  dash'd  half  dead  on  barren  sands, 

was  I. 
Nay,  you  were  my  one  solace;    only  — 

you 
Were    always    ailing.      I\I Uriel's    mother 

sent. 
And  sure  am  I,  by  Muriel,  one  day  came 
And  saw  you,  shook  her  head,  and  patted 

yours. 
And  smiled,  and  making  with  a  kindly 

pinch 
Each  poor  pale  cheek  a  momentary  rose  — 
*  That  should  be  fix'd,'  she  said;   'your 

pretty  bud. 
So  blighted  herCj  would  flower  into  full 

health 
Among  our  heath  and  bracken.     Let  her 

come  ! 
And  we  will  feed  her  with  our  mountain 

air, 
And    send   her  home  to   you  rejoicing.' 

No  — 
We   could    not    i)art.     And  once,  when 

you  my  girl 
Rode  on  my  shoulder  home  — the  tiny 

fist 


THE  RING. 


795 


Had  graspt  a  daisy  from  your  Mother's 

grave  — 
By  the  lych-gate  was  Muriel.     '  Ay,'  she 

said, 
'Among  the  tombs  in  this  damp  vale  of 

yours  1 
You  scorn  my  Mother's  warning,  but  the 

child 
Is  paler  than  before.     We  often  walk 
In  open  sun,  and  see  beneath  our  feet 
The   mist  of  autumn  gather   from   your 

lake, 
And    shroud    the    tower;    and   once  we 

only  saw 
Your    gilded    vane,    a   light   above    the 

mist '  — 
(Our  old  bright  bird  that  still  is  veering 

there 
Above   his  four   gold  letters)    'and  the 

light,' 
She  said, '  was  like  that  light '  —  and  there 

she  paused, 
And  long;   till  I  believing  that  the  girl's 
Lean    fancy,   groping   for   it,   could    not 

find' 
One  likeness,  laugh'd  a  little  and  found 

her  two  — 
'  A   warrior's    crest    above  the  cloud  of 

war '  — 
'  A  fiery  phoenix  rising  from  the  smoke, 
The  pyre  he  burnt  in.'  —  '  Nay,'  she  said, 

'  the  light 
That  glimmers  on  the  marsh  and  on  the 

grave.' 
And    spoke    no    more,    but    turn'd    and 

pass'd  away. 
Miriam,  I  am  not  surely  one  of  those 
Caught  by  the  flower  that  closes  on  the 

fly, 

But  after  ten  slow  weeks  her  fix'd  intent. 
In  aiming  at  an  all  but  hopeless  mark 
To  strike  it,  struck;    I  took,  I  left  you 

there; 
I    came,   I    went,   was   happier    day   by 

day; 
For  Muriel  nursed  you  with  a  mother's 

care; 
Till   on   that   clear   and   heather-scented 

height 
The  rounder  cheek  had  brighten'd  into 

bloom. 
She   always   came  to  meet  me  carrying 

you, 


And  all   her  talk   was  of  the   babe   she 

loved ; 
So,    following    her   old    pastime    of    the 

brook, 
She    threw  the  flv  for    me;   but  oftener 

left 
That  angling  to  the  mother.     '  Muriel's 

health 
Had   weaken'd,    nursing    little    Miriam. 

Strange  I 
She  used  to  shun  the  wailing  babe,  and 

dotes 
On  this  of  yours.'     But  when  the  matron 

saw 
That  hinted  love  was  only  wasted  bait, 
Not    risen    to,    she    was    bolder.     '  Ever 

since 
You  sent    the   fatal   ring '  —  I   told   her 

'sent 
To  Miriam,'  'Doubtless  —  ay,  but   ever, 

since 
In  all  the  world  my  dear  one  sees  but 

you  — 
In  your  sweet  babe  she  finds  but  you  — 

she  makes 
Her  heart  a  mirror  that  reflects  but  you.' 
And  then  the  tear  fell,  the  voice  broke. 

Her  heart ! 
I  gazed  into  the  mirror,  as  a  man 
^Vho  sees  his  face  in  water,  and  a  stone, 
That   glances   from    the    bottom   of  the 

pool, 
Strike  upward  thro'  the  shadow;   yet  at 

last. 
Gratitude  —  loneliness  —  desire  to  keep 
So  skilled  a  nurse  about  you  always  — 

nay  I 
Some  half  remorseful  kind  of  pity  too  — 
Well  I  well,  you  know  I  married  Muriel 

Erne. 
'  I  take    thee    Muriel  for   mv  wedded 

wife '  — 
I   had    forgotten  it   was   vour   birthdav, 

child  — 
When    all    at    once    with    some    electric 

thrill 
A  cold  air    pass'd    between  us,  and  the 

hands 
Fell   from  each    other,  and  were   join'd 

again. 
No  second  cloudless  honeymoon  was 

mine. 
For  by  and  by  she  sicken'd  of  the  farce. 


796 


THE  RING. 


She  dropt  the  gracious  mask  of  mother- 
hood, 
She  came  no  more  to  meet  me,  carrying 

you. 
Nor  ever  cared  to  set  you  on  her  knee, 
Nor  ever  let  you  gambol  in  her  sight, 
Nor    ever   cheer'd    you   with    a    kindly 

smile, 
Nor  ever  ceased  to  clamour  for  the  ring; 
Why  had  I  sent  the  ring  at  first  to  her? 
Why  had  I  made  her  love  me  thro'  the 

ring. 
And   then    had   changed?  so   fickle  are 

men  —  the  best ! 
Not  she  —  but   now  my  love   was   hers 

again, 
The  ring  by  right,    she    said,  was   hers 

again. 
At    times   too    shrilling    in   her   angrier 

moods, 
'  That  weak  and  watery  nature  love  you? 

No! 
"  lo  t'amo,  lo  t'amo  "  !  '  flung  herself 
Against   my  heart,  but  often  while  her 

lips 
Were    warm     upon   my   cheek,    an   icy 

breath, 
As  from  the  grating  of  a  sepulchre. 
Past  over  both.     I  told  her  of  my  vow, 
No  pliable  idiot  I  to  break  my  vow; 
But  still  she    made    her    outcry  for    the 

ring; 
For  one  monotonous  fancy  madden'd  her. 
Till    I    myself   was  madden'd   with    her 

cry. 
And  even  that  '  lo  t'amo,'   those  three 

sweet 
Italian  words,  became  a  weariness. 
My  people  too  were  scared  with  eerie 

sounds, 
A  footstep,  a  low  throbbing  in  the  walls, 
A  noise  of    falling  weights    that    never 

fell, 
Weird  whispers,  bells  that  rang  without 

a  hand. 
Door-handles  turn'd  when  none  was  at 

the  door, 
And  bolted  doors  that  open'd  of  them- 
selves : 
And  one  betwixt  the  dark  and  light  had 

seen 
Her.,     bending    by    the    cradle    of    her 

babe. 


Miriam.     And  I  remember  once  that 

being  waked 
By   noises   in   the  house  —  and  no    one 

near  — 
I  cried  for  nurse,  and  felt  a  gentle  hand 
Fall  on  my  forehead,  and  a  sudden  face 
Look'd   in  upon   me   like  a  gleam  and 

pass'd 
And  I  was  quieted,  and  slept  again. 
Or  is  it  some  half  memory  of  a  dream? 
Father.     Your  fifth    September  birth- 
day. 
Aliriam.     And  the  face, 
The  hand,  —  my  Mother. 

Father.  Miriam,  on  that  day 

Two  lovers  parted  by  no  scurrilous  tale  — 
Mere  want  of  gold  —  and  still  for  twenty 

years 
Bound  by  the  golden  cord  of  their  first 

love  — 
Had  ask'd  us  to   their  marriage,  and  to 

share 
Their  marriage-banquet.      Muriel,  paler 

then 
Than    ever    you    were    in  your   cradle, 

moan'd, 
'  I  am  fitter  for  my  bed,  or  for  my  grave, 
I    cannot  go,    go  you.'     And    then   she 

rose, 
She   clung  to  me  with  such  a  hard  em- 
brace, 
So  lingeringly  long,  that  half-amazed 
I  parted  from  her,  and  I  went  alone. 
And   when    the   bridegroom    murmur'd, 

'  With  this  ring,' 
I  felt  for  what  I  could  not  find,  the  key, 
The  guardian  of  her  relics,  of  her  ring. 
I  kept  it  as  a  sacred  amulet 
About    me,  —  gone!    and    gone    in  that 

embrace  ! 
Then,  hurrying  home,  I   found   her  not 

in  house 
Or  garden  —  up  the  tower  —  an  icy  air  • 
Fled  by  me. —  There,  the  chest  was  open 

—  all 
The  sacred  relics  tost  about  the  floor  — 
Among  them  Muriel  lying  on  her  face  — 
I  raised  her,  call'd  her,  '  Muriel,  Muriel, 

wake ! ' 
The  fatal  ring  lay  near  her;  the  glazed 

eye 
Glared   at   me   as  in  horror.     Dead !     I 

took 


THE  RING  — FORLORN. 


797 


And  chafed  the  freezing  hand.     A  red 

mark  ran 
All  round  one  finger   pointed   straight, 

the  rest 
Were  crumpled  inwards.     Dead  !  —  and 

maybe  stung 
With  some  remorse,  had  stolen,  worn  the 

ring  — 
Then  torn  it  from  her  finger,  or  as  if — 
For  never  had  I  seen  her  show  remorse  — 
As  if — 

Miriam.  — those  two  Ghost  Lovers  — 
Father.  — lovers  yet  — 

Miriam.     Yes,  yes ! 
Father.     —  but  dead  so  long,  gone  up 

so  far, 
That     now    their    ever-rising    life    has 

dwarf'd 
Or   lost   the    moment  of  their   past  on 

earth, 
As  we  forget  our  wail  at  being  born, 
Asif— 

Miriam.      —  a  dearer  ghost  had  — 
Father.  —  wrench'd  it  away. 

Aliriam.      Had    floated    in   with    sad 

reproachful  eyes, 
Till  from  her  own  hand  she  had  torn  the 

ring 
In  fright,  and  fallen  dead.     And  I  my- 
self 
Am  half  afraid  to  wear  it. 

Father.  Well,  no  more  ! 

No  bridal  music  this  !  but  fear  not  you ! 
You   have    the    ring   she    guarded;   that 

poor  link 
With  earth  is  broken,  and  has  left  her 

free, 
Except  that,  still   drawn   downward  for 

an  hour, 
Her  spirit  hovering  by  the  church,  where 

she 
Was   married   too,  may   linger,  till   she 

sees 
Her  maiden  coming  like  a  Queen,  who 

leaves 
Some  colder  province  in  the  North  to 

gain 
Her  capital  city,  where  the  loyal  bells 
Clash  welcome  —  linger,  till  her  own,  the 

babe 
She  lean'd  to  from  her  Spiritual  sphere. 
Her  lonely  maiden-Princess,  crown'd  with 

flowers, 


Has  enter'd  on  the  larger  woman-world 
Of  wives  and  mothers. 

But  the  bridal  veil  — 
Your  nurse  is  waiting.     Kiss  me,  child, 
and  go. 


FORLORN. 


'  He  is  fled  —  I  wish  him  dead  — 
He  that  wrought  my  ruin  — 
O  the  flattery  and  the  craft 
Which  were  my  undoing  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 
When  the  storms  are  blowing. 

II. 

*  Who  was  witness  of  the  crime? 
Who  shall  now  reveal  it? 
He  is  fled,  or  he  is  dead. 

Marriage  will  conceal  it  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  in  the  night. 
While  the  gloom  is  growing.' 

III. 

Catherine,  Catherine,  in  the  night. 
What  is  this  you're  dreaming? 

There  is  laughter  down  in  Hell 
At  your  simple  scheming  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 
When  the  ghosts  are  fleeting. 

IV. 

You  to  place  a  hand  in  his 
Like  an  honest  woman's, 

You  that  lie  with  wasted  lungs 
Waiting  for  your  summons  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  O  the  night, 
O  the  deathwatch  beating ! 


There  will  come  a  witness  soon 
Hard  to  be  confuted. 

All  the  world  will  hear  a  voice 
Scream  you  are  polluted  .  .  , 
In  the  night,  O  the  night, 
When  the  owls  are  wailing ! 


798 


FORL  ORN  —  HAPP  Y. 


VI. 

Shame  and   marriage,  Shame  and    mar- 
riage, 

Fright  and  foul  dissembling, 
Bantering  bridesman,  reddening  priest, 

Tower  and  altar  trembling  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  O  the  night, 

When  the  mind  is  failing ! 

VII. 

Mother,  dare  you  kill  your  child? 

How  your  hand  is  shaking ! 
Daughter  of  the  seed  of  Cain, 

What  is  this  you're  taking?  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  O  the  night. 

While  the  house  is  sleeping. 

VIII. 

Dreadful !  has  it  come  to  this, 

O  unhappy  creature? 
You  that  would  not  tread  on  a  worm 

For  your  gentle  nature  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  O  the  night, 

O  the  night  of  weeping  ! 

IX. 

Murder  would  not  veil  your  sin, 

Marriage  will  not  hide  it, 
Earth  and  Hell  will  brand  your  name 

Wretch  you  must  abide  it  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  O  the  night, 

Long  before  the  dawning. 


Up,  get  up,  and  tell  him  all, 

Tell  him  you  were  lying ! 
Do  not  die  with  a  lie  in  your  mouth, 

You  that  know  you're  dying  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  O  the  night. 

While  the  grave  is  yawning. 


XI. 


No  —  you  will  not  die  before, 
Tho'  you'll  ne'er  be  stronger; 

You  will  live  till  that  is  born, 
Then  a  little  longer  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  O  the  night, 
While  the  Fiend  is  prowling. 


XII. 


Death   and  mar- 


Death    and   marriage 
riage ! 

Funeral  hearses  rolling ! 
Black  with  bridal  favours  mixt ! 

Bridal  bells  with  tolling !   .  .  . 

In  the  night,  O  the  night. 

When  the  wolves  are  howling. 

XIII. 

Up,  get  up,  the  time  is  short, 

Tell  him  now  or  never ! 
Tell  him  all  before  you  die, 

Lest  you  die  for  ever  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  O  the  night, 

Where  there's  no  forgetting. 

XIV. 

Up  she  got,  and  wrote  him  all. 
All  her  tale  of  sadness, 

Blister'd  every  word  with  tears, 
And  eased  her  heart  of  madness  , 
In  the  night,  and  nigh  the  dawn, 
And  while  the  moon  was  setting. 


HAPPY. 

THE   leper's   bride. 
I. 

Why  wail  you,  pretty  plover?  and  what 
is  it  that  you  fear? 
Is  he  sick  your  mate  like  mine?  have 
you  lost  him,  is  he  fled? 
And    there  —  the    heron  rises   from   his 
watch  beside  the  mere, 
And  flies  above  the  leper's  hut,  where 
lives  the  living-dead. 

II. 

Come  back,  nor  let  me  know  it !  would 
he  live  and  die  alone? 
And  has  he  not  forgiven  me  yet,  his 
over-jealous  bride, 
Who  am,  and  was,  and  will  be  his,  his 
own  and  only  own, 
To  share  his  living    death  with    him, 
die  with  him  side  by  side? 


HAPPY. 


799 


HI. 

Is    that   the    leper's  hut  on  the  soHtary 
moor, 
Where  noble  Ulric  dwells  forlorn,  and 
wears  the  leper's  weed? 
The  door  is  open.      He !  is  he  standing 
at  the  door, 
My  soldier  of  the  Cross?  it  is  he  and 
he  indeed ! 

IV. 

My    roses  —  will    he   take    them   7iow  — 
mine,  his  —  from  off  the  tree 
We  planted  both   together,  happy  in 
our  marriage  morn? 
O  God,  I  could  blaspheme,  for  he  fought 
Thy  fight  for  Thee, 
And  Thou  hast  made  him  leper  to  com- 
pass him  with  scorn  — 


Hast  spared  the  flesh  of  thousands,  the 
coward  and  the  base, 
And  set  a  crueller  mark  than  Cain's  on 
him,  the  good  and  brave  ! 
He  sees  me,  waves  me  from  him.     I  will 
front  him  face  to  face. 
You  need  not  wave  me  from  you.     I 
would  leap  into  your  grave. 


VI. 

My  warrior  of  the  Holy  Cross  and  of  the 
conquering  sword. 
The  roses  that  you  cast  aside  —  once 
more  I  bring  you  these. 
No  nearer?  do  you  scorn  me  when  you 
tell  me,  O  my  lord. 
You  would  not  mar  the  beauty  of  your 
bride  with  your  disease. 

VII. 

You  say  your  body  is  so  foul  —  then  here 
I  stand  apart. 
Who  yearn  to  lay  my  loving  head  upon 
your  leprous  breast. 
The  leper  plague  may  scale  my  skin  but 
never  taint  my  heart; 
Your  body  is  not  foul  to  me,  and  body 
is  foul  at  best. 


VIII. 

I  loved  you  first  when  young  and   fair, 
but  now  I  love  you  most; 
The  fairest  flesh  at  last  is  filth  on  which 
the  worm  will  feast; 
This  poor  rib-grated  dungeon  of  the  holy 
human  ghost, 
This  house  with  all  its  hateful  needs  no 
cleaner  than  the  beast, 

IX. 

This  coarse  diseaseful  creature  which  in 
Eden  was  divine, 
This    Satan-haunted    ruin,    this    little 
city  of  sewers, 
This  wall  of  solid  flesh  that  comes  between 
your  soul  and  mine, 
Will   vanish    and    give    place    to    the 
beauty  that  endures, 


The  beauty  that  endures  on  the  Spiritual 
height, 
When  we  shall  stand  transfigured,  like 
Christ  on  Hermon  hill. 
And  moving  each  to  music,  soul  in  soul 
and  light  in  light, 
Shall    flash    thro'    one    another    in    a 
moment  as  we  will. 


XI. 


Foul !     foul !     the    word    was   yours   not 
mine,  I  worship  that  right  hand 
Which  fell'd  the  foes  before  you  as  the 
woodman  fells  the  wood, 
And  sway'd  the  sword  that  lighten'd  back 
the  sun  of  Holy  land, 
And  clove  the  Moslem  crescent  moon, 
and  changed  it  into  blood. 


XII. 


And    once    I    worshipt  all  too  well  this 
creature  of  decay. 
For  Age  will  chink  the  face,  and  Death 
will  freeze  the  supplest  limbs  — 
Yet  you  in  your  mid  manhood  —  O.  the 
grief  when  yesterday 
They  bore  the  Cross  before  you  to  the 
chant  of  funeral  hymns. 


8oo 


HAPPY. 


XIII. 

XVIII. 

'Libera    me,   Domine ! '    you   sang   the 

You  never  once  accused  me,  but  I  wept 

Psalm,  and  when 

alone,  and  sigh'd 

The  Priest  pronounced  you  dead,  and 

In  the  winter  of  the  Present  for  the 

flung  the  mould  upon  your  feet, 

summer  of  the  Past; 

A  beauty  came  upon  your  face,  not  that 

That   icy  winter   silence  —  how  it  froze 

of  living  men, 

you  from  your  bride, 

But  seen  upon  the  silent  brow  when 

Tho'  I  made  one  barren  effort  to  break 

life  has  ceased  to  beat. 

it  at  the  last. 

XIV. 

XIX. 

*  Libera  nos,  Domine '  —  you    knew  not 

I  brought  you,  you  remember,  these  roses, 

one  was  there 

when  I  knew 

Who  saw  you  kneel  beside  your  bier, 

You  were  parting  for  the  war,  and  you 

and  weeping  scarce  could  see; 

took  them  tho'  you  frown'd; 

May  I  come  a  little  nearer,  I  that  heard, 

You  frown'd  and  yet  you  kiss'd  them. 

and  changed  the  prayer 

All  at  once  the  trumpet  blew. 

And  sang  the  married  '  nos '  for   the 

And  you  spurr'd  your  fiery  horse,  and 

solitary  '  me.' 

you  hurl'd  them  to  the  ground. 

XV. 

XX. 

My  beauty  marred  by  you?    by  you!  so 

You  parted  for  the  Holy  War  without  a 

be  it.     All  is  well 

word  to  me, 

If  I  lose  it  and  myself  in  the  higher 

And  clear  myself  unask'd  —  not  I.     My 

beauty,  yours. 

nature  was  too  proud. 

My  beauty  lured   that   falcon    from  his 

And  him  I  saw  but  once  again,  and  far 

eyry  on  the  fell, 

away  was  he. 

Who  never  caught  one  gleam  of  the 

When  I  was  praying  in  a  storm  —  the 

beauty  which  endures  — 

crash  was  long  and  loud  — 

XVI. 

XXI. 

The  Count  who  sought  to  snap  the  bond 

That  God  would  ever  slant  His  bolt  from 

that  link'd  us  life  to  life. 

falling  on  your  head  — 

Who  whisper'd  me,  '  Your  Ulric  loves  ' 

Then  I  lifted  up  my  eyes,  he  was  coming 

—  a  little  nearer  still  — 

down  the  fell  — 

He   hiss'd,  '  Let   us   revenge    ourselves. 

I  clapt  my  hands.     The  sudden  fire  from 

your  Ulric  woos  my  wife '  — 

Heaven  had  dash'd  him  dead, 

A  lie  by  which  he  thought  he  could 

And  sent  him  charr'd  and  blasted  to 

subdue  me  to  his  will. 

the  deathless  fire  of  Hell. 

XVII. 

XXII. 

I  knew  that  you  were  near  me  when  I 

See,  I  sinn'd  but  for  a  moment.     I  re- 

let him  kiss  my  brow; 

pented  and  repent. 

Did  he  touch  me  on  the  lips?  I  was 

And  trust  myself  forgiven  by  the  God 

jealous,  anger'd,  vain. 

to  whom  I  kneel. 

And  I  meant  to  make  yoti  jealous.     Are 

A  little  nearer?     Yes.     I  shall  hardly  be 

you  jealous  of  me  now? 

content 

Your  pardon,  0  my  love,  if  I  ever  gave 

Till  I  be  leper  like  yourself,  my  love. 

you  pain. 

from  head  to  heel. 

HAPPY. 


8oi 


XXIII. 

0  foolish  dreams,  that  you,  that  I,  would 

slight  our  marriage  oath  : 
I  held  you  at  that  moment  even  dearer 

than  before; 
Now  God  has  made  you  leper  in   His 

loving  care  for  both, 
That  we  might  cling  together,  never 

doubt  each  other  more. 

XXIV. 

The  Priest,  who  join'd  you  to  the  dead, 
has  join'd  our  hands  of  old; 
If  man  and  wife  be  but  one  flesh,  let 
mine  be  leprous  too, 
As  dead  from  all  the  human  race  as  if 
beneath  the  mould; 
If  you  be  dead,  then  I  am  dead,  who 
only  live  for  you. 

XXV. 

Would  Earth  tho'  hid  in  cloud  not  be 
foUow'd  by  the  Moon? 
The   leech  forsake  the  dying  bed  for 
terror  of  his  life? 
The  shadow  leave  the  Substance  in  the 
brooding  light  of  noon? 
Or  if  /  had  been  the  leper  would  you 
have  left  the  wife? 

XXVI. 

Not  take  them !     Still  you  wave  me  off 
—  poor  roses  —  must  I  go  — 
I  have  worn  them  year  by  year  —  from 
the  bush  we  both  had  set  — 
What?  fling  them  to  you?  —  well  —  that 
were  hardly  gracious.     No  ! 
Your  plague  but  passes  by  the  touch. 
A  little  nearer  yet  I 

XXVII. 

There,  there  I    he  buried  you,  the  Priest; 
the  Priest  is  not  to  blame. 
He  joins  us  once  again,  to  his  either 
office  true  : 

1  thank    him.     I    am    happy,     happy. 

Kiss  me.     In  the  name 
Of  the  everlasting  God,  I  will  live  and 
die  with  you. 

3F 


[Dean  Mii.man  has  remarked  that  the  protection 
and  care  afforded  by  the  Church  to  this  blighted 
race  of  lepers  was  among  the  most  beautiful  of 
its  offices  during  the  Middle  Ages.  The  leprosy 
of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  was 
supposed  to  be  a  legacy  of  the  crusades,  but  was 
in  all  probability  the  offspring  of  meagre  and 
unwholesome  diet,  miserable  lodging  and  cloth- 
ing, physical  and  moral  degradation.  The  ser- 
vices of  the  Church  in  the  seclusion  of  these 
unhappy  sufferers  were  most  affecting.  The  stern 
duty  of  looking  to  the  public  welfare  is  tempered 
with  exquisite  compassion  for  the  victims  of  this 
loathsome  disease.  The  ritual  for  the  sequestra- 
tion of  the  leprous  differed  little  from  the  burial 
service.  After  the  leper  had  been  sprinkled  with 
holy  water,  the  priest  conducted  him  into  the 
church,  the  leper  singing  the  psalm  '  Libera  me 
domine,'  and  the  crucifix  and  bearer  going  before. 
In  the  church  a  black  cloth  was  stretched  over 
two  trestles  in  front  of  the  altar,  and  the  leper 
leaning  at  its  side  devoutly  heard  mass.  The 
priest,  taking  up  a  little  earth  in  his  cloak,  threw 
it  on  one  of  the  leper's  feet,  and  put  him  out  of 
the  church,  if  it  did  not  rain  too  heavily;  took 
him  to  his  hut  in  the  midst  of  the  fields,  and  then 
uttered  the  prohibitions:  '  I  forbid  you  entering 
the  church  ....  or  entering  the  company  of 
others.  I  forbid  you  quitting  your  home  without 
your  leper's  dress."  He  concluded:  '  Take  this 
dress,  and  wear  it  in  token  of  humility;  take 
these  gloves,  take  this  clapper,  as  a  sign  that  you 
are  forbidden  to  speak  to  any  one.  You  are  not 
to  be  indignant  at  being  thus  separated  from 
others,  and  as  to  your  little  wants,  good  people 
will  provide  for  you,  and  God  will  not  desert 
you.'  Then  in  this  old  ritual  follow  these  sad 
words :  '  When  it  shall  come  to  pass  that  the 
leper  shall  pass  out  of  this  world,  he  shall  be 
buried  in  his  hut,  and  not  in  the  churchyard.' 
At  first  there  was  a  doubt  whether  wives  should 
follow  their  husbands  who  had  been  leprous,  or 
remain  in  the  world  and  marry  again.  The 
Church  decided  that  the  marriage-tie  was  indis- 
soluble, and  so  bestowed  on  these  unhappy  beings 
this  immense  source  of  consolation.  With  a  love 
stronger  than  this  living  death,  lepers  were  fol- 
lowed into  banishment  from  the  haunts  of  men 
by  their  faithful  wives.  Readers  of  Sir  J. 
Stephen's  Essays  on  Ecclesiastical  Biography 
will  recollect  the  description  of  the  founder  of  the 
Franciscan  order,  how,  controlling  his  involun- 
tary disgust,  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  washed  the 
feet  and  dressed  the  sores  of  the  lepers,  once  at 
least  reverently  applying  his  lips  to  their  wpunds. 

—  BOL'CHER-J.-\MES.] 

This  ceremony  of  qitasi-\i\\x\2\  varied  consider- 
ably at   different  times  and  in   different  places. 


802 


TO    ULYSSES. 


In  some  cases  a  grave  was  dug,  and  the  leper's 
face  was  often  covered  during  the  service. 


TO  ULYSSES.  1 
I. 

Ulysses,  much-experienced  man, 

Whose  eyes  have  known  this  globe  of 

ours, 
Her   tribes   of   men,    and   trees,    and 
flowers, 
From  Corrientes  to  Japan, 


To  you  that  bask  below  the  Line, 
I  soaking  here  in  winter  wet  — 
The  century's  three  strong  eights  have 
met 

To  drag  me  down  to  seventy-nine 

III. 

In  summer  if  I  reach  my  day  — 

To  you,  yet  young,  who  breathe  the 

balm 
Of  summer-winters  by  the  palm 

And  orange  grove  of  Paraguay, 

IV. 

I  tolerant  of  the  colder  time. 

Who  love  the  winter  woods,  to  trace 
On  paler  heavens  the  branching  grace 

Of  leafless  elm,  or  naked  lime. 


And  see  my  cedar  green,  and  there 

My  giant  ilex  keeping  leaf 

When    frost    is    keen    and    days    are 
brief — 
Or  marvel  how  in  English  air 

VI. 

My  yucca,  which  no  winter  quells, 

Altho'  the  months  have  scarce  begun. 
Has  push'd  toward  our  faintest  sun 

A  spike  of  half-accomplish'd  bells  — 

VII. 

Or  watch  the  waving  pine  which  here 
The  warrior  of  Caprera  set,'-^ 


A  name  that  earth  will  not  forget 
Till  earth  has  roll'd  her  latest  year  — 


VIII. 


I,  once  half-crazed  for  larger  light 
On  broader  zones  beyond  the  foam, 
But  chaining  fancy  now  at  home 

Among  the  quarried  downs  of  Wight, 


IX. 


Not  less  would  yield  full  thanks  to  you 
For  your  rich  gift,  your  tale  of  lands 
I  know  not,^  your  Arabian  sands; 

Your  cane,  your  palm,  tree-fern,  bamboo, 


The  wealth  of  tropic  bower  and  brake; 

Your  Oriental  Eden-isles,* 

Where  man,  nor  only  Nature  smiles; 
Your  wonder  of  the  boiling  lake;  ^ 

XI. 

Phra-Chai,  the  Shadow  of  the  Best,^ 
Phra-bat"  the  step;  your  Pontic  coast; 
Crag- cloister;  ^  Anatolian  Ghost ;^ 

Hong-Kong,io  Karnac,^i  and  all  the  rest. 

XII. 

Thro'  which  I  foUow'd  line  by  line 

Your   leading    hand,    and    came,    my 

friend. 
To  prize  your  various  book,  and  send 

A  gift  of  slenderer  value,  mine. 

^  '  Ulysses,'  the  title  of  a  number  of  essays  by 
W.  G.  Palgrave.  He  died  at  Monte  Video  before 
seeing  my  poem. 

2  Garibaldi  said  to  me,  alluding  to  his  barren 
island,  '  I  wish  I  had  your  trees.' 

3  The  tale  of  Nejd. 
*  The  Philippines. 
''  In  Dominica. 

^  The  Shadow  of  the  Lord.  Certain  obscure 
markings  on  a  rock  in  Siam,  which  express  the 
image  of  Buddha  to  the  Buddhist  more  or  less 
distinctly  according  to  his  faith  and  his  moral 
worth. 

^  The  footstep  of  the  Lord  on  another  rock. 

8  The  monastery  of  Sumelas. 

'*  Anatolian  Spectre  stories. 
>"  The  Three  Cities. 

"  Travels  in  Egypt. 


TO  MARY  BOYLE. 


803 


TO   MARY   BOYLE. 
With  the  following  Poem. 


•  Spring  -  flowers  ' !     While     you    still 
delay  to  take 

Your  leave  of  Town, 
Our    elmtree's    ruddy-hearted    blossom- 
flake 

Is  fluttering  down. 

II. 

Be   truer   to   your   promise.     There !     I 
heard 

Our  cuckoo  call. 
Be  needle  to  the  magnet  of  your  word, 

Nor  wait,  till  all 

hi. 

Our  vernal  bloom  from  every  vale  and 
plain 

x\nd  garden  pass, 
And  all  the  gold  from  each   laburnum 
chain 

Drop  to  the  grass. 

IV. 

Is  memory  with  your  Marian   gone   to 
rest, 

Dead  with  the  dead? 
For  ere  she  left  us,  when  we  met,  you 
prest 

My  hand,  and  said 


*  I  come  with  your  spring-flowers.'     You 
came  not,  friend; 

My  birds  would  sing, 
You  heard  not.     Take  then  this  spring- 
flower  I  send, 

This  song  of  spring, 

VI. 

Found   yesterday  —  forgotten  mine  own 
rhyme 

By  mine  old  self, 
As  I  shall  be  forgotten  by  old  Time, 

Laid  on  the  shelf — 


VI  I. 

A  rhyme  that  flower'd  betwixt  the  whiten- 
ing sloe 

And  kingcup  blaze, 
And  more  than  half  a  hundred  years  ago, 

In  rick-fire  days, 

VIII. 

When  Dives  loathed  the  times,  and  paced 
his  land 

In  fear  of  worse, 
And  sanguine  Lazarus  felt  a  vacant  hand 

Fill  with  his  purse. 

IX. 

For  lowly  minds  were  madden'd  to  the 
height 

By  tonguester  tricks, 
And  once  —  I  well  remember  that  red 
night 

When  thirty  ricks, 


All  flaming,  made  an  English  homestead 
Hell  — 

These  hands  of  mine 
Have  helpt  to  pass  a  bucket  from  the  well 

Along  the  line, 

XI. 

When  this  bare  dome  had  not  begun  to 
gleam 

Thro'  youthful  curls. 
And  you  were  then  a  lover's  fairy  dream, 
His  girl  of  girls; 

XII. 

And  you,  that  now  are  lonely,  and  with 
Grief 

Sit  face  to  face, 
Might  find  a  flickering  glimmer  of  relief 

In  change  of  place. 

XIII. 

What  use  to  brood?  this  life  of  mingled 
pains 

And  joys  to  me. 
Despite  of  everv  Faith  and  Creed,  remains 
The  Mystery. 


8o4 


THE  PROGRESS   OF  SPRING. 


XIV. 

Let  golden  youth  bewail  the  friend,  the 
wife, 

For  ever  gone. 
He  dreams  of  that  long  walk  thro'  desert 
life 

Without  the  one. 

XV. 

The  silver  year  should  cease  to  mourn 
and  sigh  — 

Not  long  to  wait  — 
So  close  are  we,  dear  Mary,  you  and  I 

To  that  dim  gate. 

XVI. 

Take,  read  !  and  be  the  faults  your  Poet 
makes 

Or  many  or  few. 
He   rests   content,    if  his   young   music 
wakes 

A  wish  in  you 

XVII. 

To  change  our  dark  Queen-city,  all  her 
realm 

Of  sound  and  smoke, 
For  his  clear  heaven,  and  these  few  lanes 
of  elm 

And  whispering  oak. 


THE   PROGRESS   OF   SPRING.. 


The  groundflame  of  the  crocus  breaks 
the  mould, 
Fair     Spring    slides    hither    o'er    the 
Southern  sea, 
Wavers  on  her  thin  stem  the  snowdrop 
cold 
That   trembles   not    to   kisses   of  the 
bee  : 
Come,    Spring,    for    now    from    all   the 
dripping  eaves 
The  spear  of  ice  has  wept  itself  away, 
And  hour  by  hour  unfolding  woodbine 
leaves 
O'er  his  uncertain  shadow  droops  the 
day. 


She  comes!    The  loosen'd  rivulets  run; 
The  frost-bead  melts  upon  her  golden 
hair; 
Her  mantle,  slowly  greening  in  the  Sun, 
Now  wraps    her    close,    now  arching 

leaves  her  bare 
To  breaths  of  balmier  air; 

II. 

Up  leaps  the  lark,  gone  wild  to  welcome 
her. 
About  her  glance  the  tits,  and  shriek 
the  jays. 
Before  her  skims  the  jubilant  woodpecker, 
The  linnet's  bosom  blushes  at  her  gaze. 
While  round  her  brows  a  woodland  culver 
flits. 
Watching   her    large   light   eyes   and 
gracious  looks, 
And  in  her  open  palm  a  halcyon  sits 
Patient  —  the  secret  splendour  of  the 
brooks. 
Come,  Spring !     She  comes  on  waste  and 
wood. 
On  farm  and  field  :  but  enter  also  here. 
Diffuse  thyself  at  will  thro'  all  my  blood. 
And,  tho'  thy  violet  sicken  into  sere. 
Lodge  with  me  all  the  year ! 

III. 

Once  more    a   downy   drift   against   the 
brakes, 
Self-darken'd  in  the  sky,  descending 
slow ! 
But  gladly  see  I  thro'  the  wavering  flakes 
Yon    blanching   apricot   like  snow  in 
snow. 
These  will  thine  eyes  not  brook  in  forest- 
paths, 
On    their   perpetual   pine,    nor    round 
the  beech; 
They  fuse  themselves  to  little  spicy  baths, 
Solved  in  the  tender   blushes  of  the 
peach; 
They  lose  themselves  and  die 

On  that  new  life  that  gems  the  haw- 
thorn line; 
Thy  gay  lent-lilies  wave  and  put  them  by, 
And  out  once  more  in  varnish'd  glory 

shine 
Thy  stars  of  celandine. 


THE   PROGRESS   OF  SPRING. 


805 


IV. 

She  floats  across  the  hamlet.      Heaven 
lours, 
But   in  the   tearful  splendour   of  her 
smiles 
I    see    the    slowly-thickening    chestnut 
towers 
Fill  out  the  spaces  by  the  barren  tiles. 
Now  past  her  feet  the  swallow  circling  flies, 
A  clamorous   cuckoo    stoops  to  meet 
her  hand; 
Her  light  makes  rainbows  in  my  closing 
eyes, 
I  hear  a  charm  of  song  thro'  all  the 
land. 
Come,  Spring !      She  comes,  and  Earth 
is  glad 
To  roll  her  North  below  thy  deepening 
dome. 
But  ere  thy  maiden  birk  be  wholly  clad. 
And  these  low  bushes  dip  their  twigs 

in  foam, 
Make  all  true  hearths  thy  home. 


Across  my  garden  !  and  the  thicket  stirs. 

The  fountain  pulses  high  in  sunnier  jets. 

The  blackcap  warbles,  and  the  turtle  purrs. 

The  starling  claps  his  tiny  castanets. 
Still   round    her    forehead    wheels    the 
woodland  dove. 
And  scatters  on  her  throat  the  sparks 
of  dew, 
The  kingcup  fills  her  footprint,  and  above 
Broaden    the  glowing  isles  of  vernal 
blue. 
Hail  ample  presence  of  a  Queen, 

Bountiful,  beautiful,  apparell'd  gay. 
Whose  mantle,  every  shade  of  glancing 
green, 
Flies  back  in  fragrant  breezes  to  display 
A  tunic  white  as  May  ! 

VI. 

She  whispers,  *  From  the  South  I  bring 
you  balm, 
For  on  a  tropic  mountain  was  I  born, 
While  some  dark   dweller  by  the  coco- 
palm 
Watch'd  my  far   meadow  zoned  with 
airy  morn; 


From   under    rose    a   muffled    moan   of 
floods; 
I  sat  beneath  a  solitude  of  snow; 
There  no  one  came,  the  turf  was  fresh, 
the  woods 
Plunged    gulf  on  gulf  thro'  all   their 
vales  below. 
I  saw  beyond  their  silent  tops 

The   steaming  marshes  of  the  scarlet 
cranes, 
The  slant  seas  leaning  on  the  mangrove 
copse. 
And   summer    basking   in    the   sultry 

plains 
About  a  land  of  canes; 

VII. 

'Then   from   my   vapour-girdle    soaring 
forth 
I  scaled  the  buoyant  highway  of  the 
birds, 
And  drank  the  dews  and  drizzle  of  the 
North, 
That  I  might  mix  with  men,  and  hear 
their  words 
On   pathway'd    plains;    for  —  while   my 
hand  exults 
Within    the   bloodless  heart  of  lowly 
flowers 
To   work    old    laws   of    Love    to    fresh 
results. 
Thro'  manifold  effect  of  simplepowers — 
I  too  would  teach  the  man 

Beyond   the   darker  hour   to   see  the 
bright, 
That  his  fresh  life  may  close  as  it  began, 
The  still-fulfilling  promise  of  a  light 
Narrowing  the  bounds  of  night.' 

VIII. 

So  wed  thee  with  my  soul,  that  I  may 
mark 
The    coming    year's   great   good   and 
varied  ills. 
And  new  developments,  whatever  spark 
Be  struck  from  out  the  clash  of  warring 
wills ; 
Or  whether,  since  our  nature  cannot  rest, 
The    smoke    of   war's   volcano    burst 
again 
From  hoary  deeps  that  belt  the  changeful 
West, 


8o6 


MERLIN  AND    THE    GLEAM. 


Old    Empires,   dwellings  of  the  kings 

Great  the  Master, 

of  men; 

And  sweet  the  Magic, 

Or  should  those  fail,  that  hold  the  helm, 

When  over  the  valley, 

While    the    long   day    of    knowledge 

In  early  summers. 

grows  and  warms, 

Over  the  mountain, 

And  in  the    heart  of  this   most  ancient 

On  human  faces. 

realm 

And  all  around  me, 

A  hateful  voice  be  utter'd  and  alarms 

Moving  to  melody. 

Sounding  '  To  arms !  to  arms ! ' 

Floated  The  Gleam. 

IX, 

III. 

A  simpler,  saner  lesson  might  he  learn 

Once  at  the  croak  of  a  Raven 

Who  reads  thy  gradual  process.  Holy 

who  crost  it, 

Spring. 

A  barbarous  people. 

Thy  leaves  possess  the  season  in  their 

Blind  to  the  magic, 

turn. 

And  deaf  to  the  melody. 

And  in  their  time  thy  warblers  rise  on 

Snarl'd  at  and  cursed  me. 

wing. 

A  demon  vext  me. 

How  surely  glidest  thou  from  March  to 

The  light  retreated. 

May, 

The  landskip  darken'd, 

And  changest,  breathing  it,  the  sullen 

The  melody  deaden'd. 

wind. 

The  Master  whisper'd. 

Thy  scope  of  operation,  day  by  day. 

'  Follow  The  Gleam.' 

Larger  and  fuller,  like  the  human  mind  ! 

. 

Thy  w^armths  from  bud  to  bud 

IV. 

Accomplish    that    blind  model  in  the 

1 

Then  to  the  melody. 

seed, 

Over  a  wilderness 

And  men   have    hopes,  which    race    the 
restless  blood. 

Gliding,  and  glancing  at 
Elf  of  the  woodland. 

That  after  many  changes  may  succeed 

Gnome  of  the  cavern, 

Life,  which  is  Life  indeed. 

Griffin  and  Giant, 

And  dancing  of  Fairies 

In  desolate  hollows. 

MERLIN   AND   THE   GLEAM. 

And  wraiths  of  the  mountain. 

And  rolling  of  dragons 

I. 

By  warble  of  water. 

O  YOUNG  Mariner, 

Or  cataract  music 

You  from  the  haven 

Of  falling  torrents. 

Under  the  sea-cliff, 

Flitted  The  Gleam. 

You  that  are  watching 

The  gray  Magician 

V. 

With  eyes  of  wonder, 

Down  from  the  mountain 

/am  Merlin, 

And  over  the  level. 

And  /  am  dying. 

And  streaming  and  shining  on 

/  am  Merlin 

Silent  river, 

Who  follow  The  Gleam. 

Silvery  willow. 

Pasture  and  plowland, 

II. 

Innocent  maidens, 

Mighty  the  Wizard 

Garrulous  children, 

Who  found  me  at  sunrise 

Homestead  and  harvest. 

Sleeping,  and  woke  me 

Reaper  and  gleaner. 

And  learn'd  me  Magic  ! 

And  rough-ruddy  faces 

MERLIN  AND    THE    GLEAM  —  ROMNEY'S  REMORSE.         807 


Of  lowly  labour, 
Slided  The  Gleam  — 

VI. 

Then,  with  a  melody 
Stronger  and  statelier, 
Led  me  at  length 
To  the  city  and  palace 
Of  Arthur  the  king; 
Touch'd  at  the  golden 
Cross  of  the  churches, 
Flash'd  on  the  Tournament, 
Flicker'd  and  bicker'd 
From  helmet  to  helmet, 
And  last  on  the  forehead 
Of  Arthur  the  blameless 
Rested  The  Gleam. 

VII. 

Clouds  and  darkness 

Closed  upon  Camelot; 

Arthur  had  vanish'd 

I  knew  not  whither, 

The  king  who  loved  me. 

And  cannot  die; 

For  out  of  the  darkness 

Silent  and  slowly 

The  Gleam,  that  had  waned  to  a 

wintry  glimmer 
On  icy  fallow 
And  faded  forest, 
Drew  to  the  valley 
Named  of  the  shadow. 
And  slowly  brightening 
Out  of  the  glimmer. 
And    slowly   moving    again    to    a 

melody 
Yearningly  tender, 
Fell  on  the  shadow. 
No  longer  a  shadow. 
But  clothed  with  The  Gleam. 

VIII. 

And  broader  and  brighter 
The  Gleam  flying  onward, 
Wed  to  the  melody, 
Sang  thro'  the  world; 
And  slower  and  fainter, 
Old  and  weary. 
But  eager  to  follow, 
I  saw,  whenever 
tn  passing  it  glanced  upon 


Hamlet  or  city. 
That  under  the  Crosses 
The  dead  man's  garden, 
The  mortal  hillock, 
Would  break  into  blossom 
And  so  to  the  land's 

Last  limit  I  came 

And  can  no  longer. 

But  die  rejoicing, 

For  thro'  the  Magic 

Of  Him  the  Mighty, 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood, 

There  on  the  border 

Of  boundless  Ocean, 

And  all  but  in  Heaven 

Hovers  The  Gleam. 

IX. 

Not  of  the  sunlight. 
Not  of  the  moonlight, 
Not  of  the  starlight ! 
O  young  Mariner, 
Down  to  the  haven, 
Call  your  companions, 
Launch  your  vessel, 
And  crowd  your  canvas, 
And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin, 
After  it,  follow  it, 
Follow  The  Gleam, 


ROMNEY'S   REMORSE. 

'  I  read  Hayley's  Life  of  Romney  the  other 
day  —  Romney  wanted  but  education  and  reading 
to  make  him  a  very  fine  painter;  but  his  ideal 
was  not  high  nor  fixed.  How  touching  is  the 
close  of  his  life!  He  married  at  nineteen,  and 
because  Sir  Joshua  and  others  had  said  that 
"  marriage  spoilt  an  artist  "  almost  immediately 
left  his  wife  in  the  North  and  scarce  saw  her  till 
the  end  of  his  life;  when  old,  nearly  mad.  and 
quite  desolate,  he  went  back  to  her  and  she 
received  him  and  nursed  him  till  he  died.  This 
quiet  act  of  hers  is  worth  all  Romney's  pictures! 
even  as  a  matter  of  Art,  I  am  sure.'  {Letters 
and  Literary  Remains  of  Edward  Fitzgerald, 
vol.  i.) 

'  I5eat,  little  heart  —  I  give  you  this  and 
this,' 
Who    are    you?       What  I    the    Lady 
Hamilton? 


8o8 


ROMNEY'S  REMORSE. 


Good,  I  am  never  weary  painting  you. 
To   sit   once    more?     Cassandra,    Hebe, 

Joan, 
Or   spinning   at   your  wheel  beside   the 

vine  — 
Bacchante,  what  you  will;   and  if  I  fail 
To  conjure  and  concentrate  into  form 
And  colour  all  you  are,  the  fault  is  less 
In  me  than  Art.     What  Artist  ever  yet 
Could  make  pure  light  live  on  the  canvas? 

Art! 
Why   should    I    so    disrelish    that    short 

word  ? 
Where  am  I?  snow  on  all  the  hills! 

so  hot, 
So  fever'd !  never  colt  would  more  de- 
light 
To  roll  himself  in  meadow  grass  than  I 
To  wallow  in  that  winter  of  the  hills. 
Nurse,  were    you  hired?    or  came  of 

your  own  will 
To  wait  on  one  so  broken,  so  forlorn? 
Have  I  not  met  you  somewhere  long  ago  ? 
I  am  all  but  sure   I   have  —  in    Kendal 

church  — 

0  yes !  I  hired  you  for  a  season  there, 
And  then  we  parted;    but  you  look  so 

kind 
That  you  will  not  deny  my  sultry  throat 
One  draught  of  icy  water.     There  —  you 

spill 
The    drops    upon    my    forehead.      Your 

hand  shakes. 

1  am  ashamed.     I  am  a  trouble  to  you. 
Could  kneel  for  your  forgiveness.     Are 

they  tears? 
For  me  —  they  do  me  too  much  grace  — 

for  me? 
O  Mary,  Mary ! 

Vexing  you  with  words  ! 
Words  only,  born  of  fever,  or  the  fumes 
Of  that  dark  opiate  dose  you  gave  me, 

—  words, 
Wild  babble.  I  have  stumbled  back  again 
Into  the  common  day,  the  sounder  self. 
God  stay  me  there,  if  only  for  your  sake, 
The  truest,  kindliest,  noblest-hearted  wife 
That  ever  wore  a  Christian  marriage-ring. 
My  curse  upon  the  Master's  apothegm. 
That  wife  and   children    drag  an  Artist 

down  ! 
This  seem'd  my  lodestar  in  the  Heaven 

of  Art, 


And  lured  me  from  the  household  fire  on 

earth. 
To  you  my  days  have  been  a  life-long  lie, 
Grafted  on  half  a  truth;   and  tho'  you  say 
'  Take  comfort,  you  have  won  the  Painter's 

fame,' 
The  best  in  me  that  sees  the  worst  in  me. 
And  groans  to  see  it,  finds   no   comfort 

there. 
What   fame?       I    am    not    Raphael, 

Titian  —  no 
Nor  even  a  Sir  Joshua,  some  will  cry. 
W^rong  there  !     The  painter's  fame?  but 

mine,  that  grew 
Blown    into    glittering    by    the    popular 

breath. 
May  float  awhile  beneath  the  sun,  may 

roll 
The  rainbow  hues  of  heaven  about  it  — 

There  ! 
The    colour'd   bubble    bursts   above   the 

abyss 
Of  Darkness,  utter  Lethe. 

Is  it  so  ? 
Her  sad    eyes   plead  for  my  own  fame 

with  me 
To  make  it  dearer. 

Look,  the  sun  has  risen 
To  flame  along  another  dreary  day. 
Your  hand.     How  bright  you  keep  your 

marriage-ring ! 
Raise  me.     I  thank  you. 

Has  your  opiate  then 
Bred  this  black  mood?  or  am  I  conscious, 

more 
Than     other     Masters,    of    the    chasm 

between 
Work    and   Ideal?     Or   does  the  gloom 

of  Age 
And  suffering  cloud  the  height  I  stand 

upon 
Even    from    myself?    stand?    stood  .  .  . 

no  more. 

And  yet 
The  world  would  lose,  if  such  a  wife  as 

you 
Should  vanish  unrecorded.     Might  I  crave 
One  favour?     I  am  bankrupt  of  all  claim 
On   your    obedience,   and    my    strongest 

wish 


ROMNEY'S  REMORSE. 


809 


Falls  flat  before  your  least  unwillingness. 
Still  would  you  —  if  it  please   you  —  sit 

to  me? 
I    dream'd   last    night    of    that    clear 

summer  noon, 
When  seated  on  a  rock,  and  foot  to  foot 
With  your  own  shadow  in  the  placid  lake, 
You  claspt  our  infant  daughter,  heart  to 

heart. 
I  had  been  among  the  hills,  and  brought 

you  down 
A  length  of  staghorn-moss,  and  this  you 

twined 
About  her  cap.      I  see  the  picture  yet, 
Mother  and  child.    A  sound  from  far  away, 
No  louder  than  a  bee  among  the  flowers, 
A  fall  of  water  luU'd  the  noon  asleep. 
You  still'd  it  for  the  moment  with  a  song 
Which  often  echo'd  in  me,  while  I  stood 
Before  the  great  Madonna-masterpieces 
Of  ancient  Art  in  Paris,  or  in  Rome. 
Mary,  my  crayons  !  if  I  can,  I  will. 
You  should  have  been  —  I  might  have 

made  you  once. 
Had  I  but  known  you  as   I  know  you 

now  — 
The    true   Alcestis   of  the    time.     Your 

song  — 
Sit,  listen  !     I  remember  it,  a  proof 
That  I  —  even  I  —  at  times  remember'd 

yoti. 

*  Beat   upon   mine,    little    heart !    beat, 

beat! 
Beat   upon  mine !    you  are   mine,  my 

sweet ! 
All  mine  from  your  pretty  blue   eyes 

to  your  feet, 

My  sweet.' 

Less  profile  !  turn  to  me  —  three-quarter 
face. 

*  Sleep,    little    blossom,   my  honey,   my 

bliss ! 
For  I  give  you  this,  and  I  give  you  this  ! 
And  I  blind  your  pretty  blue  eyes  with 

a  kiss ! 

Sleep  1 ' 

Too  early  blinded  by  the  kiss  of  death  — 

*  Father    and    Mother   will    watch    you 

grow '  — 


You  watch'd  not  I,  she  did  not  grow, 
she  died. 

'  Father    and    Mother   will   watch    you 

grow, 
And  gather  the   roses  whenever  they 

blow, 
And  find  the  white  heather  wherever 
you  go. 

My  sweet.' 

Ah,  my  white  heather  only  blooms  in 
heaven 

With  Milton's  amaranth.  There,  there, 
there  !   a  child 

Had  shamed  me  at  it  —  Down,  you  idle 
tools, 

Stampt  into  dust  —  tremulous,  all  awry, 

Blurr'd  like  a  landskip  in  a  ruflled  pool,  — 

Not  one  stroke  firm.  This  Art,  that 
harlot-like 

Seduced  me  from  you,  leaves  me  harlot- 
like, 

Who  love  her  still,  and  whimper,  im- 
potent 

To  win  her  back  before  I  die  —  and 
then  — 

Then,  in  the  loud  world's  bastard  judg- 
ment-day. 

One  truth  will  damn  me  with  the  mind- 
less mob. 

Who  feel  no  touch  of  my  temptation,  more 

Than  all  the  myriad  lies,  that  blacken  round 

The  corpse  of  every  man  that  gains  a 
name; 

'  This  model  husband,  this  fine  Artist ' ! 
Fool, 

What  matters?  Six  foot  deep  of  burial 
mould 

Will  dull  their  comments  !  Ay,  but  when 
the  shout 

Of  His  descending  peals  from  Heaven, 
and  throbs 

Thro'  earth,  and  all  her  graves,  if  He 
should  ask, 

'Why  left  you  wife  and  children?  for 
my  sake, 

According  to  my  word?'  and  I  replied, 

'Nay,  Lord,  for  Art^  ^^hy,  that  would 
sound  so  mean 

That  all  the  dead,  who  wait  the  doom  of 
Hell 

For  bolder  sins  than  mine,  adulteries. 


8io 


PARNASSUS— BY  AN  EVOLUTIONIST. 


Wife-murders,  —  nay,  the  ruthless  Mussul- 
man 
Who  flings  his  bowstrung  Harem  in  the 

sea, 
Would  turn,  and  glare  at  me,  and  point 

and  jeer. 
And   gibber    at   the  worm,  who,   living, 

made 
The  wife  of  wives  a  widow-bride,  and  lost 
Salvation  for  a  sketch. 

I  am  wild  again  ! 
The  coals  of  fire  you  heap  upon  my  head 
Have  crazed  me.      Some  one  knocking 

there  without? 
No  !     Will  my  Indian  brother  come  ?  to 

find 
Me  or  my  coffin?     Should   I  know  the 

man? 
This  worn-out  Reason  dying  in  her  house 
May  leave  the  windows  blinded,  and  if  so. 
Bid  him  farewell  for  me,  and  tell  him  — 

Hope  ! 
I  hear  a  death-bed  Angel  whisper  '  Hope.' 
'The  miserable  have  no  medicine 
But    only   Hope  !  '     He    said   it  ...  in 

the  play. 
His  crime  was  of  the  senses;   of  the  mind 
Mine;    worse,  cold,  calculated. 

Tell  my  son  — 

0  let  me  lean  my  head  upon  your  breast. 
'  Beat  little  heart '  on  this  fool  brain  of 

mine. 

1  once  had  friends  —  and  many  —  none 

like  you. 
I  love  you  more  than  when  we  married. 

Hope ! 
O  yes,  I  hope,  or  fancy  that,  perhaps, 
Human  forgiveness  touches  heaven,  and 

thence  — 
For  you  forgive  me,  you  are  sure  of  that  — 
Reflected,  sends  a  light  on  the  forgiven. 


PARNASSUS. 

Exegi  monumentum  .  .  . 
Quod  non  .   .   . 
Possit  diruere  .   .   . 

.   .   .  innnmerabilis 
Annorum  series  et  fuga  temporum.  —  Horace. 


What  be  those  crown'd  forms  high  over 
the  sacred  fovintain  ? 


Bards,  that  the  mighty  Muses  have  raised 

to  the  heights  of  the  mountain. 
And   over    the    flight   of   the    Ages !     O 

Goddesses,  help  me  up  thither  I 
Lightning    may    shrivel    the    laurel    of 

Caesar,  but  mine  would  not  wither. 
Steep  is  the  mountain,  but  you,  you  will 

help  me  to  overcome  it, 
And  stand  with  my  head  in  the  zenith, 

and  roll  my  voice  from  the  summit, 
Sounding  for  ever  and  ever  thro'  Earth 

and  her  listening  nations. 
And  mixt  with  the  great  Sphere-music  of 

stars  and  of  constellations. 

n. 

What  be  those  two  shapes  high  over  the 

sacred  fountain. 
Taller    than    all    the    Muses,  and   huger 

than  all  the  mountain? 
On  those  two  known  peaks  they  stand 

ever  spreading  and  heightening; 
Poet,  that  evergreen  laurel  is  blasted  by 

more  than  lightning ! 
Look,  in  their  deep  double  shadow  the 

crown'd  ones  all  disappearing ! 
Sing  like  a  bird  and  be  happy,  nor  hope 

for  a  deathless  hearing ! 
'  Sounding  for  ever  and  ever?  '  pass  on  ! 

the  sight  confuses  — 
These  are  Astronomy  and  Geology,  ter- 
rible Muses! 

in. 

If  the  lips  were  touch'd  with  fire  from  off 

a  pure  Pierian  altar, 
Tho'  their  music  here  be  mortal  need  the 

singer  greatly  care? 
Other  songs  for   other   worlds !   the   fire 

within  him  would  not  falter; 
Let  the  golden  Iliad  vanish.  Homer  here 

is  Homer  there. 


BY   AN   EVOLUTIONIST. 

The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to  the 
soul  of  a  man. 
And  the  man  said, '  Am  I  your  debtor?  ' 
And  the  Lord  —  *  Not  yet:  but  make  it 
as  clean  as  you  can, 
And  then  I  will  let  you  a  ])etter.' 


FAR-FAR- A  WA  V—  BEA  UTIFUL    CI T  Y. 


8ii 


If  my  body  come  from  brutes,  my  soul 
uncertain,  or  a  fable. 
Why  not  bask  amid  the  senses  while 
the  sun  of  morning  shines, 
I,  the  finer  brute  rejoicing  in  my  hounds, 
and  in  my  stable. 
Youth    and    Health,    and    birth    and 
wealth,  and  choice  of  women  and 
of  wines? 


What  hast  thou  done  for  me,  grim  Old 
Age,  save  breaking  my  bones  on 
the  rack? 
Would  I  had  past  in  the  morning  that 
looks  so  bright  from  afar  ! 

Old  Age. 

Done  for  thee?    starved  the  wild    beast 
that  was   linkt  with    thee    eighty 
years  back. 
Less   weight    now    for    the   ladder-of- 
heaven  that  hangs  on  a  star. 


If    my    body    come    from    brutes,    tho' 
somewhat  finer  than  their  own, 
I    am    heir,    and    this    my    kingdom. 
Shall  the  royal  voice  be  mute? 
No,  but  if  the  rebel  subject  seek  to  drag 
me  from  the  throne. 
Hold  the  sceptre.  Human    Soul,  and 
rule  thy  Province  of  the  brute. 


I  have  climb'd  to  the  snows  of  Age,  and 
I  gaze  at  a  field  in  the  Past, 
Where  I  sank  with  the  body  at  times 
in  the  sloughs  of  a  low  desire. 
But  I  hear  no  yelp  of  the  beast,  and  the 
Man  is  quiet  at  last 
As  he  stands  on  the  heights  of  his  life 
with  a  glimpse  of  a  height  that  is 
higher. 

FAR  —  FAR  —  AWAY. 

(for  music.) 

What  sight  so  lured  him  thro'  the  fields 
he  knew 


As  where  earth's  green  stole  into  heaven's 
own  hue, 

r"ar  —  far  —  away  ? 

What   sound  was    dearest  in  his  native 

dells? 
The  mellow  lin-lan-lone  of  evening  bells 
Far  —  far  —  away. 

What  vague  world-whisper,  mystic  pain 

or  joy. 
Thro'  those  three  words  would  haunt  him 

when  a  boy. 

Far  —  far  —  away  ? 

A   whisper    from    his    dawn    of  life?    a 

breath 
From  some  fair  dawn  beyond  the  doors 

of  death 

Far  —  far  —  away  ? 

Far,  far,  how  far?  from  o'er  the  gates  of 

Birth, 
The    faint   horizons,  all    the    bounds    of 

earth, 

Far  —  far  —  away  ? 

What  charm  in  words,  a  charm  no  words 

could  give? 
O  dying  words,  can  Music  make  you  live 
Far  —  far  —  away  ? 

POLITICS. 

We  move,  the  wheel  must  always  move, 

Nor  always  on  the  plain, 
And  if  we  move  to  such  a  goal 

As  Wisdom  hopes  to  gain. 
Then  you  that  drive,  and  know  your  Craft, 

Will  firmly  hold  the  rein. 
Nor  lend  an  ear  to  random  cries, 

Or  you  may  drive  in  vain. 
For   some    cry   '  Quick '    and    some    cry 
'  Slow,' 

But,  while  the  hills  remain. 
Up  hill  '  Too-slow '  will  need  the  whip, 

Down  hill  'Too-quick,'  the  chain. 

BEAUTIFUL  CITY. 

Beautiful  city,  the  centre  and  crater  of 

European  confusion, 
O  you  with    your  passionate  shriek    {ux 

the  rights  of  an  equal  humanity, 


8l2 


THE  ROSES   ON    THE    TERRACE— THE    OAK. 


How  often  your  Re-volution  has  proven 

but  E-volution 
Roll'd  again  back  on  itself  in  the  tides  of 

a  civic  insanity ! 

THE  ROSES   ON  THE  TERRACE. 

Rose,  on  this  terrace  fifty  years  ago, 
When  I  was  in  my  June,  you  in  your 
May, 
Two  words,  ^My  Rose '  set  all  your  face 
aglow. 
And  now  that  I  am  white,  and  you  are 
gray. 
That  blush  of  fifty  years  ago,  my  dear, 
Blooms  in  the  Past,  but  close  to  me 
to-day 
As  this  red  rose,  which  on  our  terrace  here 
Glows  in  the  blue  of  fifty  miles  away. 

THE   PLAY. 

Act  first,  this  Earth,  a  stage  so  gloom'd 
with  woe 
You   all    but   sicken    at    the   shifting 
scenes. 
And   yet   be   patient.      Our    Playwright 
may  show 
In  some  fifth  Act  what  this  wild  Drama 
means. 


ON   ONE   WHO   AFFECTED   AN 
EFFEMINATE   MANNER. 

While  man  and  woman  still  are  incom- 
plete, 

I  prize  that  soul  where  man  and  woman 
meet, 

Which  types  all  Nature's  male  and  female 
plan. 

But,  friend,  man-woman  is  not  woman- 
man. 


TO   ONE   WHO   RAN   DOWN   THE 
ENGLISH. 

You  make  our  faults  too  gross,  and  thence 

maintain 
Our  darker  future.     May  your  fears  be 

vain ! 


At  times  the  small   black    fly  upon  the 

pane 
May  seem  the  black  ox  of  the    distant 

plain. 


THE   SNOWDROP. 

Many,  man}*  welcomes 
February  fair-maid, 
Ever  as  of  old  time, 
Solitary  firstling. 
Coming  in  the  cold  time, 
Prophet  of  the  gay  time. 
Prophet  of  the  May  time, 
Prophet  of  the  roses. 
Many,  many  welcomes 
February  fair-maid ! 


THE  THROSTLE. 

'  Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming. 

I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know  it. 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again,  love 
again,' 

Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue. 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
*  New,  new,  new,  new ! '     Is  it  then  so 
new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly? 

'  Love  again,  song  again,  nest  again,  young 
again,' 

Never  a  prophet  so  crazy  ! 
And  hardly  a  daisy  as  yet,  little  friend, 

See,  there  is  hardly  a  daisy. 

'  Here    again,   here,    here,   here,   happy 
year ! ' 

O  warble  unchidden,  unbidden  ! 
Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my  dear. 

And  all  the  winters  are  hidden. 


THE  OAK. 

Live  thy  Life, 

Young  and  old, 
Like  yon  oak. 
Bright  in  spring. 
Living  gold ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


8r 


Summer-rich 

IN   MEMORIAM. 

Then;   and  then 

Autumn-changed, 

W.  G.  Ward. 

Soberer-hued 

Farewell,  whose  like  on  earth  I  shall 

Gold  again. 

not  find. 

Whose  Faith  and  Work  were  bells  of 

All  his  leaves 

full  accord. 

Fall'n  at  length, 

My  friend,  the  most  unworldly  of  man- 

Look, he  stands, 

kind. 

Trunk  and  bough. 

Most  generous  of  all  Ultramontanes, 

Naked  strength. 

Ward, 

How  subtle  at  tierce  and  quart  of  mind 

with  mind, 

How   loyal   in   the    following   of    thy 

Lord! 

THE     foresters; 


ACT  I. — Scene  I.,  The  Bond;   Scenes 
II.,  III.,  The  Outlawry. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — ^The  Garden  before  Sir 
Richard  Lea's  Castle. 

Kate  {^gathering Jioivers).  These  roses 
for  my  Lady  Marian;  these  lilies  to  lighten 
Sir  Richard's  black  room,  where  he  sits 
and  eats  his  heart  for  want  of  money  to 
pay  the  Abbot. 

\^Sings. 
The  warrior  Earl  of  Allendale, 

He  loved  the  Lady  Anne; 
The  lady  loved  the  master  well, 
The  maid  she  loved  the  man. 

All  in  the  castle  garden, 

Or  ever  the  day  began, 
The  lady  gave  a  rose  to  the  Earl, 

The  maid  a  rose  to  the  man. 

'  I  go  to  fight  in  Scotland 

With  many  a  savage  clan ;  ' 
The  lady  gave  her  hand  to  the  Earl, 

The  maid  her  hand  to  the  man. 

'  Farewell,  farewell,  my  warrior  Earl! ' 

And  ever  a  tear  down  ran. 
She  gave  a  weeping  kiss  to  the  Earl, 

And  the  maid  a  kiss  to  the  man. 

Enter  four  ragged  Retainers, 

First  Retainer.  You  do  well,  Mistress 
Kate,  to  sing  and  to  gather  roses.  You  be 
fed  with  tit-bits,  you,  and  we  be  dogs  that 
have  only  the  bones,  till  we  be  only  bones 
our  own  selves. 

Second  Retainer.  I  am  fed  with  tit- 
bits no  more  than  you  are,  but  I  keep  a 
good  heart  and  make  the  most  of  it,  and, 
truth  to  say.  Sir  Richard  and  my  Lady 
Marian  fare  wellnigh  as  sparely  as  their 
people. 

Third  Retainer.  And  look  at  our 
suits,  out  at  knee,  out  at  elbow.  We  be 
more  like  scarecrows  in  a  field  than 
decent  serving  men  ;  and  then,  I  pray 
you,  look  at  Robin  Earl  of  Huntingdon's 
men. 

First  Retainer.  She  hath  looked  well 
at  one  of  'em.  Little  John. 

Third  Retainer.      Ay,  how  fine  they 


be  in  their  liveries,  and  each  of  'em  as 
full  of  meat  as  an  egg,  and  as  sleek  and 
as  round-about  as  a  mellow  codlin. 

Fourth  Retainer.  But  I  be  worse  off 
than  any  of  you,  for  1  be  lean  by  nature, 
and  if  you  cram  me  crop -full  I  be  little 
better  than  Famine  in  the  picture,  but  if 
you  starve  me  I  be  Gaffer  Death  himself. 
I  would  like  to  show  you.  Mistress  Kate, 
how  bare  and  spare  I  be  on  the  rib :  I  be 
lanker  than  an  old  horse  turned  out  to 
die  on  the  common. 

Kate.  Spare  me  thy  spare  ribs,  I  pray 
thee;  but  now  I  ask  you  all,  did  none  of 
you  love  young  Walter  Lea? 

First  Retainer.  Ay,  if  he  had  not 
gone  to  fight  the  king's  battles,  we  should 
have  better  battels  at  home. 

Kate.  Right  as  an  Oxford  scholar,  but 
the  boy  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Moors. 

First  Retainer.     Ay. 

Kate.  And  Sir  Richard  was  told  he 
might  be  ransomed  for  two  thousand 
marks  in  gold. 

First  Retainer.     Ay. 

Kate.  Then  he  borrowed  the  monies 
from  the  Abbot  of  York,  the  Sheriff's 
brother.  And  if  they  be  not  paid  back 
at  the  end  of  the  year,  the  land  goes  to 
the  Abbot. 

First  Retainer.  No  news  of  young 
Walter? 

Kate.  None,  nor  of  the  gold,  nor  the 
man  who  took  out  the  gold :  but  now  ye 
know  why  we  live  so  stintedly,  and  why 
ye  have  so  few  grains  to  peck  at.  Sir 
Richard  must  scrape  and  scrape  till  he 
get  to  the  land  again.  Come,  come,  why 
do  you  loiter  here?  Carry  fresh  rushes 
into  the  dining-hall,  for  those  that  are 
there  they  be  so  greasy  and  smell  so  vilely 
that  my  Lady  Marian  holds  her  nose  when 
she  steps  across  it. 

Fotirth  Retainer.  Why  there,  now ! 
that  very  word  '  greasy  '  hath  a  kind  of 
unction  in  it,  a  smack  of  relish  about  it. 
The  rats  have  gnawed  'em  already.  I 
pray  Heaven  we  may  not  have  to  take  to 
the  rushes.  \_Exennt. 


814 


*  Copyright,  1892,  by  Macmillan  &  Co. 


SCENE  1. 


THE   FORESTERS. 


815 


Kate.     Poor  fellows ! 

The  lady  gave  her  hand  to  the  Earl, 
The  maid  her  hand  to  the  man. 

Enter  Little  John. 

Little  John.  My  master,  Robin  the 
Earl,  is  always  a-telling  us  that  every  man, 
fur  the  sake  of  the  great  blessed  Mother 
in  heaven,  and  for  the  love  of  his  own 
little  mother  on  earth,  should  handle  all 
womankind  gently,  and  hold  them  in  all 
honour,  and  speak  small  to  'em,  and  not 
scare  'em,  but  go  about  to  come  at  their 
love  with  all  manner  of  homages,  and 
observances,  and  circumbendibuses. 

Kate. 

The  lady  gave  a  rose  to  the  Earl, 
The  maid  a  rose  to  the  man. 

Little  yohii  {seeing he?-^.  O  the  sacred 
little  thing  !  What  a  shape  !  what  lovely 
arms  !  A  rose  to  the  man  !  Ay,  the  man 
had  given  her  a  rose  and  she  gave  him 
another. 

Kate.  Shall  I  keep  one  little  rose  for 
Little  John?     No. 

Little  John.  There,  there  !  You  see 
I  was  right.  She  hath  a  tenderness 
toward  me,  but  is  too  shy  to  show  it. 
It  is  in  her,  in  the  woman,  and  the  man 
must  bring  it  out  of  her. 

Kate. 

She  gave  a  weeping  kiss  to  the  Earl, 
The  maid  a  kiss  to  the  man. 

Little  John.  Did  she?  But  there  I 
am  sure  the  ballad  is  at  fault.  It  should 
have  told  us  how  the  man  first  kissed 
the  maid.  She  doesn't  see  me.  Shall  I 
be  bold?  shall  I  touch  her?  shall  I  give 
her  the  first  kiss?  O  sweet  Kate,  my 
first  love,  the  first  kiss,  the  first  kiss  ! 
■  Kate  {turns  and  kisses  hint).  Why 
lookest  thou  so  amazed? 

Little  yohn.  I  cannot  tell;  but  I  came 
to  give  thee  the  first  kiss,  and  thou  hast 
given  it  me. 

Kate.  But  if  a  man  and  a  maid  care 
for  one  another,  does  it  matter  so  much 
if  the  maid  give  the  first  kiss? 

Little  yohn.  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  had 
sooner  have  given  thee  the  first  kiss.  I 
was  dreaming  of  it  all  the  way  hither. 


Kate.  Dream  of  it,  then,  all  the  way 
back,  for  now  I  will  have  none  of  it. 

Little  yohn.  Nay,  now  thou  hast  given 
me  the  man's  kiss,  let  me  give  thee  the 
maid's. 

Kate.  If  thou  draw  one  inch  nearer, 
I  will  give  thee  a  buffet  on  the  face. 

Little  yohn.  Wilt  thou  not  give  me 
rather  the  little  rose  for  Little  John? 

Kate  {throws  it  doivn  and  tra7nples  on 
it).     There! 

[Kate  seeing  y\.2ii\din  exit  hurriedly. 

Enter  Marian  {singing). 

Love  flew  in  at  the  window. 

As  Wealth  walk'd  in  at  the  door. 
'  You  have  come  for  you  saw  Wealth  coming,' 

said  I. 
But  he  flutter'd  his  wings  with  a  sweet  little  cry, 

I'll  cleave  to  you  rich  or  poor. 

Wealth  dropt  out  of  the  window. 

Poverty  crept  thro'  the  door. 
'  Well  now  you  would  fain  follow  Wealth,'  said  I, 
But  he  flutter*d  his  wings  as  he  gave  me  the  lie, 

I  cling  to  you  all  the  more. 

Little  yohn.  Thanks,  my  lady — inas- 
much as  I  am  a  true  believer  in  true  love 
myself,  and  your  Ladyship  hath  sung  the 
old  proverb  out  of  fashion. 

Marian.  Ay  but  thou  hast  ruffled  my 
woman,  Little  John.  She  hath  the  fire 
in  her  face  and  the  dew  in  her  eyes.  I 
beheved  thee  to  be  too  solemn  and  formal 
to  be  a  ruffler.     Out  upon  thee  ! 

Little  yohn.  I  am  no  ruffler,  my  lady; 
but  I  pray  you,  my  lady,  if  a  man  and  a 
maid  love  one  another,  may  the  maid 
give  the  first  kiss? 

Marian.  It  will  be  all  the  more 
gracious  of  her  if  she  do. 

Little  yohn.  I  cannot  tell.  Manners 
be  so  corrupt,  and  these  are  the  days  of 
Prince  John.  \_Exit. 

Enter  SiR  Richard  Lea  {reading  a 
bond) . 

Sir  Richard.     Marian ! 

Marian.     Father ! 

Sir  Richard.  Who  parted  from  thee 
even  now? 

Marian.  That  strange  starched  stiff 
creature.  Little  John,  the  Earl's  man. 
He  would  grapple  with  a  lion  like  the 
King,  and  is  flustered  by  a  girl's  kiss. 


8i6 


THE   FORESTERS. 


ACT  I. 


Sir  Richard.  There  never  was  an 
Earl  so  true  a  friend  of  the  people  as 
Lord  Robin  of  Huntingdon. 

Marian.  A  gallant  Earl.  I  love  him 
as  I  hate  John. 

Sir  Richard.  I  fear  me  he  hath  wasted 
his  revenues  in  the  service  of  our  good 
King  Richard  against  the  party  of  John, 
as  I  have  done,  as  I  have  done  :  and  where 
is  Richard? 

Mariaji.  Cleave  to  him,  father !  he 
will  come  home  at  last. 

Sir  Richard.  I  trust  he  will,  but  if  he 
do  not  I  and  thou  are  but  beggars. 

Marian.  We  will  be  beggar'd  then 
and  be  true  to  the  King. 

Sir  Richard.  Thou  speakest  like  a 
fool  or  a  woman.  Canst  thou  endure  to 
be  a  beggar  whose  whole  life  hath  been 
folded  like  a  blossom  in  the  sheath,  like 
a  careless  sleeper  in  the  down ;  who  never 
hast  felt  a  want,  to  whom  all  things,  up 
to  this  present,  have  come  as  freely  as 
heaven's  air  and  mother's  milk? 

Marian.  Tut,  father  !  I  am  none  of 
your  delicate  Norman  maidens  who  can 
only  broider  and  mayhap  ride  a-hawking 
with  the  help  of  the  men.  I  can  bake 
and  I  can  brew,  and  by  all  the  saints  I  can 
shoot  almost  as  closely  with  the  bow  as 
the  great  Earl  himself.  I  have  played  at 
the  foils  too  with  Kate :  but  is  not  to-day 
his  birthday? 

Sir  Richard.  Dost  thou  love  him 
indeed,  that  thou  keepest  a  record  of 
his  birthdays?  Thou  knowest  that  the 
Sheriff  of  Nottingham  loves  thee. 

Marian.  The  Sheriff  dare  to  love  me  ? 
me  who  worship  Robin  the  great  Earl  of 
Huntingdon?  I  love  him  as  a  damsel  of 
his  day  might  have  loved  Harold  the 
Saxon,  or  Here  ward  the  Wake.  They 
both  fought  against  the-  tyranny  of  the 
kings,  the  Normans.  But  then  your 
Sheriff,  your  little  man,  if  he  dare  to  fight 
at  all,  would  fight  for  his  rents,  his  leases, 
his  houses,  his  monies,  his  oxen,  his  din- 
ners, himself.  Now  your  great  man,  your 
Robin,  all  England's  Robin,  fights  not 
for  himself  but  for  the  people  of  England. 
This  John — this  Norman  tyranny — the 
stream  is  bearing  us  all  down,  and  our 
little    Sheriff  will  ever   swim    with    the 


stream  !  but  our  great  man,  our  Robin, 
against  it.  And  how  often  in  old  histories 
have  the  great  men  striven  against  the 
stream,  and  how  often  in  the  long  sweep 
of  years  to  come  must  the  great  man 
strive  against  it  again  to  save  his  country, 
and  the  liberties  of  his  people !  God 
bless  our  well-beloved  Robin,  Earl  of 
Huntingdon. 

Sir  Richard.  Ay,  ay.  He  wore  thy 
colours  once  at  a  tourney.  I  am  old  and 
forget.     Was  Prince  John  there? 

Alarian.  The  Sheriff  of  Nottingham 
was  there — not  John. 

Sir  Richard.  Beware  of  John  and  the 
Sheriff  of  Nottingham.  They  hunt  in 
couples,  and  when  they  look  at  a  maid 
they  blast  her. 

Marian.  Then  the  maid  is  not  high- 
hearted enough. 

Sir  Richard.  There — there — be  not 
a  fool  again.  Their  aim  is  ever  at  that 
which  flies  highest — but  O  girl,  girl,  I  am 
almost  in  despair.  Those  two  thousand 
marks  lent  me  by  the  Abbot  for  the  ran- 
som of  my  son  Walter — I  believed  this 
Abbot  of  the  party  of  King  Richard,  and 
he  hath  sold  himself  to  that  beast  John 
— they  must  be  paid  in  a  year  and  a 
month,  or  I  lose  the  land.  There  is  one 
that  should  be  grateful  to  me  overseas, 
a  Count  in  Brittany — he  lives  near 
Quimper.  I  saved  his  life  once  in  battle. 
He  has  monies.  I  will  go  to  him.  I 
saved  him.  I  will  try  him.  I  am  all 
but  sure  of  him.     1  will  go  to  him. 

Marian.  And  I  will  follow  thee,  and 
God  help  us  both. 

Sir  Richard.  Child,  thou  shouldst 
marry  one  who  will  pay  the  mortgage. 
This  Robin,  this  Earl  of  Huntingdon — he 
is  a  friend  of  Richard — I  know  not,  but  he 
may  save  the  land,  he  may  save  the  land.. 

Alarian  (^showing  a  cross  hung  round 
her  neck).     Father,  you  see  this  cross? 

Sir  Richard.  Ay  the  King,  thy  god- 
father, gave  it  thee  when  a  baby. 

Marian.  And  he  said  that  whenever 
I  married  he  would  give  me  away,  and 
on  this  cross  I  have  sworn  [^kisses  it']  that 
till  I  myself  pass  away,  there  is  no  other 
man  that  shall  give  me  away. 

Sir  Richard.     Lo  there — thou  art  fool 


SCENE  II. 


THE  FORESTERS. 


817 


again — I  am  all  as  loyal  as  thyself,   but 
what  a  vow  !  what  a  vow  ! 

Re-enter  Little  John. 

Little  yohn.  My  Lady  Marian,  your 
woman  so  flustered  me  that  I  forgot  my 
message  from  the  Earl.  To-day  he  hath 
accomplished  his  thirtieth  birthday,  and 
he  prays  your  ladyship  and  your  ladyship's 
father  to  be  present  at  his  banquet  to-night. 

Alarian.     Say,  we  will  come. 

Little  John.  And  I  pray  you,  my  lady, 
to  stand  between  me  and  your  woman, 
Kate. 

Mariati.     I  will  speak  with  her. 

Little  yohn.  I  thank  you,  my  lady, 
and  I  wish  you  and  your  ladyship's  father  a 
most  exceedingly  good  morning.      \_Exit. 

Sir  Richard.  Thou  hast  answered  for 
me,  but  I  know  not  if  I  will  let  thee  go. 

Marian.     I  mean  to  go. 

Sir  Richard.  Not  if  I  barred  thee  up 
in  thy  chamber,  like  a  bird  in  a  cage. 

Marian.  Then  I  would  drop  from  the 
casement,  like  a  spider. 

Sir  Richard.  But  I  would  hoist  the 
drawbridge,  like  thy  master. 

Marian.  And  I  would  swim  the  moat, 
like  an  otter. 

Sir  Richard.  But  I  would  set  my 
men-at-arms  to  oppose  thee,  like  the 
Lord  of  the  Castle. 

Marian.  And  I  would  break  through 
them  all,  like  the  King  of  England. 

Sir  Richard.  Well,  thou  shalt  go,  but 
O  the  land  !  the  land !  my  great  great 
great  grandfather,  my  great  great  grand- 
father, my  great  grandfather,  my  grand- 
father and  my  own  father — they  were 
born  and  bred  on  it — it  was  their  mother 
— they  have  trodden  it  for  half  a  thou- 
sand years,  and  whenever  I  set  my  own 
foot  on  it  I  say  to  it.  Thou  art  mine,  and 
it  answers,  I  am  thine  to  the  very  heart 
of  the  earth — but  now  I  have  lost  my 
gold,  I  have  lost  my  son,  and  I  shall  lose 
"my  land  also.  Down  to  the  devil  with 
this  bond  that  beggars  me  ! 

\_Flings  doion  the  bond. 

Marian.  Take  it  again,  dear  father, 
be  not  wroth  at  the  dumb  parchment. 
Sufficient  for  the  day,  dear  father !  let  us 
be  merry  to-night  at  the  banquet. 


SCENE  IL — A  Banqueting- HALL  in 
the  House  of  Robin  Hood  the  Earl 
OF  Huntingdon. 

Doors  open  into  a  banqueting-hall  where 
he  is  at  feast  with  his  friends. 

Drinking  Song. 

Long  live  Richard, 

Robin  and  Richard! 
Long  live  Richard ! 

Down  with  John ! 
Drink  to  the  Lion-heart 

Every  one! 
Pledge  the  Plantagenet, 

Him  that  is  gone. 
Who  knows  whither  ? 

God's  good  Angel 
Help  him  back  hither, 

And  down  with  John ! 
Long  live  Robin, 

Robin  and  Richard ! 
Long  live  Robin, 

And  down  with  John! 

Enter  Prince  John  disguised  as  a  monk 
and  the  SHERIFF  OF  Nottingham. 
Cries  of  ^ Down  with  John,^  '•  Lo7ig  live 
King  Richard^  ^Down  with  John.^ 

Prince  John.  Down  with  John  !  ha. 
Shall  I  be  known?  is  my  disguise  per- 
fect? 

Sheriff.  Perfect — who  should  know 
you  for  Prince  John,  so  that  you  keep  the 
cowl  down  and  speak  not? 

\_Shouts  frotn  the  banquet-room. 

Prince  John.  Thou  and  I  will  still 
these  revelries  presently. 

\_Shouts,  '  Long  live  King  Richard  ! ' 
I  come  here  to  see  this  daughter  of  Sir 
Richard  of  the  Lea  and  if  her  beauties 
answer  their  report.     If  so — 

Sheriff.     If  so— 

[Shouts,  '  Down  with  John ! ' 

Prince  John.     You  hear  ! 

SJieriff.  Yes,  my  lord,  fear  not.  I  will 
answer  for  you. 

Enter  Little  John,  Scarlet,  Much, 
dr'c,  frot?i  the  baiiquet  singing  a  snatch 
of  the  Drinking  Song. 

Little  John.  I  am  a  silent  man  myself, 
and  all  the  more  wonder  at  our  Earl. 
What  a  wealth  of  words — O  Lord,  I  will 
live  and  die  for  King  Richard — not  so 
much  for  the  cause  as  for  the  Earl.  O 
Lord,  I   am   easily  led  by  words,  but  I 


8i8 


THE   FORESTERS. 


ACT   I. 


think  the  Earl  hath  right.  Scarlet,  hath 
not  the  Earl  right?  What  makes  thee  so 
down  in  the  mouth? 

Scarlet.  I  doubt  not,  I  doubt  not,  and 
though  I  be  down  in  the  mouth,  I  will 
swear  by  the  head  of  the  Earl. 

Little  John.  Thou  Much,  miller's  son, 
hath  not  the  Earl  right? 

Mtuh.  More  water  goes  by  the  mill 
than  the  miller  wots  of,  and  more  goes  to 
make  right  than  I  know  of,  but  for  all 
that  I  will  swear  the  Earl  hath  right. 
But  they  are  coming  hither  for  the 
dance — 

{Enter  Friar  Tuck.) 

be  they  not.  Friar  Tuck?  Thou  art  the 
Earl's  confessor  and  shouldst  know. 

Tuck.  Ay,  ay,  and  but  that  I  am  a 
man  of  weight,  and  the  weight  of  the 
church  to  boot  on  my  shoulders,  I  would 
dance  too.      Fa,  la,  la,  fa,  la,  la. 

[  Capering. 

Ahich.  But  doth  not  the  weight  of  the 
flesh  at  odd  times  overbalance  the  weight 
of  the  church,  ha  friar? 

Tuck.  Homo  sum.  I  love  my  dinner 
— but  I  can  fast,  I  can  fast;  and  as  to 
other  frailties  of  the  flesh — out  upon  thee  ! 
Homo  sum,  sed  virgo  sum,  I  am  a  virgin, 
my  masters,  I  am  a  virgin. 

Much.  And  a  virgin,  my  masters, 
three  yards  about  the  waist  is  like  to 
remain  a  virgin,  for  who  could  embrace 
such  an  armful  of  joy? 

Tuck.  Knave,  there  is  a  lot  of  wild 
fellows  in  Sherwood  Forest  who  hold  by 
King  Richard.  If  ever  I  meet  thee  there, 
I  will  break  thy  sconce  with  my  quarter- 
staff. 

Enter  from    the    banqueting-hall   SlR 
Richard  Lea,  Robin  Hood,  ^c. 

Robin.    My    guests    and    friends,    Sir 

Richard,  all  of  you 
Who  deign  to  honour  this  my  thirtieth 

year, 
And  some  of  you  were  prophets  that  I 

might  be, 
Now  that  the  sun  our  King  is  gone,  the 

light 
Of  these  dark  hours;  but  this  new  moon, 

I  fear, 


Is  darkness.     Nay,  this  may  be  the  last 

time 
When   I  shall   hold   my  birthday  in  this 

hall: 
I  may  be  outlaw'd,  I  have  heard  a  rumour. 
All.     God  forbid ! 
Robin.     Nay,  but  we  have  no  news  of 

Richard  yet. 
And  ye  did  wrong  in  crying  '  Down  with 

John;' 
For  be  he  dead,  then  John  may  be  our 

King. 
All.     God  forbid  ! 
Robin.     Ay  God  forbid. 
But  if  it  be  so  we  must  bear  with  John. 
The  man  is  able  enough — no  lack  of  wit, 
And  apt  at  arms  and  shrewd  in  policy. 
Courteous  enough  too  when  he  wills;  and 

yet 
I  hate  him  for  his  want  of  chivalry. 
He  that  can  pluck  the  flower  of  maiden- 
hood 
From  off  the  stalk  and  trample  it  in  the 

mire, 
And  boast  that  he  hath  trampled  it.      I 

hate  him, 
I  hate  the   man.      I   may  not   hate   the 

King 
For  aught  1  know. 
So    that  our   Barons  bring  his  baseness 

under. 
I   think  they  will  be  mightier  than  the 

king. 

\^Da7ice  music. 

(Marian  enters  with  other  damsels.^ 

Robin.     The  high  Heaven  guard  thee 
from  his  wantonness 
Who  art  the  fairest  flower  of  maidenhood 
That  ever  blossom'd  on  this  English  isle. 
Alarian.     Cloud  not  thy  birthday  with 
one  fear  for  me. 
My  lord,  myself  and  my  good  father  pray 
Thy  thirtieth  summer  may  be  thirty-fold 
As  happy  as  any  of  those  that  went  before. 
Robin.       My   Lady    Marian    you    can 
make  it  so 
If  you  will  deign  to  tread  a  measure  with 
me. 
Marian.     Full  willingly,  my  lord. 

[  They  dance. 
Robin  {after  dafice).     My  Lady,  will 
you  answer  me  a  question? 


SCENE   II. 


THE   FORESTERS. 


819 


Marian.     Any  that  you  may  ask. 
Robin.      A   question   that    every  true 
man  asks  of  a  woman  once  in  his  life. 

Marian.  I  will  not  answer  it,  my  lord, 
till  King  Richard  come  home  again.  \ 

Prince  John   {to  Sheriff).     How  she    i 
looks  up   at   him,  how  she  holds 
her  face  I 
Now  if  she  kiss  him,   I    will    have   his 
head. 
Sheriff.     Peace,  my  lord;  the  Earl  and 
Sir  Richard  come  this  way. 

Robin.  Must  you  have  these  monies 
before  the  year  and  the  month  end? 

Sir  Richard.  Or  I  forfeit  my  land  to 
the  Abbot.  I  must  pass  overseas  to  one 
that  I  trust  will  help  me. 

Robin.  Leaving  your  fair  Marian  alone 
here. 

Sir  Richard.  Ay,  for  she  hath  some- 
what of  the  lioness  in  her,  and  there  be 
men-at-arms  to  guard  her. 

[Robin,  Sir  Richard,  and  Marian 

pass  on. 

Prince  John  {to  Sheriff).      Why  that 

will  be  our  opportunity 

When  I  and  thou  will  rob  the  nest  of  her. 

Sheriff.     Good  Prince,  art  thou  in  need 

of  any  gold  ? 
Prince  John.      Gold?  why?  not  now. 
Sheriff.     I  would  give  thee  any  gold 
So  that  myself  alone  might  rob  the  nest. 
Prince  John.     Well,  well  then,   thou 

shalt  rob  the  nest  alone. 
Sheriff.     Swear  to  me  by  that  relic  on 

thy  neck. 
Prince  John.      I  swear  then  by  this 
relic  on  my  neck — 
No,  no,  I  will  not  swear  by  this;  I  keep  it 
For  holy  vows  made  to  the  blessed  Saints 
Not  pleasures,  women's  matters. 
Dost  thou  mistrust  me?     Am  I  not  thy 

friend  ? 
Beware,  man,  lest  thou  lose  thy  faith  in 

me. 
I  love  thee  much;  and  as  I  am  thy  friend, 
I  promise  thee  to  make  this  Marian  thine. 
Go  now  and  ask  the  maid  to  dance  with 

thee. 
And  learn   from  her  if  she  do  love  this 
Earl. 
Sheriff  {advancing  toioardls\zx\2.x\.  and 
Robin) .     Pretty  mistress  ! 


Robin.  What  art  thou,  man?  Sheriff 
of  Nottingham  ? 

Sheriff.  Ay,  my  lord.  I  and  my 
friend,  this  monk,  were  here  belated,  anrl 
seeing  the  hospitable  lights  in  your  castle, 
and  knowing  the  fame  of  your  hospitality, 
we  ventured  in  uninvited. 

Robin.  You  are  welcome,  though  I 
fear  you  be  of  those  who  hold  more  by 
John  than  Richard. 

Sheriff.  True,  for  through  John  I  had 
my  sheriffship.  I  am  John's  till  Richard 
come  back  again,  and  then  I  am  Richard's. 
Pretty  mistress,  will  you  dance? 

[  They  dance. 
Robin  {talking to  Prince  John).     What 
monk  of  what  convent  art  thou?     Why 
wearest  thou  thy  cowl  to  hide  thy  face  ? 

[Prince  John  shakes  his  head. 
Is  he  deaf,  or  dumb,  or  daft,  or  drunk 
belike? 

[Prince  John  shakes  his  head. 
Why  comest  thou  like  a  death's  head  at 
my  feast? 

[Prince   John  points  to  the  Sheriff, 
who  is  dancing  with  Marian. 
Is  he  thy  mouthpiece,  thine  interpreter? 
[Prince  John  nods. 
Sheriff  {to  Marian  as  they  pass').     Be- 
ware of  John ! 
Marian.  I  hate  him. 

Sheriff.  Would  you  cast 

An  eye  of  favour  on  me,  I  would  pay 
My  brother  all  his  debt  and  save  the  land. 
Marian.     I    cannot   answer   thee   till 

Richard  come. 
Sheriff.     And  when  he  comes? 
Marian.  Well,  you  must  wait 

till  then. 
Little  John  {dancing  with  Kate).     Is 
it  made  up?     Will  you  kiss  me? 

Kate.     You  shall  give  me  the  first  kiss. 
Little  John.     T\\.zx^  {kisses her).    Now 
thine. 

Kate.  You  shall  wait  for  mine  till  Sir 
Richard  has  paid  the  Abbot. 

[  They  pass  on. 

[  The  Sheriff  leaves  Marian  with  her 

father  and  comes  toward  Robin. 

Robin  {to  Sheriff,  Prince  John  standing 

by).     Sheriff,  thy  friend,  this  monk,  is  but 

a  statue. 

Sheriff.     Pardon  him,  my  lord :  he  is 


820 


THE  FORESTERS. 


ACT   I. 


a  holy  Palmer,  bounden  by  a  vow  not  to 
show  his  face,  nor  to  speak  word  to  any- 
one, till  he  join  King  Richard  in  the 
Holy  Land. 

Robin.  Going  to  the  Holy  Land  to 
Richard  !      Give  me   thy  hand   and  tell 

him Why,    what    a    cold   grasp    is 

thine — as  if  thou  didst  repent  thy  cour- 
tesy even  in  the  doing  it.  That  is  no 
true  man's  hand.     I  hate  hidden  faces. 

Sheriff.  Pardon  him  again,  I  pray 
you;  but  the  twilight  of  the  coming  day 
already  glimmers  in  the  east.  We  thank 
you,  and  farewell. 

Robin.  Farewell,  farewell.  I  hate  hid- 
den faces. 

\^Exeunt  Prince  John  and  Sheriff. 
Sir   Richard   (^coming  forward  tvith 
Maid  Marian).      How  close   the 
Sheriff  peer'd  into  thine  eyes  ! 
What  did  he  say  to  thee? 

Marian.  Bade  me  beware 

Of  John :  what  maid  but  would  beware 
of  John? 
Sir  Richard.     What  else? 
Marian.       I  care  not  what  he  said. 
Sir  Richard.  What  else? 

Marian.     That   if  I    cast   an   eye  of 
favour  on  him, 
Himself  would  pay  this  mortgage  to  his 

brother, 
And  save  the  land. 

Sir  Richard.  Did  he  say  so,  the 

Sheriff? 
Robin.     I  fear  this  Abbot  is  a  heart  of 
flint, 
Hard  as  the  stones  of  his  abbey. 

0  good  Sir  Richard, 

1  am  sorry  my  exchequer  runs  so  low 
I  cannot  help  you  in  this  exigency; 

For  though  my  men  and  I  flash  out  at 

times 
Of  festival  like  burnish'd  summer- flies. 
We  make  but  one  hour's  buzz,  are  only 

like 
The  rainbow  of  a  momentary  sun. 
I  am  mortgaged  as  thyself. 

Sir  Richards  Ay !  I  warrant  thee — 
thou  canst  not  be  sorrier  than  I  am. 
Come  away,  daughter. 

Robin.  Farewell,  Sir  Richard;  fare- 
well, sweet  Marian. 

Marian.     Till  better  times. 


Robin.     But  if  the  better  times  should 
never  come? 

Marian.     Then  I  shall  be  no  worse. 
Robin.     And  if  the  worst  time  come? 
Marian.     Why  then  I  will  be  better 
than  the  time. 

Robin.     This  ring  my  mother  gave  me  : 
it  was  her  own 
Betrothal  ring.     She  pray'd  me  when  I 

loved 
A  maid  with  all  my  heart  to  pass  it  down 
A  finger  of  that  hand  which  should  be 

mine 
Thereafter.    Will  you  have  it?    Will  you 
wear  it? 
Marian.     Ay,  noble  Earl,  and  never 

part  with  it. 
Sir  Richard  Lea  (^cotning  tip).     Not 
till  she   clean  forget  thee,  noble 
Earl. 
Marian.    Forget  him — never — by  this 
Holy  Cross 
Which  good  King  Richard  gave  me  when 

a  child — 
Never ! 
Not  while  the  swallow  skims  along  the 

ground, 
And  while  the  lark  flies  up  and  touches 

heaven ! 
Not  while  the  smoke  floats  from  the  cot- 
tage roof. 
And  the  white  cloud  is  roll'd  along  the 

sky ! 
Not  while  the  rivulet  babbles  by  the  door. 
And  the  great  breaker  beats  upon  the 

beach ! 
Never — 
Till  Nature,  high  and  low,  and  great  and 

small 
Forgets  herself,  and   all   her  loves  and 

hates 
Sink  again  into  chaos. 

Sir  Richard  Lea.         Away !  away ! 

\^Exeunt  to  music. 

SCENE  III.— Same  as  Scene  II. 
Robin  and  his  men. 

Robin.  All  gone  ! — my  ring — I  am 
happy — should  be  happy. 

She  took  my  ring.  I  trust  she  loves  me 
— yet 

I  heard  this  Sheriff  tell  her  he  would  pay 


SCENE   III. 


THE  FORESTERS. 


821 


The  mortgage  if  she  favour'd  him.    I  fear 
Not  her,  the   father's  power   upon  her. 
Friends,  {to  his  mett) 
I  am  only  merry  for  an  hour  or  two 
Upon  a  birthday  :   if  this  life  of  ours 
Be   a   good  glad  thing,  why  should  we 

make  us  merry 
Because  a  year  of  it  is  gone?  but  Hope 
Smiles  from  the  threshold  of  the  year  to 

come 
Whispering  '  it  will  be  happier,'  and  old 

faces 
Press  round  us,  and  warm   hands   close 

with  warm  hands. 
And  thro'  the  blood  the  wine  leaps  to 

the  brain 
Like  April  sap  to  the  topmost  tree,  that 

shoots 
New  buds  to  heaven,  whereon  the  throstle 

rock'd 
Sings  a  new  song  to  the  new  year — and  you 
Strike  up  a  song,  my  friends,  and  then  to 

bed. 
Little  yohn.     \Vhat  will  you  have,  my 

lord? 
Robin.  '  To  sleep  !   to  sleep  ! ' 

Litt/e  John.     There  is  a  touch  of  sad- 
ness in  it,  my  lord, 
But  ill  befitting  such  a  festal  day. 

Robin.     I  have  a  touch  of  sadness  in 

myself. 
Sing. 

Song. 

To  sleep !  to  sleep !    The  long  bright  day  is  done, 

And  darkness  rises  from  the  fallen  sun. 

To  sleep!  to  sleep! 

Whate'er  thy  joys,  they  vanish  with  the  day; 

Whate'er  thy  griefs,  in  sleep  they  fade  away. 

To  sleep !  to  sleep ! 

Sleep,  mournful  heart,  and  let  the  past  be  past! 

Sleep,  happy  soul !  all  life  will  sleep  at  last. 

To  sleep !  to  sleep ! 

\^A  trumpet  blown  at  the  gates. 

Robin.     Who    breaks   the   stillness  of 

the  morning  thus? 
Little  John  {going  out  and  returning). 
It  is  a  royal  messenger,  my  lord  : 
I  trust  he  brings  us  news  of  the  King's 
coming. 

Enter  a  Pursuivant  who  reads. 

O  yes,  O  yes,  O  yes !  In  the  name  of 
the  Regent.  Thou,  Robin  Hood  Earl  of 
Huntingdon  art  attainted  and  hast  lost 


thine  earldom  of  Huntingdon.  More- 
over thou  art  dispossessed  of  all  thy 
lands,  goods,  and  chattels;  and  by  virtue 
of  this  writ,  whereas  Robin  Hood  Earl 
of  Huntingdon  by  force  and  arms  hath 
trespassed  against  the  king  in  divers 
manners,  therefore  by  the  judgment  of 
the  officers  of  the  said  lord  king,  accord- 
ing to  the  law  and  custom  of  the  king- 
dom of  England  Robin  Hood  Earl  of 
Huntingdon  is  outlawed  and  banished. 
Robin.  I  have  shelter'd  some  that 
broke  the  forest  laws. 
This  is  irregular  and  the  work  of  John. 

['  Irregular,  irregular  I  {tumult)  Down 
with    him,  tear   his    coat   from  his 
back  !  ' 
Messenger.     Ho  there  I  ho  there,  the 
Sheriff's  men  without ! 

Robin.     Nay,    let   them   be,   man,  let 
them  be.     We  yield. 
How  should  we  cope  with  John?     The 

London  folkmote 
Has  made  him  all  but  king,  and  he  hath 

seized 
On  half  the  royal  castles.    Let  him  alone  ! 

{to  his  men) 
A   worthy  messenger !     how   should   he 

help  it? 
Shall  we  too  work  injustice?  what,  thou 

shakest ! 
Here,  here — a  cup  of  wine — drink  and 
begone  !  \^Exit  Messenger. 

We  will  away  in  four-and-twenty  hours, 
But  shall  we  leave  our  England? 

Tuck.  Robin,  Earl — 

Robin.     Let  be  the  Earl.     Henceforth 
I  am  no  more 
Then  plain  man  to  plain  man. 

Tuck.  Well,  then,  plain  man, 

There  be  good  fellows  there    in  merry 

Sherwood 
That  hold  by  Richard,  tho'  they  kill  his 
deer. 
Robin.     In  Sherwood  Forest.     I  have 
heard  of  them. 
Have  they  no  leader? 

Tuck.  Each  man  for  his  own. 

Be  thou  their  leader  and  they  will  all  of 

them 
Swarm  to  thy  voice  like  bees  to  the  brass 
pan. 


822 


THE   FORESTERS. 


ACT    II. 


Robin.     They  hold   by    Richard— the 

wild  wood  !  to  cast 
All  threadbare  household  habit,  mix  with 

all 
The  lusty  life  of  wood  and  underwood, 
Hawk,  buzzard,  jay,  the  mavis  and  the 

merle, 
The    tawny   squirrel   vaulting    thro'    the 

boughs. 
The   deer,  the  highback'd   polecat,   the 

wild  boar, 
The  burrowing  badger — By  St.  Nicholas 
I   have  a  sudden   passion   for  the   wild 

wood — 
We   should  be  free   as  air   in    the    wild 

wood — 
What    say   you?    shall   we   go?      Your 

hands,  your  hands ! 

[  Gives  his  hand  to  each. 

You,  Scarlet,  you  are  always  moody  here. 

Scarlet.     Tis  for   no  lack  of  love  to 

you,  my  lord. 
But  lack  of  happiness  in  a  blatant  wife. 
She  broke  my  head  on  Tuesday  with  a 

dish. 
I  would  have  thwack'd  the  woman,  but  I 

did  not. 
Because  thou  sayest  such  fine  things  of 

women. 
But  I  shall  have  to  thwack  her  if  I  stay. 
Robin.     Would  it  be  better  for  thee  in 

the  wood? 
Scarlet.     Ay,  so  she  did  not.  follow  me 

to  the  wood. 
Robin.     Then,   Scarlet,  thou  at   least 

wilt  go  with  me. 
Thou,  Much,  the  miller's  son,  I  knew  thy 

father  : 
He  was  a  manly  man,  as  thou  art.  Much, 
And  gray  before  his  time   as  thou  art, 

Much. 
Much.     It  is  the  trick  of  the  family, 

my  lord. 
There  was  a  song  he  made  to  the  turning 

wheel — 
Robin.     '  Turn  !  turn  ! '  but  I  forget  it. 
Much.  I  can  sing  it. 

Robin.     Not  now,  good  Much  !     And 

thou,  dear  Little  John, 
Who  hast  that  worship    for   me    which 

Heaven  knows 
I  ill  deserve — you  love  me,  all  of  you, 
But  I  am  outlaw'd,  and  if  caught.  I  die. 


Your  hands  again.      All  thanks  for  all 

your  service; 
But  if  you  follow  me,  you  may  die  with  me. 
All.     We  will  live  and  die  with  thee, 
we  will  live  and  die  with  thee. 


ACT  II.— The  Flight  of  Marian. 

ACT   II. 

SCENE   I.— A  Broad  Forest  Glade. 

Woodman'' s  hut  at  one  side  with  half- 
door,  Foresters  are  looking  to  their 
bows  and  arrozas,  or  polishing  their 
swords. 

Foresters  sing  (as  they  disperse  to  their 
work). 

There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be; 
There  are  no  hearts  like  English  hearts 

Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be; 
There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen 

So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 

i^Full  chorus^ 

And  these  will  strike  for  England 

And  man  and  maid  be  free 
To  foil  and  spoil  the  tyrant 
Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be; 
There  are  no  wives  like  English  wives 

So  fair  and  chaste  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be; 
There  are  no  maids  like  English  maids 

So  beautiful  as  they  be. 

(^Full  chorus.) 

And  these  shall  wed  with  freemen, 

And  all  their  sons  be  free, 
To  sing  the  songs  of  England 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

Robin  {alone).     My  lonely  hour  ! 

The  king  of  day  hath  stept  from  off  his 
throne, 

Flung  by  the  golden  mantle  of  the  cloud. 

And  sets,  a  naked  fire.  The  King  of 
England 

Perchance  this  day  may  sink  as  glori- 
ously, 

Red  with  his  own  and  enemy's  blood — 
but  no  ! 

We  hear  he  is  in  prison.  It  is  my  birthday. 


SCENE   I. 


THE  FORESTERS. 


82 


I  have  reign'd  one  year  in  the  wild  wood. 

My  mother, 
For  whose  sake,  and  the  blessed  Queen 

of  Heaven, 
I  reverence  all  women,  bad  me,  dying, 
Whene'er  this  day  should  come  about,  to 

carve 
One  lone  hour  from  it,  so  to  meditate 
Upon  my  greater  nearness  to  the  birth- 
day 
Of  the   after-life,  when   all   the  sheeted 

dead 
Are   shaken  from   their  stillness   in  the 

grave 
By  the  last  trumpet. 

Am  I  worse  or  better? 
I  am  outlaw'd.     I  am  none  the  worse  for 

that. 
I  held  for  Richard,  and  I  hated  John. 
I  am  a  thief,  ay,  and  a  king  of  thieves. 
Ay !  but  we  rob  the  robber,  wrong  the 

wronger. 
And  what  we  wring  from  them  we  give 

the  poor. 
I  am  none  the  worse  for  that,  and  all  the 

better 
P'or  this  free  forest-life,  for  while  I  sat 
Among  my  thralls  in  my  baronial  hall 
The  groining  hid  the  heavens;   but  since 

I  breathed, 
A  houseless  head  beneath  the  sun  and 

stars, 
The  soul  of  the  woods  hath  stricken  thro' 

my  blood, 
The  love  of  freedom,  the  desire  of  God, 
The  hope  of  larger  life  hereafter,  more 
Tenfold  than  under  roof.      \_Horn  bloiun. 
True,  were  I  taken 
They  would  prick  out  my  sight.    A  price 

is  set 
On  this  poor  head;   but  I  believe  there 

lives 
No  man  who  truly  loves  and  truly  rules 
His  following,  but  can  keep  his  followers 

true. 
I  am  one  with  mine.     Traitors  are  rarely 

bred 
Save  under  traitor  kings.     Our  vice-king 

John, 
True  king  of  vice — true  play  on  words — 

our  John 
By  his  Xorman  arrogance  and  dissolute- 
ness, 


Hath  made  nie  king  of  all  the  discontent 
Of  England  up  thro'  all  the  forest  land 
North  to  the  Tyne  :   being  outlaw'd  in  a 

land 
Where  law  lies  dead,  we  make  ourselves 

the  law. 
Why  break   you    thus    upon    my   lonely 

hour? 

Enter  Little  John  a^id  Kate. 

Little  yohn.     I  found   this  white   doe 

wandering  thro'  the  wood, 
Not  thine,  but  mine.     I   have   shot  her 

thro'  the  heart. 
Kate.     He  lies,  my  lord.     I  have  shot 

him  thro'  the  heart. 
Robin.     My  God,    thou   art    the   very 

woman  who  waits 
On  my  dear  Marian.     Tell  me,  tell  me  of 

her. 
Thou  comest  a  very  angel  out  of  heaven. 
Where  is  she?  and  how  fares  she? 

Kate.  O  my  good  lord, 

I  am  but  an  angel  by  reflected  light. 
Your  heaven   is  vacant   of  your    angel. 

John — 
Shame  on  him  I — 
Stole    on  her,   she   was  walking   in   the 

garden, 
And  after  some  slight  speech  about  the 

Sheriff 
He  caught  her  round  the  waist,  whereon 

she  struck  him. 
And  fled   into  the   castle.     She  and  Sir 

Richard 
Have  past  away,  I  know  not  where;  and  I 
Was  left  alone,  and  knowing  as  I  did 
That  I  had  shot  him  thro'  the  heart,  I 

came 
To  eat  him  up  and  make  an  end  of  him. 
Little  yohn.     In  kisses? 
Kate.  You,  how  dare  you 

mention  kisses? 
But  I  am  weary  pacing  thro'  tiie  wood. 
Show  me  some   cave   or  cabin  where   I 

may  rest. 
Robin.     Go  with  him.     I  will  talk  with 

thee  anon. 

\_Exennt  Little  John  and  Kate. 
She  struck  him,  my  brave  Marian,  struck 

the  Prince, 
The  serpent  that  had  crept  into  the  gar- 
den 


824 


THE  FORESTERS. 


ACT   II. 


And    coil'd    himself    about    her    sacred 

waist. 
I  think   I  should  have  stricken  him  to 

the  death. 
He  never  will  forgive  her. 

O  the  Sheriff 
Would  pay  this  cursed  mortgage  to  his 

brother 
If  Marian  would  marry  him ;   and  the  son 
Is  most  like  dead — if  so  the  land  may 

come 
To  Marian,  and  they  rate  the  land  five- 
fold 
The   worth   of   the    mortgage,   and  who 

marries  her 
Marries    the    land.       Most    honourable 

Sheriff! 
(^Passionately)  Gone,  and  it  may  be  gone 

for  evermore  ! 

0  would  that  I  could  see  her  for  a  mo- 

ment 
Glide  like  a  light  across  these  woodland 

ways ! 
Tho'  in  one  moment  she  should  glance 

away, 

1  should  be  happier  for  it  all  the  year. 

O  would  she  moved  beside  me  like  my 

shadow ! 
O  would   she    stood   before   me    as    my 

queen. 
To  make  this  Sherwood  Eden  o'er  again, 
And  these  rough  oaks  the  palms  of  Para- 
dise ! 
Ah  !    but  who  be  those  three  yonder 
with  bows? — not  of  my  band — the  Sher- 
iff, and  by  heaven,  Prince  John  himself 
and  one  of  those  mercenaries  that  suck 
the  blood  of  England.     My  people  are 
all  scattered  I  know  not  where.     Have 
they  come  for  me?     Here  is  the  witch's 
hut.     The  fool-people  call  her  a  witch — 
a  good  witch  to  me  !     I  will  shelter  here. 
\^Knocks  at  the  door  of  the  hut. 

Old  Woman  comes  out. 

Old  Woman  {kisses  his  hand).  Ah 
dear  Robin!  ah  noble  captain,  friend  of 
the  poor ! 

Robifi.  I  am  chased  by  my  foes.  I 
have  forgotten  my  horn  that  calls  my 
men  together.  Disguise  me — thy  gown 
and  thy  coif. 

Old  Woman.      Come  in,  come  in;    I 


would  give  my  life  for  thee,  for  when  the 
Sheriff  had  taken  all  our  goods  for  the 
King  without  paying,  our  horse  and  our 
little  cart 

Robin.     Quick,  good  mother,  quick  ! 

Old  Woman.  Ay,  ay,  gown,  coif,  and 
petticoat,  and  the  old  woman's  blessing 
with  them  to  the  last  fringe. 

[  They  go  in. 

Enter  Prince  John,  Sheriff  of  Not- 
tingham, and  Mercenary. 

Prince  John.     Did  we  not  hear  the 
two  would  pass  this  way? 
They  must  have  past.     Here  is  a  wood- 
man's hut. 

Mercenary.     Take  heed,  take  heed  !  in 
Nottingham  they  say 
There  bides  a  foul  witch  somewhere  here- 
about. 

Sheriff.     Not  in  this  hut  I  take  it. 

Prince  John.  Why  not  here? 

Sheriff.     I  saw  a  man  go  in,  my  lord. 

Prince  John.  Not  two? 

Sheriff.     No,  my  lord,  one. 

Prince  John.  Make  for  the 

cottage  then ! 

Interior  of  the  hut.     RoBiN  disguised  as 
old  tuoman. 

Prince  John  {without) .  Knock  again  ! 
knock  again  ! 

Robin  {to  Old  Woman).  Get  thee  into 
the  closet  there,  and  make  a  ghostly  wail 
ever  and  anon  to  scare  'em. 

Old  Wofnan.  I  will,  I  will,  good 
Robin.  \_Goes  into  closet. 

Prince  John  {without).  Open,  open, 
or  I  will  drive  the  door  from  the  doorpost. 

Robin  {opens  door).    Come  in,  come  in. 

Prince  John.  Why  did  ye  keep  us 
at  the  door  so  long? 

Robin  {curtseying).  I  was  afear'd  it 
was  the  ghost,  your  worship. 

Pi'ince  John.  Ghost !  did  one  in  white 
pass? 

Robin  {curtseying) .    No,  your  worship. 

Prince  John.     Did  two  knights  pass? 

Robin  {curtseying).    No,  your  worship. 

Sheriff.  I  fear  me  we  have  lost  our 
labour,  then. 

Prince  John.  Except  this  old  hag 
have  been  bribed  to  lie. 


SCENE   I. 


THE  FORESTERS. 


825 


Robin.  We  old  hags  should  be  bribed 
to  speak  truth,  for,  God  help  us,  we  lie 
by  nature. 

Prince  yohn.  There  was  a  man  just 
now  that  enter'd  here? 

Robin.  There  is  but  one  old  woman 
in  the  hut.  [Old  Woman  yells. 

Robin.  I  crave  your  worship's  pardon. 
There  is  yet  another  old  woman.  She 
was  murdered  here  a  hundred  year  ago, 
and  whenever  a  murder  is  to  be  done 
again  she  yells  out  i'  this  way — so  they 
say,  your  worship. 

Mercenary.  Now,  if  I  hadn't  a  sprig 
o'  wickentree  sewn  into  my  dress,  I  should 
run. 

Prince  John.      Tut !  tut !  the  scream 
of  some  wild  woodland  thing. 
How  came  we  to  be  parted  from  our  men? 
We    shouted,    and    they   shouted,    as    I 

thought, 
But   shout   and   echo   play'd   into    each 

other 
So    hollowly   we   knew   not  which   was 
which. 

Robin.  The  wood  is  full  of  echoes, 
owls,  elfs,  ouphes,  oafs,  ghosts  o'  the 
mist,  wills-o'-the-wisp;  only  they  that  be 
bred  in  it  can  find  their  way  a-nights 
in  it. 

Prince   yohn.       I    am    footsore    and 
famish'd  therewithal. 
Is  there  aught  there  ? 

\^Pointing  to  cupboard. 

Robin.        Naught  for  the  likes  o'  you. 

Prince   John.       Speak    straight    out, 
crookback. 

Robin.         Sour  milk  and  black  bread. 

Prince  yohn.      Well,  set  them  forth. 
I  could  eat  anything. 

\_He  sets  out  a  table  with  black 
bread. 

This  is  mere  marble.  Old  hag,  how 
should  thy  one  tooth  drill  thro'  this? 

Robin.  Nay,  by  St.  Gemini,  I  ha' 
two;  and  since  the  Sheriff  left  me  naught 
but  an  empty  belly,  they  can  meet  upon 
anything  thro'  a  millstone.  You  gentles 
that  live  upo'  manchet-bread  and  march- 
pane, what  should  you  know  o'  the  food 
o'  the  poor?  Look  you  here,  before  you 
can  eat  it  you  must  hack  it  with  a  hatchet, 
break  it  all  to  pieces,  as  you  break  the 


poor,  as  you  would  hack  at  Robin  Hood 
if  you  could  light  upon  him  {hacks  it  and 
fiings  two  pieces).  There's  for  you,  and 
there's  for  you — and  the  old  woman's 
welcome. 

Prince  yohn.  The  old  wretch  is  mad, 
and  her  bread  is  beyond  me :  and  the 
milk — faugh  !  Hast  thou  anything  to 
sweeten  this? 

Robin.  Here's  a  pot  o'  wild  honey 
from  an  old  oak,  saving  your  sweet 
reverences. 

Sheriff.  Thou  hast  a  cow  then,  hast 
thou? 

Robin.  Ay,  for  when  the  Sheriff  took 
my  little  horse  for  the  King  without  pay- 
ing for  it 

Sheriff.  How  hadst  thou  then  the 
means  to  buy  a  cow? 

Robin.  Eh,  I  would  ha'  given  my 
whole  body  to  the  King  had  he  asked  for 
it,  like  the  woman  at  Acre  when  the  Turk 
shot  her  as  she  was  helping  to  build  the 
mound  against  the  city.  I  ha'  served 
the  King  living,  says  she,  and  let  me 
serve  him  dead,  says  she;  let  me  go  to 
make  the  mound :  bury  me  in  the  mound, 
says  the  woman. 

Sheriff.     Ay,  but  the  cow? 

Robin.     She  was  given  me. 

Sheriff.     By  whom? 

Robin.     By  a  thief. 

Sheriff.     Who,  woman,  who? 

Robin  (^sings^. 

He  was  a  forester  good; 

He  was  the  cock  o'  the  walk; 

He  was  the  king  o'  the  wood. 

Your  worship  may  find  another  rhyme 
if  you  care  to  drag  your  brains  for  such 
a  minnow. 

Sheriff.  That  cow  was  mine.  I  have 
lost  a  cow  from  my  meadow.  Robin 
Hood  was  it?  I  thought  as  much.  He 
will  come  to  the  gibbet  at  last. 

[Old  Woman  jj'<f//r. 

Mercenary.  O  sweet  sir,  talk  not  of 
cows.     You  anger  the  spirit. 

Prince  yohn.     Anger  the  scritch-owl. 

Mercenary.  But,  my  lord,  the  scritch- 
owl  bodes  death,  my  lord. 

Robin.  I  beseech  you  all  to  speak 
lower.     Robin  may  be  hard  by  wi'  three- 


826 


THE  FORESTERS. 


ACT   II. 


score  of  his  men.     He  often  looks  in  here 
by  the  moonshine.     Beware  of  Robin. 

[Old  Woman  yells. 

Mercenary.  Ah,  do  you  hear?  There 
may  be  murder  done. 

Sheriff.  Have  you  not  finished,  my  lord  ? 

Robin.  Thou  hast  crost  him  in  love, 
and  I  have  heard  him  swear  he  will  be 
even  wi'  thee.  [Old  Woman  yells. 

Mercenary.  Now  is  my  heart  so  down 
in  my  heels  that  if  I  stay,  I  can't  run. 

Sheriff.     Shall  we  not  go  ? 

Robiji.  And,  old  hag  tho'  I  be,  I  can 
spell  the  hand.  Give  me  thine.  Ay,  ay, 
the  line  o'  life  is  marked  enow;  but  look, 
there  is  a  cross  line  o'  sudden  death.  I 
pray  thee,  go,  go,  for  tho'  thou  wouldst 
bar  me  fro'  the  milk  o'  my  cow,  I  wouldn't 
have  thy  blood  on  my  hearth. 

Prince  John.  Why  do  you  listen,  man, 
to  the  old  fool? 

Sheriff.  I  will  give  thee  a  silver  penny 
if  thou  wilt  show  us  the  way  back  to 
Nottingham. 

Robin  {j.vith  a  very  lozv  curtsey').  All 
the  sweet  saints  bless  your  worship  for 
your  alms  to  the  old  woman !  but  make 
haste  then,  and  be  silent  in  the  wood. 
Follow  me.  [  Takes  his  bow. 

(  They  come  out  of  the  hut  and  close  the 
door  carefully.) 

[  Outside  hut. 

Robin.  Softly  !  softly !  there  may  be  a 
thief  in  every  bush. 

Prince  Johti.  How  should  this  old 
lamester  guide  us?  Where  is  thy  good- 
man? 

Robin.  The  saints  were  so  kind  to 
both  on  us  that  he  was  dead  before  he 
was  born. 

Prince  John.  Half-witted  and  a  witch 
to  boot !  Mislead  us,  and  I  will  have  thy 
life !  and  what  doest  thou  with  that  who 
art  more  bow-bent  than  the  very  bow  thou 
carriest? 

Robin.     I  keep  it  to  kill  nightingales. 

Prince  "John.     Nightingales  ! 

Robin.  You  see,  they  are  so  fond  o' 
their  own  voices  that  I  cannot  sleep  o' 
nights  by  cause  on  'em. 

Prince  yohn.  True  soul  of  the  Saxon 
churl  for  whom  song  has  no  charm. 


Robin.  Then  I  roast  'em,  for  I  have 
nought  else  to  live  on  (rvhines).  O  your 
honour,  I  pray  you  too  to  give  me  an 
alms.     (  To  Prince  John.) 

Sheriff.  This  is  no  bow  to  hit  night- 
ingales; this  is  a  true  woodman's  bow 
of  the  best  yew-wood  to  slay  the  deer. 
Look,  my  lord,  there  goes  one  in  the 
moonlight.     Shoot ! 

Prince  John  {shoots).  Missed!  There 
goes  another.     Shoot,  Sheriff! 

Sheriff  (^shoots) .     Missed  ! 

Robin.  And  here  comes  another. 
Why,  an  old  woman  can  shoot  closer 
than  you  two. 

Prince  John.  Shoot  then,  and  if  thou 
miss  I  will  fasten  thee  to  thine  own  door- 
post and  make  thine  old  carcase  a  target 
for  us  three. 

Robin  (^raises  himself  upright,  shoots, 
and  hits).  Hit!  Did  I  not  tell  you  an 
old  woman  could  shoot  better? 

Prince  John.  Thou  standest  straight. 
Thou  speakest  manlike.  Thou  art  no  old 
woman — thou  art  disguised — thou  art  one 
of  the  thieves. 

\^Makes  a  clutch  at  the  goivn,  which 
comes  iti  pieces  and  falls,  show- 
ing Robin  in  his  forester'' s  dress. 

Sheriff.  It  is  the  very  captain  of  the 
thieves ! 

Prince  John.  We  have  him  at  last; 
we  have  him  at  advantage.  Strike, 
Sheriff!      Strike,  mercenary! 

[  They  draiv  sivords  and  attack  him  ; 
he  defends  himself  with  his. 

Enter  Little  John. 

Little  John.     I  have  lodged  my  pretty 

Katekin  in  her  bower. 
How    now?      Clashing    of    swords — 
three  upon  one,  and  that  one  our  Robin ! 
Rogues,  have  you  no  manhood? 

\_Draivs  and  defends  Robin. 

Enter   SiR   RiCHARD   Lea    {dramas    his 
sword). 
Sir  Richard  Lea.     Old  as  I  am,  I  will 
not  brook  to  see 
Three  upon  two. 

(Maid  Marian  in  the  armour  of  a 
A'ed-cross  Kniglit  folloivs  half  un- 
sheathing her  sword  and  half  seen.) 


«cf;ne  I. 


THE  FORESTERS. 


827 


Back  !  back  !  I  charge  thee,  back  ! 
Is  this  a  game  for  thee  to  play  at?    Away. 

{^She  retires  to  the  fringe  of  the  copse.') 

\_He fights  on  Robin's  side.     The  other 
three  are  beaten  off  and  exeunt. 

Enter  Friar  Tuck. 

Friar  Ttcck.      I  am  too  late  then  with 

my  quarterstaff ! 
Robin.     Quick,  friar,  follow  them  : 
See  whether  there  be  more  of  'em  in  the 
wood. 
Friar  Tnck.     On  the  gallop,  on  the 
gallop,  Robin,  like  a  deer  from  a  dog,  or 
a  colt  from  a  gad-fly,  or  a  stump-tailed  ox 
in  May-time,  or  the  cow  that  jumped  over 
the  moon.  \_Exit. 

Robin.     Nay,  nay,  but  softly,  lest  they 
spy  thee,  friar  ! 

[  To  Sir  Richard  Lea  7uho  reels. 
Take  thou  mine  arm.       Who   art  thou, 
gallant  knight? 
Sir  Richard.    Robin,  I  am  Sir  Richard 
of  the  Lea. 
Who  be  those  three  that  I  have  fought 
withal  ? 
Robin.     Prince  John,  the  Sheriff,  and 

a  mercenary. 
Sir  Richard.     Prince  John  again.    W^e 
are  flying  from  this  John. 
The  Sheriff — I    am   grieved   it  was    the 

Sheriff; 
For,  Robin,  he  must  be  my  son-in-law. 
Thou  art  an   outlaw,  and  couldst  never 

pay 
The  mortgage  on  my  land.     Thou  wilt 

not  see 
My  Marian  more.     So — so — I  have  pre- 
sumed 
Beyond  my  strength.     Give  me  a  draught 
of  wine.      [Marian  cornes  forward. 
This  is  my  son  but  late    escaped    from 

prison, 
For  whom  I   ran    into    my  debt  to  the 

Abbot, 
Two  thousand   marks   in  gold.      I   have 

paid  him  half. 
That    other  thousand — shall  I  ever  pay 

it? 
A  draught  of  wine. 

Robin.  Our  cellar   is  hard  by. 


Take  him,  good  Little  John,  and  give  him 

wine. 
[iS'jtreVSir  Richard  leaning  on  Little  John. 
A  brave  old  fellow  but  he  angers  me. 

[  To  Maid  Marian  zvho  is  fol- 
lowijtg  her  father. 
Young  Walter,  nay,  I  pray  thee,  stay  a 
moment. 
Alarian.     A  moment  for  some  matter 
of  no  moment ! 
Well — !  take  and  use  your  moment,  while 
you  may. 
Robin.     Thou  art  her  brother,  and  her 
voice  is  thine. 
Her  face  is  thine,  and  if  thou  be  as  gentle 
Give  me  some  news  of  my  sweet  Marian. 
Where  is  she? 

Alarian.  Thy  sweet   Marian?      I 

believe 
She  came  with  me  into  the  forest  here. 
Robin.      She    foUow'd    thee    into  the 

forest  here? 
Marian.     Nay — that,  my  friend,  I  am 

sure  I  did  not  •^'ay. 
Robin.     Thou  blowest  hot   and  cold. 

Where  is  she  then? 
Alarian.     Is  she  not  here  with  thee? 
Robin.  Would  God  she  were  ! 

Marian.     If  not  with  thee  I  know  not 
where  she  is. 
She  may  have  lighted  on  your  fairies  here, 
And  now  be  skipping  in  their  fairy-rings, 
And  capering  hand  in  hand  with  Oberon. 
Robin.  Peace ! 

Marian.     Or    learning    witchcraft    of 
your  woodland  witch 
And  how  to  charm  and  waste  the  hearts 
of  men. 
Robin.     That  is  not  brother-like. 
Alarian    {pointing  to   the   sky).       Or 
there  perchance 
Up  yonder  with  the  man  i'  the  moon. 
Robin.  No  more  ! 

Marian.      Or  haply  fallen  a  victim  to 

the  wolf. 
Robin.     Tut !  be  there  wolves  in  Sher- 
wood? 
Marian.  The  wolf,  John  ! 

Robin.    Curse  him  !  but  thou  art  mock- 
ing me.     Thou  art 
Her  brother — I  forgive  thee.     Come  be 

thou 
My  brother  too,     She  loves  me. 


828 


THE  FORESTERS. 


ACT   11. 


Marian.  Doth  she  so? 

Robin.     Do  you  doubt  me  when  I  say 

she  loves  me,  man  ? 
Marian.     No,  but  my  father  will  not 
lose  his  land, 
Rather  than  that  would  wed  her  with  the 
Sheriff. 
Robin.    Thou  hold'st  with  him? 
Marian.  Yes,  in  some  sort  I  do. 

He  is  old  and  almost  mad  to  keep  the 
land. 
Robin.     Thou  hold'st  with  him? 
Marian.  I  tell  thee,  in  some  sort. 

Robin   {angrily^.      Sort!    sort!    what 
sort?  what  sort  of  man  art  thou 
For  land,   not  love?     Thou  wilt  inherit 

the  land. 
And   so  wouldst   sell   thy   sister  to  the 

Sheriff, 
O  thou   unworthy   brother   of  my   dear 

Marian ! 
And  now,  I  do  bethink  me,  thou  wast  by 
And  never  drewest  sword  to  help  the  old 

man 
When  he  was  figb  :ing. 

Marian.  There  were  three  to 

three. 
Robin.     Thou  shouldst  have  ta'en  his 

place,  and  fought  for  him. 
Marian.     He  did  it  so  well  there  was 

no  call  for  me. 
Robin.     My  God ! 
That    such    a    brother — she    marry    the 

Sheriff! 
Come  now,  I  fain  would  have  a  bout  with 

thee. 
It  is  but  pastime — nay,  I  will  not  harm 

thee. 
Draw ! 

Marian.     Earl,  I  would  fight  with  any 

man  but  thee. 
Robin.     Ay,  ay,  because  I  have  a  name 

for  prowess. 
Marian.     It  is  not  that. 
Robin.     That !    I   believe  thou   fell'st 
into  the  hands 
Of  these  same  Moors  thro'  nature's  base- 
ness, criedst 
*  I  yield '    almost  before   the    thing  was 

ask'd, 
And  thro'  thy  lack  of  manhood  hast  be- 
tray'd 
Thy  father  to  the  losing  of  his  land. 


Come,  boy !  'tis  but  to  see  if  thou  canst 

fence. 
Draw !  {^Draws. 

Marian.     No,  Sir  Earl,  I  will  not  fight 

to-day. 
Robin.     To-morrow  then? 
Marian.  Well,  I  will  fight 

to-morrow. 
Robin.     Give  me  thy  glove  upon  it. 
Marian  {pulls  off  her  glove  andgives  it 

to  him).     There ! 
Robin.  O  God ! 

What  sparkles  in  the  moonlight  on  thy 
hand?  [  Takes  her  hand. 

In  that  great  heat  to  wed   her   to  the 

Sheriff 
Thou  hast  robb'd  my  girl  of  her  betrothal 
ring. 
Marian.     No,  no ! 
Robin.  What !  do  I  not  know 

mine  own  ring? 
Marian.     I  keep  it  for  her. 
Robin.  Nay,  she  swore  it  never 

Should  leave  her  finger.     Give  it  me,  by 

heaven, 
Or  I  will  force  it  from  thee. 

Marian.  O  Robin,  Robin  ! 

Robin.     O  my  dear  Marian, 
Is  it  thou?  is  it  thou?  I  fall  before  thee, 

clasp 
Thy  knees.     I  am  ashamed.     Thou  shalt 

not  marry 
The  Sheriff,  but  abide  with  me  who  love 
thee. 

\_She  moves  from  him,  the  moon- 
light falls  upon  her. 
O  look  !  before  the  shadow  of  these  dark 

oaks 
Thou  seem'st  a  saintly  splendour  out  from 

heaven, 
Clothed   with    the    mystic  silver   of   her 

moon. 
Speak  but  one  word  not  only  of  forgive- 
ness. 
But  to  show  thou  art  mortal. 

Marian.  Mortal  enough. 

If  love  for  thee  be  mortal.     Lovers  hold 
True  love  immortal.      Robin,  tho'  I  love 

thee, 
We  cannot  come  together  in  this  world. 
Not  mortal !  after  death,  if  after  death — 
Robin.     Life,  life.     I  know  not  death. 
Why  do  you  vex  me 


SCENE   II. 


THE  FORESTERS. 


829 


With   raven- croaks  of  death   and   after 

death? 
Marian.     And  I  and  he  are  passing 

overseas : 
He  has  a  friend  there  will  advance  the 

monies, 
So  now  the  forest  lawns  are  all  as  bright 
As  ways  to  heaven,  I  pray  thee  give  us 

guides 
To  lead  us  thro'  the  windings  of  the  wood. 
Robin.     Must  it  be  so?     If  it  were  so, 

myself 
Would  guide  you  thro'  the  forest  to  the 

sea. 
But  go  not  yet,  stay  with  us,  and  when 

thy  brother 

Marian.     Robin,  I  ever  held  that  say- 
ing false 
That  Love  is  blind,  but  thou  hast  proven 

it  true. 
Why — even  your  woodland  squirrel  sees 

the  nut 
Behind    the    shell,    and    thee    however 

mask'd 
I   should    have    known.      But   thou — to 

dream  that  he 
My  brother,  my  dear  Walter — now,  per- 
haps, 
Fetter'd   and   lash'd,  a   galley-slave,    or 

closed 
For  ever  in  a  Moorish  tower,  or  wreckt 
And  dead  beneath  the  midland  ocean,  he 
As  gentle  as  he's  brave — that  such  as  he 
Would  wrest  from  me  the  precious  ring  I 

promised 
Never  to  part  with — No,  not  he,  nor  any. 
I  would  have  battled  for  it  to  the  death. 

[/«  her  excitement  she  draws  her 
sword. 
See,  thou  hast  wrong'd  my  brother  and 

myself. 
Robin  {kn-eeling).     See  then,  I  kneel 

once  more  to  be  forgiven. 

Enter   Scarlet,   Much,  several  of  the 
Foresters,  rushing  on. 

Scarlet.     Look  !  look  !  he  kneels  !  he 
has  anger'd  the  foul  witch. 
Who  melts  a  waxen  image  by  the  fire. 
And  drains  the  heart  and  marrow  from  a 
man. 
Much.      Our  Robin  beaten,  pleading 
for  his  life ! 


Seize  on  the  knight  I  wrench  his  sword 

from  him  ! 

[  They  all  rush  on  Marian. 
Robin  {springing  up  and  zvaving  his 

hand).  Back! 

Back  all  of  you!  this  is  Maid  Marian 
Flying  from  John — disguised. 

Me7i.  Maid  Marian?  she? 

Scarlet.     Captain,  we  saw  thee  cower- 
ing to  a  knight 
And  thought  thou  wert  bewitch'd. 

Marian.  You  dared  to  dream 

That  our  great  Earl,  the  bravest  English 

heart 
Since  Hereward  the  Wake,  would  cower 

to  any 
Of  mortal  build.     Weak  natures  that  im- 
pute 
Themselves  to  their  unlikes,   and   their 

own  want 
Of  manhood  to  their  leader !  he  would 

break. 
Far  as  he  might,  the  power  of  John — but 

you — 
What  rightful  cause  could  grow  to  such  a 

heat 
As  burns  a  wrong  to  ashes,  if  the  followers 
Of  him,  who  heads  the  movement,  held 

him  craven? 
Robin — I  know  not,  can  I  trust  myself 
With  your  brave  band?  in  some  of  these 

may  lodge 
That  baseness  which  for  fear  or  monies, 

might 
Betray  me  to  the  wild  Prince. 

Robin.  No,  love,  no  ! 

Not  any  of  these,  I  swear. 

Men.  No,  no,  we  swear. 

SCENE  II. — Another  Glade  in  the 
Forest. 

Robin   ajid  Marian  passing.       Enter 
Forester. 

Forester.      Knight,  your  good  father 
had  his  draught  of  wine 
And  then  he   swoon'd   away.      He  had 

been  hurt, 
And  bled  beneath  his  armour.     Now  he 

cries 
'  The  land  !  the  land  !  '    Come  to  him. 
Marian.  O  my  poor  father ! 


THE   FORESTERS. 


ACT    II. 


Robin.     Stay  with  us  in  this  wood,  till 
he  recover. 
We   know  all  balms  and  simples  of  the 

field 
To  help  a  wound.     Stay  with  us  here, 

sweet  love, 
Maid   Marian,   till  thou  wed  what  man 

thou  wilt. 
All  here  will  prize  thee,  honour,  worship 

thee, 
Crown  thee  with  flowers;    and    he  will 

soon  be  well : 
All  will  be  well. 

Marian.     '      O  lead  me  to  my  father  ! 
[^As  they  are  going  out  enter  Little 
John  and  Kate  ivho  falls  on  the 
neck  of  Marian. 
Kate.     No,  no,  false  knight,  thou  canst 
not  hide  thyself 
From  her  who  loves  thee. 

Little  John.  What ! 

By  all  the  devils  in  and  out  of  Hell ! 
Wilt  thou  embrace  thy  sweetheart  'fore 

my  face? 
Quick  with  thy  sword  !  the  yeoman  braves 

the  knight. 
There  !    {strikes  her  with  the  flat  of  his 
sword) . 
Marian  {laying  about  her).     Are  the 
men   all    mad?    there    then,    and 
there ! 
Kate.     O  hold  thy  hand !  this  is  our 

Marian. 
Little  John.     What !  with  this  skill  of 

fence  !   let  go  mine  arm. 
Robin.    Down  with  thy  sword  !    vShe  is 
my  queen  and  thine. 
The  mistress  of  the  band. 

Marian    {sheathing  her   sword).      A 
maiden  now 
Were  ill-bested   in   these  dark    days   of 

John, 
Except  she  could  defend  her  innocence. 

0  lead  me  to  my  father. 

[^Exeunt  Robin  and  Marian. 
Little  John.  Speak  to  me, 

1  am  like  a  boy  now  going  to  be  whipt ; 
I  know  I  have  done  amiss,  have  been  a 

fool. 
Speak  to  me,  Kate,  and  say  you  pardon 
me ! 
Kate.     I  never  will  speak  word  to  thee 
again. 


What?  to  mistrust  the  girl  you  say  you 

love 
Is  to  mistrust  your  own  love  for  your  girl ! 
How  should  you  love  if  you  mistrust  your 
love? 
Little  John.     O   Kate,  true  love  and 
jealousy  are  twins. 
And  love  is  joyful,  innocent,  beautiful, 
And  jealousy  is  wither'd,  sour  and  ugly  : 
Yet  are  they  twins  and  always  go  to- 
gether. 
Kate.     Well,  well,  until  they  cease  to 
go  together, 
I  am  but  a  stone  and  a  dead  stock  to  thee. 
Little  John.      I  thought   1   saw  thee 
clasp  and  kiss  a  man 
And  it  was  but  a  woman.    Pardon  me. 
Kate.     Ay,  for  I  much  disdain  thee, 
but  if  ever 
Thou  see  me  clasp  and  kiss  a  man  indeed, 
I  will  again  be  thine,  and  not  till  then. 

\^Exit. 

Little  John.     I  have  been  a  fool  and  I 

have  lost  my  Kate.  \_Exit. 

Re-enter  ROBIN. 

Robin.     He  dozes.     I   have   left   her 

watching  him. 
She  will  not  marry  till  her  father  yield. 
The  old  man  dotes. 
Nay — and  she  will  not  marry  till  Richard 

come, 
And  that's  at  latter  Lammas — never  per- 
haps. 
Besides,  tho'  Friar  Tuck  might  make  us 

one, 
An  outlaw's  bride  may  not  be  wife  in  law. 
I  am  weary.  \_Lying  down  on  a  bank. 

What's  here?    a  dead  bat   in  the  fairy 

ring- 
Yes,  I  remember.  Scarlet  hacking  down 
A  hollow  ash,  a  bat  flew  out  at  him 
In  the  clear  noon,  and  hook'd  him  by  the 

hair. 
And  he  was  scared  and  slew  it.     My  men 

say 
The    fairies   haunt    this   glade; — if    one 

could  catch 
A   glimpse   of  them   and   of  their   fairy 

Queen — 
Have  our  loud  pastimes  driven  them  all 

away  ? 
I  never  saw  them :  yet  I  could  believe 


SCENE  II. 


THE  FORESTERS. 


831 


There  came  some  evil  fairy  at  my  birth 
And  cursed  me,   as   the  last  heir  of  my 

race: 
*  This  boy  will  never  wed  the   maid  he 

loves, 
Nor  leave  a  child  behind  him  '  {yawns) . 

Weary — weary 
As  tho'  a  spell  were  on  me  {Jie  dreams). 
[  The  whole  stage  lights  up,  and  fairies 
are   seen   szvinging  on  boughs   and 
tiestling  in  hollow  trunks. 

TiTANiA  on  a  hill.     Fairies   on  either 
side  of  her.     The  moon  above  the  hill. 

First  Fairy. 

Evil  fairy!  do  you  hear? 
So  he  said  who  lieth  here. 

Second  Fairy. 

We  be  fairies  of  the  wood, 
We  be  neither  bad  nor  good. 

First  Fairy. 

Back  and  side  and  hip  and  rib, 
Nip,  nip  him  for  his  fib. 

Titania. 

Nip  him  not,  but  let  him  snore. 
We  must  flit  for  evermore. 

First  Fairy. 

Tit,  my  queen,  must  it  be  so? 
Wherefore,  wherefore  should  we  go? 

Titania. 

I  Titania  bid  you  flit, 

And  you  dare  to  call  me  Tit. 

First  Fairy. 

Tit,  for  love  and  brevity, 
Not  for  love  of  levity. 

Titania. 

Pertestofour  flickering  mob, 
Wouldst  thou  call  my  Oberon  Ob? 

First  Fairy. 

^A2t.Y,  an  please  your  Elfin  Grace, 
Never  Ob  before  his  face. 

Titania. 

Fairy  realm  is  breaking  down 
When  the  fairy  slights  the  crown. 

First  Fairy. 

No,  by  wisp  and  glowworm,  no. 
Only  wherefore  should  we  go? 

Titania. 

We  must  fly  from  Robin  Hood 
And  this  new  queen  of  the  wood. 


First  Fairy. 

True,  she  is  a  goodly  thing. 
Jealousy,  jealousy  of  the  king. 

Tita7iia. 

Nay,  for  Oberon  fled  away 
Twenty  thousand  leagues  to-day. 

Chorus. 

Look,  there  comes  a  deputation 
From  our  finikin  fairy  nation. 

Enter  several  Fairies. 

Third  Fairy. 

Crush'd  my  bat  whereon  I  flew. 
Found  him  dead  and  drench'd  in  dew. 
Queen. 

Fourth  Fairy. 

Quash'd  my  frog  that  used  to  quack 
When  I  vaulted  on  his  back. 

Queen. 

Fifth  Fairy. 

Kill'd  the  sward  where'er  they  sat, 

Queen. 

Sixth  Fairy. 

Lusty  bracken  beaten  flat. 

Queen. 

Seventh  Fairy. 

Honest  daisy  deadly  bruised. 

Queen. 

Eighth  Fairy. 

Modest  maiden  lily  abused. 

Queen. 

Ninth  Fairy. 

Beetle's  jewel  armour  crack'd, 

Queen. 

Tenth  Fairy. 

Reed  I  rock'd  upon  broken-back'd. 
Queen. 

Fairies  {in  chorus). 

We  be  scared  with  song  and  shout. 
Arrows  whistle  all  about. 
All  our  games  be  put  to  rout. 
All  our  rings  be  trampled  out. 
Lead  us  thou  to  some  deep  glen. 
Far  from  solid  foot  of  men. 
Never  to  return  again. 

Queen. 

Titania  {to  First  Fairy). 

Elf,  with  spiteful  heart  and  eye, 
Talk  of  jealousy?  You  see  why 
We  must  leave  the  wood  and  fly. 


832 


THE  FORESTERS. 


ACT   III. 


(  To  all  the  fairies  who  sing  at  intervals 
with  Titan  ia.) 

Up  with  you,  out  of  the  forest  and  over  the  hills 
and  away, 

And  over  this  Robin  Hood's  bay ! 

Up  thro'  the  light  of  the  seas  by  the  moon's  long- 
silvering  ray! 

To  a  land  where  the  fay, 

Not  an  eye  to  survey, 

In  the  night,  in  the  day, 

Can  have  frolic  and  play. 

Up  with  you,  all  of  you,  out  of  it !  hear  and  obey. 

Man,  lying  here  alone, 

Moody  creature, 

Of  a  nature 

Stronger,  sadder  than  my  own, 

Were  I  human,  were  I  human, 

I  could  love  you  like  a  woman. 

Man,  man. 

You  shall  wed  your  Marian. 

She  is  true,  and  you  are  true, 

And  you  love  her  and  she  loves  you; 

Both  be  happy,  and  adieu  for  ever  and  for  ever- 
more— adieu. 


Robin    {Jialf   waking).       Shall    I 
happy?     Happy  vision,  stay. 

Titania. 


be 


Up  with  you,  all  of  you,  off  with  you,  out  of  it, 
over  the  wood  and  away ! 

Note.  —  In  the  stage  copy  of  my  play  I  have 
had  this  Fairy  Scene  transferred  to  the  end  of  the 
Third  Act,  for  the  sake  of  modern  dramatic  effect. 


ACT  III. — The  Crowning  of  Marian. 

SCENE  I. — Heart  of  the  Forest. 

Marian  and  Kate  {in  Foresters'  green). 

Kate.     What  makes  you  seem  so  cold 

to  Robin,  lady? 
Marian.     What  makes  thee  think   I 

seem  so  cold  to  Robin? 
Kate.      Vou    never    whisper    close    as 
lovers  do, 
Nor  care  to  leap  into  each  other's  arms. 
Marian.     There  is  a  fence  I  cannot 
overleap, 
My  father's  will. 

Kate.     Then  you  will  wed  the  Sheriff? 
Marian.     When  heaven  falls,  I  may 
light  on  such  a  lark  ! 
But  who  art  thou  to  catechize  me — thou 
That  hast  not   made   it  up   with    Little 
John ! 
Kate.     I  wait   till  Little  John  makes 
up  to  r7ie. 


Marian.     Why,  my  good  Robin  fan- 
cied me  a  man, 
And  drew  his  sword  upon  me,  and  Little 

John 
Fancied  he  saw  thee  clasp  and  kiss  a  man. 
Kate.     Well,  if  he  fancied  that  /  fancy 

a  man 
Other  than  him,  he  is  not  the  man  for  me. 
Marian.    And  that  would  quite  //«man 

him,  heart  and  soul. 
For  both  are  thine. 

(^Looking  zip.) 

But  listen — overhead — 
Fluting,  and  piping  and  luting  '  Love, 

love,  love  ' — 
Those  sweet  tree-Cupids  half-way  up  in 

heaven. 
The  birds — would   I  were   one  of  'em ! 

O  good  Kate — 
If  my  man-Robin  were  but  a  bird-Robin, 
How  happily  would  we  lilt  among  the 

leaves 
*  Love,   love,    love,    love  ' — what    merry 

madness — listen  ! 
And  let  them  warm  thy  heart  to  Little 

John. 
Look  where  he  comes  ! 

Kate.  I  will  not  meet  him  yet, 

I'll  watch  him  from   behind   the  trees, 

but  call 
Kate  when  you  will,  for  I  am  close  at 

hand. 

Kate  stands  aside  and  enter  Robin,  and 
after  him  at  a  little  distance  LITTLE 
John,  Much  the  Miller's  son,  and 
Scarlet  zvith  an  oaken  chaplet,  and 
other  Foresters, 

Little  John.  My  lord — Robin— I 
crave  pardon — you  always  seem  to  me 
my  lord — I  Little  John,  he  Much  the 
miller's  son,  and  he  Scarlet,  honouring 
all  womankind,  and  more  especially  my 
lady  Marian,  do  here,  in  the  name  of 
all  our  woodmen,  present  her  with  this 
oaken  chaplet  as  Queen  of  the  wood,  I 
Little  John,  he,  young  Scarlet,  and  he, 
old  Much,  and  all  the  rest  of  us. 

Mtich.  And  I,  old  Much,  say  as  much, 
for  being  every  inch  a  man  I  honour 
every  inch  of  a  woman. 

Robin.  Friend  Scarlet,  art  thou  less  a 
man  than  Much? 


SCENE   I. 


THE   FORESTERS. 


*833 


Why   art   thou   mute?     Dosf  thou   not 

honour  woman? 
Scarlet.     Robin,  I   do,  but   I   have   a 
bad  wife. 

Robin.     Then  let  her  pass  as  an  ex- 
ception, Scarlet. 
Scarlet.     So    I    would,  Robin,  if   any 
man  would  accept  her. 

Marian  inputs  on  the  chaplei).    Had  I 

a  bulrush  now  in  this  right  hand 
For  sceptre,  I  were  like  a  queen  indeed. 
Comrades,  I  thank  you  for  your  loyalty, 
And  take  and  wear  this  symbol  of  your 

love ; 
And  were  my  kindly  father  sound  again, 
Could    live    as    happy   as   the    larks   in 

heaven. 
And  join  your  feasts  and  all  your  forest 

games 
As  far  as  maiden  might.    Farewell,  good 

fellows ! 

\_Exeunt   several  foresters,    the 

others  withdrazu  to  the  back. 

Robin.     Sit   here    by   me,  where   the 

most  beaten  track 
Runs  thro'  the  forest,  hundreds  of  huge 

oaks, 
Gnarl'd — older  than  the  thrones  of  Eu- 
rope— look. 
What  breadth,  height,  strength — torrents 

of  eddying  bark  ! 
Some    hollow-hearted    from     exceeding 

age- 
That   never   be  thy  lot   or   mine  ! — and 

some 
Pillaring  a  leaf-sky  on  their  monstrous 

boles, 
Sound    at    the    core    as   we    are.      Fifty 

leagues 
Of  woodland  hear  and   know  my  horn, 

that  scares 
The  Baron  at  the  torture  of  his  churls. 
The  pillage  of  his  vassals. 

O  maiden-wife. 
The  oppression  of  our  people  moves  me  so, 
That  when  I  think  of  it  hotly,  Love  him- 
self 
Seems  but  a  ghost,  but  when  thou  feel'st 

with  me 
The    ghost    returns    to    Marian,    clothes 

itself 
In  maiden   flesh  and   blood,  and  looks 

at  once 

3H 


Maid  Marian,  and  that  maiden  freedom 

which 
Would    never   brook    the    tyrant.      Live 

thou  maiden  ! 
Thou  art  more  my  wife  so  feeling,  than 

if  my  wife 
And  siding  with  these  proud  priests,  and 

these  Barons, 
Devils,  that  make  this  blessed  England 

hell. 

Marian.     Earl 

Robin.  Nay,    no    Earl 

am  L     I  am  English  yeoman. 
Marian.     Then  /  am  yeo-woman.     O 

the  clumsy  word ! 
Robin.     Take  thou  this  light  kiss  for 

thy  clumsy  word. 
Kiss  me  again. 

iMarian.     Robin,  I  will  not  kiss  thee, 
For  that  belongs  to  marriage;  but  I  hold 

thee 
The   husband  of  my  heart,  the  noblest 

light 
That  ever  flash'd  across  my  life,  and  I 
Embrace  thee  with  the  kisses  of  the  soul. 
Robin.     I  thank  thee. 
Marian.  Scarlet  told  me 

— is  it  true? — 
That  John  last  week  return'd  to  Notting- 
ham, 
And   all   the   foolish   world    is   pressing 

thither. 
Robin.     Sit  here,  my  queen,  and  judge 

the  world  with  me. 
Doubtless,  like  judges  of  another  bench. 
However  wise,  we   must   at  times   have 

wrought 
Some  great  injustice,  yet,  far  as  we  knew, 
We  never  robb'd  one  friend  of  the  true 

King. 
We  robb'd  the  traitors  that  are  leagued 

with  John; 
We  robb'd  the  lawyer  who  went  against 

the  law; 
We  spared  the  craftsman,  chapman,  all 

that  live 
By   their  own   hands,  the    labourer,  the 

poor  priest; 
We  spoil'd  the  prior,  friar,  abbot,  monk, 
For  playing  upside  down  with  Holy  Writ. 
'  Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give   it   to   the 

poor;' 
Take  all  they  have  and  give  it  to  thyself! 


834' 


THE   FORESTERS. 


ACT   HI. 


Then  after  we  have  eased  them  of  their 

coins 
It  is  our  forest  custom  they  should  revel 
Along  with  Robin. 

Alarian.     And  if  a  woman  pass 

Robin.     Dear,  in   these  days  of  Nor- 
man license,  when 
Our  English   maidens  are  their  prey,  if 

ever 
A  Norman  damsel  fell  into  our  hands, 
In  this  dark  wood  when  all  was  in  our 

power 
We  never  wrong'd  a  woman. 

Marian.  Noble  Robin. 

Little  yohn  {^coming forward^ .     Here 
come  three  beggars. 

Enter  the  three  Beggars. 

Little  John.     Toll ! 

First  Beggar.  Eh !  we  be  beggars, 
we  come  to  ask  o'  you.    We  ha'  nothing. 

Second  Beggar.  Rags,  nothing  but 
our  rags. 

Third  Beggar.  I  have  but  one  penny 
in  pouch,  and  so  you  would  make  it  two 
I  should  be  grateful. 

Marian.  Beggars,  you  are  sturdy 
rogues  that  should  be  set  to  work.  You 
are  those  that  tramp  the  country,  filch 
the  linen  from  the  hawthorn,  poison  the 
house-dog,  and  scare  lonely  maidens  at 
the  farmstead.    Search  them.  Little  John. 

Little  yohn.  These  two  have  forty 
gold  marks  between  them,  Robin. 

Robin.  Cast  them  into  our  treasury, 
the  beggars'  mites.  Part  shall  go  to  the 
almshouses  at  Nottingham,  part  to  the 
shrine  of  our  Lady.      Search  this  other. 

Little  yohn.  He  hath,  as  he  said,  but 
one  penny. 

Robin.  Leave  it  with  him  and  add  a 
gold  mark  thereto.  He  hath  spoken 
truth  in  a  world  of  lies. 

Third  Beggar.     I  thank  you,  my  lord. 

Little  yohn.  A  fine,  a  fine  !  he  hath 
called  plain  Robin  a  lord.  How  much 
for  a  beggar? 

Robin.  Take  his  penny  and  leave  him 
his  gold  mark. 

Little  yohn.  Sit  there,  knaves,  till  the 
captain  call  for  you. 

[  They  pass  behind  the  trunk  of  an 
oak  on  the  right. 


Marian.  Art  thou  nut  hard  upon 
them,  my  good  Robin? 

Robin.  They  might  be  harder  upon 
thee,  if  met  in  a  black  lane  at  midnight : 
the  throat  might  gape  before  the  tongue 
could  cry  who? 

Little  yohn.  Here  comes  a  citizen, 
and  I  think  his  wife. 

Enter  Citizen  and  Wife. 

Citizen.    That  business  which  we  have 

in  Nottingham 

Little  yohn.     Halt ! 
Citizen.  O  dear  wife,  we 

have  fallen  into  the  hands 
Of  Robin  Hood. 

Marian.  And  Robin  Hood  hath 

sworn — 
Shame  on  thee.  Little  John,  thou  hast 

forgotten — 
That  by  the  blessed  Mother  no  man,  so 
His  own  true  wife  came  with  him,  should 

be  stay'd 
From  passing    onward.     Fare  you  well, 
fair  lady  !  \_Bowing  to  her. 

Robin.    And  may  your  business  thrive 

in  Nottingham ! 
Citizen.     I  thank  you,  noble  sir,  the 
very  blossom 
Of  bandits.     Courtesy  to  him,  wife,  and 
thank  him. 
Wife.    I  thank  you,  noble  sir,  and  will 
pray  for  you 
That  you  may  thrive,  but  in  some  kindlier 
trade. 
Citizen.     Away,  away,  wife,  wilt  thou 
anger  him? 

S^Exeunt  Citizen  and  his  Wife. 
Little  yohn.     Here  come  three  friars. 
Robin.     Marian,  thou  and  thy  woman 
{looking  round^,  Why,  where  is  Kate? 
Marian  {calling).     Kate! 
Kate.      Here! 

Robin.     Thou  and   thy  woman  are  a 
match  for  three  friars.    Take  thou  my  bow 
and  arrow  and  compel  them  to  pay  toll. 
Marian.     Toll ! 

F.nter  three  Friars. 

First  Friar   {^advancing) .      Behold  a 
pretty  Dian  of  the  wood, 
Prettier  than  that  same  widow  which  you 
wot  of. 


SCENE   I. 


THE   FORESTERS. 


835 


Ha,  brother.     Toll,  my  dear?  the  toll  of 

love. 

Marian  (^dt- awing  bow).     Back!  how 

much    money   hast    thou    in    thy 

purse? 

First  Friar.     Thou  art  playing  with 

us.     How  should  poor  friars  have  money  ? 

Marian.     How    much?    how    much? 

Speak,  or  the  arrow  flies. 
First  Friar.     How  much?  well,  now 
I  bethink  me,  I  have  one  mark  in  gold 
which  a  pious  son  of  the  Church  gave  me 
this  morning  on  my  setting  forth. 

Marian  {bending  bow  at  the  second). 
And  thou? 

Second  Friar.  Well,  as  he  said,  one 
mark  in  gold. 

Marian  {bending  bo7v  at  the  third). 
And  thou? 

Third  Friar.     One  mark  in  gold. 
Marian.     Search  them,  Kate,  and  see 
if  they  have  spoken  truth. 

Kate.  They  are  all  mark'd  men.  They 
have  told  but  a  tenth  of  the  truth  :  they 
have  each  ten  marks  in  gold. 

Marian.  Leave  them  each  what  they 
say  is  theirs,  and  take  the  twenty-seven 
marks  to  the  captain's  treasury.  Sit 
there  till  you  be  called  for. 

First  Friar.     We  have  fall'n  into  the 
hands  of  Robin  Hood. 
[Marian  a7id  Kate  return  to  Robin, 
[  77;,?  Friars  pass  behind  an  oak 
on  the  left. 
Robin.    Honour  to  thee,  brave  Marian, 
and  thy  Kate. 
I  know  them  arrant  knaves  in  Notting- 
ham. 
One  half  of  this  shall  go  to  those  they 

have  wrong'd, 
One  half  shall  pass  into  our  treasury. 
Where  lies  that  cask  of  wine  whereof  we 

plunder'd 
The  Norman  prelate? 

Little  John.    In  that  oak,  where  twelve 

Can  stand  upright,  nor  touch  each  other. 

Robin.  Good  I 

Roll   it  in  here.     These   friars,  thieves, 

and  liars. 
Shall  drink  the  health  of  our  new  wood- 
land Queen. 
And  they  shall  pledge  thee,  Marian,  loud 
enough 


To   fright  the   wild   swan   passing   over- 
head. 

The  mouldwarp  underfoot. 

Alarian.  'They  pledge  me,  Robin? 

The  silent  l^lessing  of  one  honest  man 

Is  heard  in  heaven — the  wassail  yells  of 
thief 

And  rogue  and  liar  echo  down  in  Hell, 

And  wake  the  Devil,  and  I  may  sicken 
by  'em. 

Well,  well,  be  it  so,  thou  strongest  thief 
of  all. 

For  thou  hast  stolen  my  will,  and  made  it 
thine. 

Friar  Tuck,  Little  John,  Much, 
and  Scarlet  roll  in  cask. 

Friar  Tuck.     I  marvel   is   it  sack  or 
Malvoisie? 

Robin.     Do  me  the  service  to  tap  it, 
and  thou  wilt  know. 

Friar  Tuck.     I  would  tap  myself  in  thy 
service,  Robin. 

Robin.     And  thou  wouldst  run  more 
wine  than  blood. 

Friar  Tuck.     And  both  at  thy  service, 
Robin. 

Robin.     I  believe  thee,  thou  art  a  good 
fellow,  though  a  friar. 

[  They  pour  the  wine  into  cups. 
Friar  Tuck.     Fill  to   the    brim.     Our 
Robin,  King  o'  the  woods. 
Wherever  the  horn  sound,  and  the  buck 

bound, 

Robin,  the  people's  friend,  the  King  o' 

the  woods.  [  They  drink. 

Robin.     To  the  brim  and  over  till  the 

green  earth  drink 

Her  health   along  with   us  in   this   rich 

draught, 
And  answer  it  in  flowers.     The  Queen  o' 

the  woods. 
Wherever  the  buck  bound,  and  the  horn 

sound. 
Maid  Marian,  Queen  o'  the  woods ! 

[  They  drink. 

Here,  you  three  rogues, 

[  To  the  Beggars.      They  come  out. 

You  caught  a  lonely  woodman    of   our 

band, 
And  bruised  him  almost  to  the  death,  and 

took 
His  monies. 


836 


THE  FORESTERS. 


ACT    III. 


Third  Beggar.     Captain,  nay,  it  wasn't 

me. 
Robin.     You  ought  to  dangle  up  there 
among  the  crows. 
Drink  to  the  health  of  our  new  Queen  o' 

the  woods. 
Or  else  be  bound  and  beaten. 

First  Beggar.  Sir,  sir — well, 

"We  drink  the  health  of  thy  new  Queen  o' 
the  woods. 
Robin.    Louder  !  louder  !  Maid  Marian, 

Queen  o'  the  woods  ! 
Beggars    {shouting).       Maid    Marian, 
Queen  o'   the  woods:    Queen  o' 
the  woods. 
First  and  Second  Beggars  (aside) .    The 
black  fiend  grip  her  ! 

[  They  drink. 

Robin  (Jo  the  Friars).     And  you  three 

holy  men,  [  They  come  out. 

You  worshippers  of  the  Virgin,  one  of  you 

Shamed  a  too  trustful  widow  whom  you 

heard 
In     her     confession;      and      another — 

worse  ! — 
An  innocent  maid.     Drink  to  the  Queen 

o'  the  woods, 
Or  else  be  bound  and  beaten. 

First  Friar.  Robin  Hood, 

These  be  the  lies  the  people  tell  of  us, 
Because  we  seek  to  curb  their  vicious- 

ness. 
However — to  this  maid,  this  Queen  o'  the 
woods. 
Robin.      Louder,   louder,   ye   knaves. 
Maid  Marian  ! 
Queen  o'  the  woods  ! 

Friars    {shouting).        Maid    Marian, 

Queen  o'  the  woods. 
First  Friar  {aside).     Maid? 
Second  Friar  {aside).         Paramour! 
Third  Friar  {aside).     Hell  take  her  ! 
[  They  drink. 
Friar  Tuck.     Robin,  will  you  not  hear 
one  of  these  beggars'  catches?    They  can 
do  it.     I  have  heard  'em  in  the  market 
at  Mansfield. 

Little  John.  No,  my  lord,  hear  ours 
— Robin — I  crave  pardon,  I  always  think 
of  you  as  my  lord,  but  I  may  still  say  my 
lady;  and,  my  lady,  Kate  and  1  have 
fallen  out  again,  and  I  pray  you  to  come 
between  us  again,  for,  my  lady,  we  have 


made  a  song  in  your  honour,  so  your  lady- 
ship care  to  listen. 

Robin.  Sing,  and  by  St.  Mary  these 
beggars  and  these  friars  shall  join  you. 
Play  the  air,  Little  John. 

Little  John.  Air  and  word,  my  lady, 
are  maid  and  man.  Join  them  and  they 
are  a  true  marriage;  and  so,  I  pray  you, 
my  lady,  come  between  me  and  my  Kate 
and  make  us  one  again.  Scarlet,  begin. 
\_Playing  the  air  on  his  viol. 

Scarlet. 

By  all  the  deer  that  spring 
Thro'  wood  and  lawn  and  ling, 

When  all  the  leaves  are  green; 
By  arrow  and  gray  goosewing, 
When  horn  and  echo  ring, 
We  care  so  much  for  a  King; 

We  care  not  much  for  a  Queen — 

For  a  Queen,  for  a  Queen  o'  the  woods. 

Marian.  Do  you  call  that  in  my 
honour? 

Scarlet.    Bitters  before  dinner,  my  lady, 

to  give  you  a  relish.     The  first  part — 

made  before  you  came  among  us — they 

put  it  upon  me  because  I  have  a  bad  wife. 

I  love  you  all  the  same.     Proceed. 

\_All  the  rest  sing. 

By  all  the  leaves  of  spring, 
And  all  the  birds  that  sing 

When  all  the  leaves  are  green; 
By  arrow  and  by  bowstring, 
We  care  so  much  for  a  King 

That  we  would  die  for  a  Queen — 

For  a  Queen,  for  a  Queen  o'  the  woods. 

Enter  Forester. 

Forester.       Black    news,    black    news 
from  Nottingham  !   I  grieve 
I  am  the  Raven  who  croaks  it.     My  lord 

John, 
In  wrath  because  you  drove  him  from  the 

forest, 
Is  coming  with  a  swarm  of  mercenaries 
To  break  our  band  and  scatter  us  to  the 
winds. 
Marian.     O  Robin,  Robin !     See  that 
men  be  set 
Along  the  glades  and  passes  of  the  wood 
To  warn  us  of  his  coming  !  then  each  man 
That  owns  a  wife  or  daughter,  let  him 

bury  her 
Even  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  to  scape 

The  glance  of  John 

Robin.       You  hear  your  Queen,  obey  ! 


SCENE   I. 


THE   FORESTERS. 


837 


ACT  IV. — The  Conclusion. 
ACT   IV. 

SCENE. — A  Forest  Bower,  Cavern  in 
Background.     Sunrise. 

Marian  {rising to  in eef^ohvci).  Robin, 
the  sweet  light  of  a  mother's  eye, 

That  beam  of  dawn  upon  the  opening 
flower, 

Has  never  glanced  upon  me  when  a  child. 

He  was  my  father,  mother,  both  in  one. 

The  love  that  children  owe  to  both  I  give 

To  him  alone. 

(Robin  offers  to  caress  her.') 

Marian.     Quiet,  good  Robin,  quiet ! 
You  lovers  are  such  clumsy  summer-flies 
For  ever  buzzing  at  your  lady's  face. 

Robin.  Bees  rather,  flying  to  the 
flower  for  honey. 

Marian  {sings). 

The  bee  buzz'd  up  in  the  heat. 
'  I  am  faint  for  your  honey,  my  sweet.' 
The  flower  said  '  Take  it,  my  dear, 
For  now  is  the  spring  of  the  year. 
So  come,  come !  ' 
'Hum!  ' 
And  the  bee  buzz'd  down  from  the  heat. 

And  the  bee  buzz'd  up  in  the  cold 
When  the  flower  was  wither'd  and  old. 
*  Have  you  still  any  honey,  my  dear?  ' 
She  said  '  It's  the  fall  of  the  year. 
But  come,  come!  ' 
'Hum!' 
And  the  bee  buzz'd  off  in  the  cold. 

Robin.     Out  on  thy  song  I 

Marian.        Did  I  not  sing  it  in  tune? 

Robin.     No,  sweetheart!    out  of  tune 

with  Love  and  me. 
Marian.    And  yet  in  tune  with  Nature 

and. the  bees. 
Robin.    Out  on  it,  I  say,  as  out  of  tune 

and  time  ! 
Marian.     Till  thou  thyself  shalt  come 

to  sing  it — in  time. 
Robin  {taking  a  tress  of  her  hair  in 

his  hand).     Time!    if  his  back- 
ward-working alchemy 
Should  change  this  gold  to  silver,  why, 

the  silver 
Were  dear  as  gold,  the  wrinkle   as  the 

dimple. 


Thy  bee  should  buzz  about  the  Court  of 

John. 
No    ribald    John    is    Love,    no    wanton 

Prince, 
The  ruler  of  an  hour,  but  lawful  King, 
Whose  writ  will  run  thro'  all  the  range 

of  life. 
Out  upon  all  hard-hearted  maidenhood  I 
Alarian.     And   out   upon   all   simple 
batchelors  1 
Ah,  well !  thou  seest  the  land  has  come 

between  us. 
And  my  sick  father  here  has  come  be- 
tween us. 
And  this  rich  Sheriff  too  has  come  be- 
tween us; 
So,  is  it  not  all  over  now  between  us? 
Gone,   like    a   deer   that    hath    escaped 
thine  arrow ! 
Robin.     What     deer     when     I     have 
mark'd  him  ever  yet 
Escaped  mine  arrow?  over  is  it?  wilt  thou 
Give  me  thy  hand  on  that? 

Marian.  Take  it. 

Robin  {kisses  her  hand  ) .    The  Sheriff ! 
This  ring  cries  out  against  thee.      Say  it 

again, 
And   by  this    ring   the    lips    that    never 

breathed 
Love's  falsehood  to  true  maid  will  seal 

Love's  truth 
On  those  sweet  lips  that  dare  to  dally 
with  it. 
Marian.     Quiet,   quiet  I   or  I   will  to 

my  father. 
Robin.     So,  then,  thy  father  will  not 
grace  our  feast 
With  his  white  beard  to-day. 

Alarian.  Being  so  sick 

How  should  he,  Robin? 

Robin.  Then  that  bond  he  hath 

Of  the  Abbot — wilt  thou  ask  him  for  it  ? 
Marian.  Why? 

Robin.     I  have  sent  to  the  Abbot  and 
justiciary 
To   bring   their    counter-bond    into    the 
forest. 
Alarian.     But  will  they  come? 
Robin.       If  not  I  have  let  them  know 
Their  lives  unsafe  in  any  of  these  our 

woods. 
And  in  the  winter  I  will  fire  their  farms. 
But  I  have  sworn  by  our  Lady  if  they  come 


838 


THE  FORESTERS. 


ACT   IV. 


I  will  not  tear  the  bond,  but  see  fair  play 
Betwixt  them  and  Sir  Richard — promised 

too, 
So  that  they  deal  with  us  like  honest  men. 
They  shall  be  handled  with  all  courteous- 
ness. 
Marian.     What  wilt  thou  do  with  the 

bond  then? 
Robin.  Wait  and  see. 

What  wilt  thou  do  with  the  Sheriff? 

Marian.  Wait  and  see. 

I  bring  the  bond.  \_Exit  Marian, 

Enter  Little  John,  Friar  Tuck,  and 
Much,  and  Foresters  and  Peasants 
laughing  and  talking. 

Robin.     Have  you  glanced  down  thro' 

all  the  forest  ways 
And  mark'd   if  those   two   knaves   from 

York  be  coming? 
Little  John.     Not  yet,  but  here  comes 

one  of  bigger  mould. 

Enter  KiNG  RiCHARD. 

Art  thou  a  knight? 

King  Richard.     I  am. 
Robin.  And  walkest  here 

Unarmour'd?  all  these  walks  are  Robin 

Hood's 
And  sometimes  perilous. 

King  Richard.   Good  !  but  having  lived 
For  twenty  days  and  nights  in  mail,  at 

last 
I  crawl'd  like  a  sick  crab  from  my  old 

shell. 
That  I  might  breathe  for  a  moment  free 

of  shield 
And  cuirass  in  this  forest  where  I  dream'd 
That  all  was  peace — not  even  a  Robin 

Hood— 
(^Aside)   What    if   these    knaves   should 
know  me  for  their  King? 
Robin.    Art  thou  for  Richard,  or  allied 

to  John? 
King  Richard.     I  atn  allied  to  John. 
Robin.     The  worse  for  thee. 
King  Richard.    Art  thou  that  banish'd 
lord  of  Huntingdon, 
The  chief  of  these  outlaws  who  break  the 
law? 
Robin.     I  am  the  yeoman,  plain  Robin 
Hood,  and   being  out  of  the   law   how 
should  we  break  the  law?  if  we  broke 


into  it  again  we  should  break  the  law, 
and  then  we  were  no  longer  outlaws. 
King  Richard.     But,  Earl,  if  thou  be 

he 

Friar  Tuck.    Fine  him  !  fine  him  !  he 
hath  called  plain  Robin  an  earl.     How 
much  is  it,  Robin,  for  a  knight? 
Robin.     A  mark. 
King  Richard  {gives  it) .     There. 
Robin.    Thou  payest  easily,  like  a  good 
fellow, 
But  being  o'  John's  side  we  must  have 
thy  gold. 
King  Richard.     But    I   am  more   for 

Richard  than  for  John. 
Robin.     What,    what,    a    truckler  I    a 
word-eating  coward  ! 
Nay,  search  him  then.     How  much  hast 
thou  about  thee? 
King  Richard.     I  had  one  mark. 
Robin.     What  more? 
King  Richard.  No  more,  I  think. 

But  how  then  if  I  will  not  bide  to  be 
search'd? 
Robin.     W^e  are  four  to  one. 
King  Richard.  And  I  might 

deal  with  four. 
Robin.     Good,  good,  I  love   thee  for 
that !  but  if  I  wind 
This  forest-horn  of  mine  I  can  bring  down 
Fourscore  tall  fellows  on  thee. 

King  Richard.  Search  me  then. 

I  should  be  hard  beset  with  thy  fourscore. 

Little  yohn  (^searching  King  Richard). 

Robin,  he  hath  no  more.    He  hath 

spoken  truth. 

Robin.     I   am  glad   of  it.     Give  him 

back  his  gold  again. 
King  Richard.     But  I  had  liefer  than 
this  gold  again — 
Not    having    broken    fast    the    livelong 

day — 
Something  to  eat. 

Robin.     And  thou  shalt  have  it,  man. 
Our  feast  is  yonder,  spread  beneath  an 

oak. 
Venison,  and  wild  boar,  wild  goose,  be- 
sides 
Hedge-pigs,  a  savoury  viand,  so  thou  be 
Squeamish  at  eating  the  King's  venison. 
King  Richard.     Nay,  Rol)in,  I  am  like 
thyself  in  that 
I  look  on  the  King's  venison  as  my  own, 


SCENE   I. 


THE  FORESTERS. 


839 


Friar  Tuck.  Ay,  ay,  Robin,  but  let 
him  know  our  forest  laws :  he  that  pays 
not  for  his  dinner  must  rtght  for  it.  In 
the  sweat  of  thy  brow,  says  Holy  Writ, 
shalt  thou  eat  bread,  but  in  the  sweat  of 
thy  brow  and  thy  breast,  and  thine  arms, 
and  thy  legs,  and  thy  heart,  and  thy  liver, 
and  in  the  fear  of  thy  life  shalt  thou  eat 
the  King's  venison — ay,  and  so  thou  tight 
at  quarterstaff  for  thy  dinner  with  our 
Robin,  that  will  give  thee  a  new  zest  for 
it,  though  thou  wert  like  a  bottle  full  up 
to  the  cork,  or  as  hollow  as  a  kex,  or  the 
shambles-oak,  or  a  weasel-sucked  egg,  or 
the  head  of  a  fool,  or  the  heart  of  Prince 
John,  or  any  other  symbol  of  vacuity. 

[  They  bring  out  the  qtiarter staffs,  and 
the  foresters  and  peasants  crowd 
round  to  see  the  ga??ies,  and  ap- 
plaud at  intervals. 

King  Richard.    Great  woodland  king, 
I  know  not  quarterstaff. 

Little  John.  A  fine  !  a  fine  !  He  hath 
called  plain  Robin  a  king. 

Robin.  A  shadow,  a  poetical  fiction — 
did  ye  not  call  me  king  in  your  song? — 
a  mere  figure.     Let  it  go  by. 

Friar  Tuck.  No  figure,  no  fiction, 
Robin.  What,  is  not  man  a  hunting 
animal?  And  look  you  now,  if  we  kill 
a  stag,  our  dogs  have  their  paws  cut  off, 
and  the  hunters,  if  caught,  are  blinded, 
or  worse  than  blinded.  Is  that  to  be  a 
king?  If  the  king  and  the  law  work  in- 
justice, is  not  he  that  goes  against  the 
king  and  the  law  the  true  king  in  the 
sight  of  the  King  of  kings?  Thou  art 
the  king  of  the  forest,  and  I  would  thou 
wert  the  king  of  the  land. 

King  Richard.  This  friar  is  of  much 
boldness,  noble  captain, 

Robin.  He  hath  got  it  from  the  bottle, 
noble  knight. 

Friar    Tuck.      Boldness    out    of    the 
bottle  !   I  defy  thee. 
Boldness  is  in  the  blood,  Truth   in  the 

bottle. 
She  lay  so  long  at  the  bottom  of  her  well 
In  the  cold  water  that  she  lost  her  voice. 
And  so  she  glided  up  into  the  heart 
O'  the  bottle,  the  warm  wine,  and  found 
it  again. 


Iti  vino  Veritas.     Shall  I  undertake 
The  knight  at  quarterstaff,  or  thou? 

Robin.     Peace,  magpie  ! 
Give  him  the  quarterstaff.     Nay,  but  thy- 
self 
Shalt  play  a  bout  with  me,  that  he  may  see 
The  fashion  of  it. 

\_Plays  zvith  Little  John  at  quarterstaff. 
King  Richard.     Well,  then,  let  me  try. 

[  They  play. 
I  yield,  I  yield.     I  know  no  quarterstaff. 
Robiti.     Then  thou  shalt  play  the  game 

of  buffets  with  us. 
King  Richard.     What's  that? 
Robin.     I  stand  up  here,  thou  there. 
I  give  thee 
A  buffet,  and  thou  me.    The  Holy  Virgin 
Stand    by   the   strongest.      I    am    over- 
breathed. 
Friar,  by  my  two  bouts  at  quarterstaff. 
Take  him  and  try  him,  friar. 

Friar  Tuck.     There !  \^Strikes. 

King  Richard  (^strikes^.     There  1 

[YridLX  falls. 
Friar  Ttick.  There  I 

Thou  hast  roll'd  over  the  Church  militant 
Like  a  tod  of  wool  from  wagon  into  ware- 
house. 
Nay,  I  defy  thee  still.     Try  me  an  hour 

hence. 
I  am  misty  with  my  thimbleful  of  ale. 
Robin.     Thou   seest.  Sir    Knight,  our 
friar  is  so  holy 
That   he's    a   miracle-monger,    and    can 

make 
Five   quarts  pass  into    a    thimble.     Up, 
good  Much. 
Friar  Tuck.     And  show  thyself  more 

of  a  man  than  me. 
Much.     Well,  no    man   yet    has    ever 

bowl'd  me  down. 
Scarlet.     Ay,  for  old   Much    is    every 

inch  a  man. 
Robin.     We  should  be   all  the   more 

beholden  to  him. 
Much.     Much  and  more !    much  and 
more  1     I  am  the  oldest  of  thy  men,  and 
thou  and  thy  youngsters  are  always  much- 
ing  and  moreing  me. 

Robin.  Because  thou  art  always  so 
much  more  of  a  man  than  my  youngsters, 
old  Much. 

Much.     Well,  we  Muches  be  old. 


840 


THE   FORESTERS. 


ACT   IV. 


Robin.     Old  as  the  hills. 

Much.     Old  as  the  mill.     We  had  it  i' 

the  Red  King's  time,  and  so  I  may  be 

more  of  a  man  than  to  be  bowled  over 

like  a  ninepin.     There!  \^St7'ikes. 

King  Richard.     There!     [Much/a//^. 

Robin.      '  Much   would    have    more,' 

says  the  proverb;   but  Much   hath  had 

more  than  enough.     Give  me  thy  hand. 

Much;   I  love  thee  {lifts  hi7?i  up).     At 

him,  Scarlet ! 

Scarlet.      I  cannot  cope  with  him :  my 

wrist  is  strain'd. 
King  Richard.     Try,  thyself,  valorous 

Robin ! 
Robin.     I  am  mortally  afear'd  o'  thee, 
thou  big  man, 
But  seeing  valour  is  one  against  all  odds, 
There ! 

King  Richard.     There ! 

[Robin  falls  back,  and  is  caught 
in  the  arms  ^Little  John. 
Robin.    Good,  now  I  love  thee  might- 
ily, thou  tall  fellow. 
Break  thine  alliance  with  this  faithless 

John, 
And  live  with  us  and  the  birds  in  the 
green  wood. 
King  Richard.      I  cannot   break  it, 
Robin,  if  I  wish'd. 
Still  I  am  more  for  Richard  than  for  John. 
Little  John.     Look,  Robin,  at  the  far 
end  of  the  glade 
I  see  two  figures  crawling  up  the  hill. 

\_Distant  sound  of  trumpets. 
Robin.     The  Abbot  of  York  and  his 

justiciary. 
King  Richard  {aside).      They  know 
me.     I  must  not  as  yet  be  known. 
Friends,  your  free  sports  have  swallow'd 

my  free  hour. 
Farewell  at  once,  for  I  must  hence  upon 
The  King'  s  affair. 

Robin.  Not  taste  his  venison  first? 

Friar  Tuck.      Hast   thou  not  fought 
for  it,  and  earn'd  it?     Stay, 
Dine  with  my  brethren  here,  and  on  thine 
own. 
King  Richard.     And  which  be  they? 
Friar    Tuck.       Wild  geese,   for   how 
canst  thou  be  thus  allied 
With  John,  and  serve  King  Richard  save 
thou  be 


A  traitor  or  a  goose?  but  stay  with  Robin; 
For  Robin  is  no  scatterbrains  like  Rich- 
ard, 
Robin's  a  wise  man,  Richard  a  wiseacre, 
Robin's  an  outlaw,  but  he  helps  the  poor. 
While  Richard  hath  outlaw'd  himself,  and 

helps 
Nor  rich,  nor  poor.     Richard's  the  king 

of  courtesy, 
For  if  he  did  me  the  good  grace  to  kick 

me 
I  could  but  sneak  and  smile  and  call  it 

courtesy. 
For  he's  a  king. 

And  that  is  only  courtesy  by  courtesy — 
But  Robin  is  a  thief  of  courtesy 
Whom  they  that  suffer  by  him  call  the 

blossom 
Of  bandits.      There — to   be   a   thief  of 

courtesy — 
There  is  a  trade  of  genius,  there's  glory ! 
Again,  this  Richard  sacks  and  wastes  a 

town 
With  random  pillage,  but  our  Robin  takes 
From  whom  he  knows  are  hypocrites  and 

liars. 
Again   this  Richard   risks  his  life  for  a 

straw. 
So  lies  in  prison — while  our  Robin's  life 
Hangs  by  a  thread,  but  he  is  a  free  man. 
Richard,  again,  is  king  over  a  realm 
He   hardly  knows,   and   Robin   king  of 

Sherwood, 
And   loves   and  doats  on    every   dingle 

of  it. 
Again  this  Richard  is  the  lion  of  Cyprus, 
Robin,  the  lion  of  Sherwood — may  this 

mouth 
Never  suck  grape  again,  if  our  true  Robin 
Be  not  the  nobler  lion  of  the  twain. 
King  Richard.       Gramercy    for    thy 

preachment!  if  the  land 
Were  ruleable  by  tongue,  thou  shouldst 

be  king. 
And  yet  thou  know'st  how  little  of  thy 

king! 
What  was  this  realm  of  England,  all  the 

crowns 
Of  all  this  world,  to  Richard  when  he 

flung 
His  life,  heart,  soul  into  those  holy  wars 
That  sought  to  free  the  tomb-place  of  the 

King 


SCENE   I. 


THE  FORESTERS. 


841 


Of  all  the  world?  thou,  that  art  church- 
man too 
In  a  fashion,  and  shouldst  feel  with  him. 

Farewell ! 
I  left  mine    horse    and   armour  with   a 

Squire, 
And  I  must  see  to  'em. 

Robin.  When  wilt  thou  return? 

King  Richard.      Return,    I  ?  when  ? 

when  Richard  will  return. 
Robin.    No  sooner  ?  when  will  that  be  ? 
canst  thou  tell? 
But  I  have  ta'en  a  sudden  fancy  to  thee. 
Accept  this  horn  !  if  e'er  thou  be  assail'd 
In  any  of  our  forests,  blow  upon  it 
Three  mots,  this  fashion — listen  !  {blows) 
Canst  thou  do  it? 

[King  Richard  biotas. 
Blown   like   a   true    son    of  the  woods. 
Farewell ! 

\_Exit  King  Richard. 

Enter  Abbot  and  Justiciary. 

Friar  Tuck.  Church  and  Law,  halt 
and  pay  toll ! 

yusticiary.  Rogue,  we  have  thy  cap- 
tain's safe-conduct;  though  he  be  the 
chief  of  rogues,  he  hath  never  broken  his 
word. 

Abbot.     There  is  our  bond. 

[  Gives  it  to  Robin. 

Robin.  I  thank  thee. 

yusticiary.  Ay,  but  where, 

Where  is  this  old  Sir  Richard  of  the  Lea? 

Thou  told'st  us  we  should  meet  him  in 

the  forest, 
Where  he  would  pay  us  down  his  thou- 
sand marks. 
Robin.     Give  him  another  month,  and 

he  will  pay  it. 
yusticiary.     We  cannot  give  a  month. 
Robin.  Why  then  a  week. 

yusticiary.     No,  not  an  hour :  the  debt 

is  due  to-day. 
Abbot.     Where  is  this  laggard  Richard 

of  the  Lea? 
Robin.     He  hath  been  hurt,  was  grow- 
ing whole  again. 
Only  this  morning  in  his  agony 
Lest  he  should  fail  to  pay  these  thousand 

marks 
He  is  stricken  with  a  slight  paralysis. 
Have  you  no  pity?  must  you  see  the  man? 


yusticiary.     Ay,  ay,  what   else?  how 

else  can  this  be  settled? 
Robin.     Go  men,  and  fetch  him  hither 
on  the  litter. 

[Sir  Richard  Lea  is  brought  in. 
Marian  cofues  toith  hivi. 
Marian.     Here  is  my  father's  bond. 

\_Gives  it  to  Robin  Hood. 
Robin.  I  thank  thee,  dear. 

yusticiary.  Sir  Richard,  it  was  agreed 
when  you  borrowed  these  monies  from 
the  Abbot  that  if  they  were  not  repaid 
within  a  limited  time  your  land  should  be 
forfeit. 

Sir  Richard.     The  land  !  the  land  ! 
Maria7i.        You  see  he  is  past  himself. 
What  would  you  more  ? 

Abbot.  What  more?  one  thousand 

marks. 
Or  else  the  land. 

You  hide  this  damsel  in  your  forest  here, 
\^Pointing  to  Marian. 
You  hope  to  hold  and  keep  her  for  your- 
self. 
You  heed  not  how  you  soil  her  maiden 

fame, 
You  scheme  against  her  father's  weal  and 

hers, 
For  so  this  maid  would  wed  our  brother, 

he 
Would  pay  us  all  the  debt  at  once,  and  thus 
This  old  Sir  Richard  might  redeem  his 

land. 
He  is  all  for  love,  he  cares  not  for  the 
land. 
Sir  Richard.     The  land  !  the  land  ! 
Robin  {givittg  tzvo  bags  to  the  Abbot). 
Here  be  one  thousand  marks 
Out  of  our  treasury  to  redeem  the  land. 

{^Pointing  to  each  of  the  bags. 
Half  here,  half  there. 

[^Plaudits  from  his  band, 
yusticiary.     Ay,  ay,  but  there  is  use, 

four  hundred  marks. 

Robin    {giving  a   bag  to    Justiciary). 

There  then,  four  hundred  marks. 

\^Plaudits. 

yusticiary.  What  did  I  say? 

Nay,  my  tongue  tript — five  hundred  marks 

for  use. 

Robin  {givitig  another  bag  to  hint) .     A 

hundred   more?      There   then,   a 

hundred  more.  {^Plaudits. 


842 


THE  FORESTERS. 


ACT   IV 


yusticiary.  Ay,  ay,  but  you  see  the 
bond  and  the  letter  of  the  law.  It  is 
stated  there  that  these  monies  should  be 
paid  in  to  the  Abbot  at  York,  at  the  end 
of  the  month  at  noon,  and  they  are  de- 
livered here  in  the  wild  wood  an  hour 
after  noon. 

Marian.     The  letter — O    how    often 

justice  drowns 
Between  the  law  and  letter  of  the  law ! 
O  God,  I  would  the  letter  of  the  law 
Were  some  strong  fellow  here  in  the  wild 

wood. 
That  thou  might'st   beat  him    down   at 

quarterstaflf! 
Have  you  no  pity? 

yusiiciary.  You  run  down  your  game, 
We  ours.     What  pity  have  you  for  your 


game: 


Our 


Robin.      We    needs   must   live. 

bowmen  are  so  true 
They  strike  the  deer  at  once  to  death — 

he  falls 
And  knows  no  more. 

Marian.      Pity,  pity! — There   was   a 

man  of  ours 
Up  in  the  north,  a  goodly  fellow  too. 
He   met   a   stag   there  on  so  narrow  a 

ledge — 
A  precipice  above,  and  one  below — 
There    was   no   room   to  advance    or  to 

retire. 
The  man  lay  down — the  delicate-footed 

creature 
Came  stepping  o'er  him,  so  as  not  to  harm 

him — 
The  hunter's  passion  flash'd  into  the  man, 
He  drove  his  knife  into  the  heart  of  the 

deer, 
The  deer  fell  dead  to  the  bottom,  and  the 

man 
Fell  with   him,  and  was    crippled    ever 

after. 
I  fear  I  had  small  pity  for  that  man. — 
You  have  the  monies  and  the  use  of  them. 
What  would  you  more  ? 

yusticiary.      What?    must  we    dance 

attendance  all  the  day? 
Robin.  Dance  !  ay,  by  all  the  saints 
and  all  the  devils  ye  shall  dance.  When 
the  Church  and  the  law  have  forgotten 
God's  music,  they  shall  dance  to  the 
music  of  the  wild  wood.     Let  the  birds 


sing,  and  do  you  dance  to  their  song. 
What,  you  will  not?  Strike  up  our  music. 
Little  John.  (^He  plays.)  They  will 
not !  Prick  'em  in  the  calves  with  the 
arrow-points — prick  'em  in  the  calves. 

Abbot.  Rogue,  I  am  full  of  gout.  I 
cannot  dance. 

Robin.  And  Sir  Richard  cannot  re- 
deem his  land.  Sweat  out  your  gout, 
friend,  for  by  my  life,  you  shall  dance  till 
he  can.     Prick  him  in  the  calves ! 

yusticiary.  Rogue,  I  have  a  swollen 
vein  in  my  right  leg,  and  if  thou  prick  me 
there  I  shall  die. 

Robin.  Prick  him  where  thou  wilt,  so 
that  he  dance. 

Abbot.     Rogue,  we  come  not  alone. 

yusticiary.     Not  the  right. 

Abbot.  We  told  the  Prince  and  the 
Sheriff  of  our  coming. 

yusticiary.  Take  the  left  leg  for  the 
love  of  God. 

Abbot.    They  follow  us. 

yusticiary.  You  will  all  of  you 

hang. 

Robin.  Let  us  hang,  so  thou  dance 
meanwhile ;  or  by  that  same  love  of  God 
we  will  hang  thee,  prince  or  no  prince, 
sheriff  or  no  sheriff. 

yusticiary.  Take  care,  take  care  !  I 
dance — I  will  dance — I  dance. 

[Abbot  <2 wo' Justiciary  dance  to  music, 
each  holding  a  bag  in  each  hand. 

Enter  Scarlet. 

Scarlet.     The  Sheriff!  the  Sheriff,  fol- 
low'd  by  Prince  John 
And  all  his  mercenaries !      We  sighted 

'em 
Only  this  moment.     By  St.  Nicholas 
They  must  have  sprung  like  Ghosts  from 

underground. 
Or,  like  the  Devils  they  are,  straight  up 
from  Hell. 
Robin.     Crouch  all  into  the  bush  ! 

[  The  foresters  and  peasants  hide 
behind  the  bushes. 
Marian.  Take  up  the  litter  ! 

Sir  Richard.     Move  me  no  more  \     I 
am  sick  and  faint  with  pain ! 

Marian.     But,  Sir,  the  Sheriff 

Sir  Richard.  Let  me  be,  I  say ! 

The  Sheriff  will  be  welcome  !   let  me  be  ! 


SCENE    I. 


THE  FORESTERS. 


843 


Marian.    Give  me  my  bow  and  arrows, 
I  remain 
Beside  my  Father's  litter. 

Robin.  And  fear  not  thou  ! 

Each  of  us  has  an  arrow  on  the  cord; 
We  all  keep  watch. 

Enter  Sheriff  of  Nottingham. 

Sheriff.     Marian ! 

Marian.     Speak  not.     I  wait  upon  a 

dying  father. 
Sheriff.    The  debt  hath  not  been  paid. 
She  will  be  mine. 
What  are  you  capering  for?     By  old  St. 

Vitus 
Have  you  gone  mad?    Has  it  been  paid? 
Abbot  {dancing) .  O  yes. 

Sheriff.     Have  I  lost  her  then? 
Justiciary  {dancing).  Lost  her? 

O  no,  we  took 
Advantage    of  the    letter — O  Lord,  the 

vein ! 
Not  paid  at  York — the  wood — prick  me 
no  more  ! 
Sheriff.     What  pricks  thee  save  it  be 

thy  conscience,  man? 
Justiciary.     By  my   halidome    I    felt 
him   at   my   leg   still.     Where    be    they 
gone  to? 

Sheriff.     Thou  art  alone  in  the  silence 
of  the  forest 
Save  for  this  maiden   and    thy  brother 

Abbot, 
And  this  old  crazeling  in  the  litter  there. 

Enter  on  one  side  Friar  Tuck  from  the 
bush,  and  on  the  other  Prince  John 
and  his  Spearmen,  with  banners  and 
truftipets,  etc. 

Justiciary  {examining  his  leg) .    They 

have  missed  the  vein. 
Abbot.     Ajid  we  shall  keep  the  land. 
Sheriff.     Sweet  Marian,  by  the  letter 
of  the  law 
It  seems  thy  father's  land  is  forfeited. 
Sir  Richard.     No  !  let  me  out  of  the 
litter.     He  shall  wed  thee  : 
The  land  shall  still  be  m,ine.    Child,  thou 

shalt  wed  him, 
Or   thine    old    father    will   go    mad — he 

will, 
He  will — he  feels  it  in  his  head. 

Marian.  O  peace  ! 


Father,    I    cannot    marry    till    Richard 

comes. 

Sir  Richard.     And   then  the  Sheriff! 

Marian.  Ay,  the  Sheriff,  father, 

Would  buy  me  for  a  thousand  marks  in 

gold- 
Sell   me    again    perchance   for  twice   as 

much. 
A  woman's  heart  is  but  a  little  thing, 
Much  lighter  than  a  thousand  marks  in 

gold ; 
But  pity  for  a  father,  it  may  be, 
Is  weightier  than  a  thousand  marks   in 

gold. 
I  cannot  love  the  Sheriff. 

Sir  Richard.  But   thou   wilt  wed 

him? 
Marian.      Ay,    save    King    Richard, 
when  he  comes,  forbid  me. 
Sweet  heavens,  I  could  wish  that  all  the 

land 
Were  plunged  beneath  the  waters  of  the 

sea, 
Tho'  all  the  world  should  go   about  in 
boats. 
Friar  Tuck.     Why,  so  should  all  the 

love-sick  be  sea-sick. 
Marian.    Better  than  heart-sick,  friar. 
Prince  John  {to  Sheriff).    See  you  not 
They  are  jesting  at  us  yonder,  mocking 

us? 
Carry  her  off,  and  let  the  old  man  die. 

\_Advancing  to  Marian. 

Come,  girl,  thou  shalt  along  with  us  on 

the  instant. 

Friar    Tuck   {brandishing  his   staff). 

Then  on  the  instant  I  will  break 

thy  head. 

Sheriff.  Back,    thou   fool-friar ! 

Knowest  thou  not  the  Prince? 
Friar  Tuck  {muttering).     He  maybe 

prince;  he  is  not  gentleman. 
Prince  John.     Look  !   I  will  take  the 
rope  from  off  thy  waist 
And  twist  it  round  thy  neck  and  hang 

thee  by  it. 
Seize  him  and  truss  him  up,  and  carry 
her  off. 

[Friar  Tuck  slips  into  the  bush. 
Marian  {draivingthe  boxv) .    No  nearer 
to  me  !   back  !     My  hand  is  firm, 
Mine  eye  most  true  to  one  hair's-breadth 
uf  aim. 


844 


THE  FORESTERS. 


ACT   IV. 


You,  Prince,  our  king  to  come — you  that 

dishonour 
The  daughters  and  the  wives  of  your  own 

faction — 
Who  hunger  for  the  body,  not  the  soul — 
This  gallant   Prince  would  have   me   of 

his — what  ? 
Household?  or  shall  I  call  it  by  that  new 

term 
Brought  from  the  sacred  East,  his  harem? 

Never, 
Tho'  you  should  queen  me  over  all  the 

realms 
Held  by   King   Richard,  could  I  stoop 

so  low 
As  mate  with  one  that  holds  no  love  is 

pure, 
No  friendship  sacred,  values  neither  man 
Nor  woman  save  as  tools — God  help  the 

mark — 
To  his  own  unprincely  ends.     And  you, 

you.  Sheriff, 

[  Turning  to  the  Sheriff. 
Who  thought  to  buy  your  marrying  me 

with  gold, 
Marriage  is  of  the  soul,  not  of  the  body. 
Win  me  you  cannot,  murder  me  you  may. 
And  all  I  love,  Robin,  and  all  his  men, 
For   I    am  one  with  him  and  his;    but 

while 
I  breathe  Heaven's  air,  and  Heaven  looks 

down  on  me. 
And  smiles  at  my  best  meanings,  I  remain 
Mistress  of  mine  own  self  and  mine  own 

soul. 
\^Retreating,  with  bow  drawn,  to  the  bush. 
Robin ! 

Robin.     I  am  here,  my  arrow  on  the 

cord. 
He  dies  who  dares  to  touch  thee. 

Prince  jfohtt.  Advance,  advance  ! 

What,  daunted  by  a  garrulous,  arrogant 

girl ! 
Seize  her  and  carry  her  off  into  my  castle. 
•Sheriff.     Thy  castle  ! 
Prince  John.    Said  I  not,  I  loved  thee, 

man? 
Risk  not  the  love  I  bear  thee  for  a  girl. 
Sheriff.     Thy  castle  ! 
Prince  John.  See  thou  thwart 

me  not,  thou  fool ! 
When  Richard  comes  he  is  soft  enough 

to  pardon 


His  brother;  but  all  those  that  held  with 

him, 
Except  I  plead  for  them,  will  hang  as  high 
As  Haman. 

Sheriff.      She    is   mine.      I    have   thy 

promise. 
Prince  John.    O  ay,  she  shall  be  thine 
— first  mine,  then  thine. 
For  she  shall  spend  her  honeymoon  with 
me. 
Sheriff.     Woe  to  that  land  shall  own 

thee  for  her  king  ! 
Prince  John.     Advance,  advance  ! 

[  They  advance  shotiting.  The  King 
in  armour  reappears  frof?i  the 
tvood. 

King  Richard.    What  shouts  are  these 

that  ring  along  the  wood? 
Friar  Tuck  (^coming  forzuard).    Hail, 
knight,  and  help  us.    Here  is  one 
would  clutch 
Our  pretty  Marian  for  his  paramour, 
This  other,  willy-nilly,  for  his  bride. 
King  Richard.     Damsel,  is   this   the 

truth? 
Afariajt.  Ay,  noble  knight. 

Friar   Tuck.     Ay,  and   she   will   not 

marry  till  Richard  come. 
King  Richard  {raising  his  vizor").     I 

am  here,  and  I  am  he. 
Prince  John  {lowering  his,  and  whis- 
pering to  his  men).     It  is  not  he — 
his  face — tho'  very  like — 
No,  no  !  we  have  certain  news  he  died  in 

prison. 

Make  at  him,  all  of  you,  a  traitor  coming 

In  Richard's  name — it  is  not  he — not  he, 

[  The  men  stand  amazed. 

Friar   Tuck  {going  back  to  the  bush). 

Robin,  shall  we  not  move? 
Robin.  It  is  the  King 

Who   bears   all   down.     Let   him  alone 

awhile. 
He  loves  the  chivalry  of  his  single  arm. 
Wait  till  he  blow  the  horn. 

Friar  Tuck  {coming  back).     If  thou 
be  king. 
Be  not  a  fool !     Why  blowest  thou  not 
the  horn? 
King  Richard.      I    that    have    turn'd 
their  Moslem  crescent  pale — 
I  blow  the  horn  asrainst  this  rascal  rout ! 


SCENE  I, 


THE  FORESTERS. 


845 


[Friar  Tuck  plucks  the  horn  from  him 
and  bloius.      Richard    dashes   alone 
against  the  Sheriff  <z«a^  John's  men, 
and    is    almost    borne   doiun,    ivhen 
Robin   and  his  Jiien    rush    in  and 
rescue  him. 
King  Richard  (to  Robin  Hood) .  Thou 
hast  saved  my  head  at  the  peril  of 
thine  own. 
Prince  yohn.     A  horse  !   a  horse  !     I 
must  away  at  once; 
I  cannot  meet  his  eyes.    I  go  to  Notting- 
ham. 
Sheriff,  thou  wilt  find  me  at  Nottingham. 

\^Exit. 
Sheriff.    If  anywhere,  I  shall  find  thee 
in  hell. 
What !  go  to  slay  his  brother,  and  make 

me 
The  monkey  that  should  roast  his  chest- 
nuts for  him ! 
King  Richard.     I  fear  to  ask  who  left 

us  even  now. 
Robin.     I   grieve   to   say   it   was   thy 
father's  son. 
Shall  I  not  after  him  and  bring  him  back? 
King   Richard.      No,    let     him     be. 
Sheriff  of  Nottingham, 

[Sheriff"  kneels. 
I  have  been  away  from  England  all  these 

years, 
Heading  the  holy  war  against  the  Moslem, 
While  thou  and  others  in  our  kingless 

realms 
Were  fighting  underhand  unholy  wars 
Against  your  lawful  king. 

Sheriff.  My  liege,  Prince  John — 

King  Richard.      Say    thou   no   word 

against  my  brother  John. 
Sheriff.     Why  then,  my  hege,  I  have 

no  word  to  say. 
King  Richard  {to  Robin).     My  good 
friend  Robin,  Earl  of  Huntingdon, 
For  Earl  thou  art  again,  hast  thou  no 

fetters 
For  those  of  thine  own  band  who  would 
betray  thee? 
Robin.     I  have ;  but  these  were  never 
worn  as  yet. 
I  never  found  one  traitor  in  my  band. 
King  Richard.    Thou  art  happier  than 
thy  king.     Put  him  in  chains. 

[  They  fetter  the  Sheriff. 


Robin.     Look    o'er    these    bonds,   my 
liege. 
\^Shoivs  the  King  the  bonds.      They 
talk  together. 
King  Richard.     You,  my  lord  Abbot, 
you  Justiciary, 
[  The  Abbot  and  Justiciary  kneel. 
I  made  you  Abbot,  you  Justiciary : 
You  both  are  utter  traitors  to  your  king. 
.  Justiciary.     O  my  good  liege,  we  did 
believe  you  dead. 
Robin.     Was  justice  dead  because  the 
King  was  dead  ? 
Sir  Richard  paid  his  monies  to  the  Abbot. 
You  crost  him  with  a  quibble  of  your  law. 
King  Richard.     But  on  the  faith  and 
honour  of  a  king 
The  land  is  his  again. 

Sir  Richard.         The  land  !  the  land  ! 
I  am  crazed  no  longer,  so  I  have  the  land. 
\_Comes  out  of  the  litter  and  kneels. 
God  save  the  King  ! 

King  Richard  {raising  Sir  Richard). 
I  thank  thee,  good  Sir  Richard. 
Maid  Marian. 

Marian.         Yes,  King  Richard. 
King  Richard.       Thou  wouldst  marry 
This  Sheriff  when   King   Richard  came 

again 
Except — 

Marian.     The  King  forbad  it.     True, 

my  liege. 
King  Richard.    How  if  the  King  com- 
mand it 
Marian.  Then,  my  liege, 

If  you  would  marry  me  with  a  traitor 

sheriff, 
I   fear    I    might  prove  traitor   with  the 
sheriff. 
KiJig  Richard.     But  if  the  King  for- 
bid thy  marrying 
With  Robin,  our  good  Earl  of  Hunting- 
don. 
Marian.     Then  will  I  live  for  ever  in 

the  wild  wood. 
Robin  {coming  forward) .     And  I  with 

thee. 
King  Richard.         On  nuts  and  acorns, 
ha! 
Or  the  King's  deer?      Earl,  thou  when 

we  were  hence 
Hast  broken  all  our  Norman  forest-laws, 
And  scruplest  not  to  flaunt  it  to  our  face 


846 


THE   FORESTERS. 


ACT    IV, 


That   thou   wilt   break    our   forest    laws 

again 
When  we  are  here.     Thou  art  overbold. 
Robin.  My  king, 

I  am  but  the  echo  of  the  lips  of  love. 
King  Richard.     Thou  hast  risk'd  thy 
life  for  mine  :  bind  these  two  men. 

[  They  take  the  bags  from  the  Abbot 
and  Justiciary,  and  proceed  to 
fetter  them. 

Justiciary.     But  will  the  King,  then, 

judge  us  all  unheard? 
I  can  defend  my  cause  against  the  traitors 
Who  fain  would  make  me  traitor.     If  the 

King 
Condemn  us  without  trial,  men  will  call 

him 
An  Eastern  tyrant,  not  an  English  king. 
Abbot.     Besides,  my  liege,  these  men 

are  outlaws,  thieves. 
They  break  thy  forest  laws — nay,  by  the 

rood 
They  have  done  far  worse — they  plunder 

— yea,  ev'n  bishops, 
Yea,  ev'n  archbishops — if  thou  side  with 

these, 
Beware,  O  King,  the  vengeance   of  the 

Church. 
Friar  Tuck  {brandishing  his  staff). 
I  pray  you,  my  liege,  let  me  execute  the 
vengeance  of  the  Church  upon  them.  I 
have  a  stout  crabstick  here,  which  longs 
to  break  itself  across  their  backs. 

Robin.     Keep  silence,  bully  friar,  be- 
fore the  King. 
Friar  Tuck.     If  a  cat  may  look  at  a 
king,  may  not  a  friar  speak  to  one  ? 
King  Richard.     I  have  had  a  year  of 

prison-silence,  Robin, 
And  heed  him  not — the  vengeance  of  the 

Church  ! 
Thou  shalt  pronounce  the  blessing  of  the 

Church 
On  those  two  here,  Robin  and  Marian. 
Marian.      He  is  but  hedge-priest,  Sir 

King. 
King  Richard.     And  thou  their  Queen. 
Our    rebel    Abbot    then    shall  join   your 

hands. 
Or  lose  all  hopes  of  pardon  from  us — yet 
Not    now,    not    now — with    after-dinner 

grace. 


Nay,  by  the  dragon  of  St.   George,  we 

shall 
Do  some  injustice,  if  you  hold  us  here 
Longer  from  our  own  venison.     Where 

is  it? 
I  scent  it  in  the  green  leaves  of  the  wood. 
Marian.     First,  king,  a  boon  ! 
Ki?ig  Richard.  Why  surely  ye  are 

pardon'd. 
Even   this    brawler   of    harsh   truths — I 

trust 
Half  truths,  good  friar :  ye  shall  with  us 

to  court. 
Then,  if  ye  cannot  breathe  but  woodland 

air. 
Thou  Robin  shalt  be  ranger  of  this  forest, 
And  have  thy  fees,  and  break  the  law  no 

more. 
Marian.     It  is  not  that,  my  lord. 
King  Richard.      Then  what,  my  lady? 
Robin.      This  is  the  gala-day  of  thy 

return. 
I  pray  thee  for  the  moment,  strike  the 

bonds 
From  these  three  men,  and  let  them  dine 

with  us. 
And  lie  with  us  among  the  flowers,  and 

drink — 
Ay,  whether  it  be  gall  or  honey  to  'em — 
The  king's  good  health  in  ale  and  Mal- 

voisie. 
Kitig  Richard.     By  Mahound  I  could 

strive  with  Beelzebub  ! 
So  now  which  way  to  the  dinner? 

Marian.  Past  the  bank 

Of  foxglove,  then  to  left  by  that  one  yew. 
You   see  the  darkness  thro'  the  lighter 

leaf. 
But  look!  who  comes? 

Enter  Sailor. 

Sailor.     We  heard   Sir   Richard    Lea 
was  here  with  Robin. 
O  good  Sir  Richard,  I  am  like  the  man 
In   Holy  Writ,   who  brought  his  talent 

back ; 
For  tho'  we  touch'd  at  many  pirate  ports. 
We  ever  fail'd  to  light  upon  thy  son. 
Here  is  thy  gold  again.     I  am  sorry  for  it. 
Sir  Richard.    The  gold — my  son — my 
gold,  my  son,  the  land — 
Here    Abbot,     Sheriff — no — no,    Robin 
Hood. 


SCENE    I. 


THE   FORESTERS. 


847 


Robin.     Sir  Richard,  let  that  wait  till 
we  have  dined. 
Are  all  our  guests  here  ? 

King  Richa7'd.  No — there's  yet 

one  other : 
I  will  not  dine  without  him.     Come  from 
out 

Eiiter  Walter  Lea. 

That    oak-tree !       This    young    warrior 

broke  his  prison 
And  join'd  my  banner  in  the  Holy  Land, 
And  cleft    the    Moslem    turban    at    my 

side. 
My  masters,  welcome  gallant  Walter  Lea. 
Kiss   him,    Sir    Richard — kiss   him,    my 

sweet  Marian. 
Marian.     O  Walter,  Walter,  is  it  thou 

indeed 
Whose  ransom  was  our  ruin,  whose  return 
Builds  up  our  house   again?      I  fear  I 

dream. 
Here — give  me  one  sharp  pinch  upon  the 

cheek 
That  I  may  feel  thou  art  no  phantom — 

yet 
Thou  art  tann'd  almost  beyond  my  know- 
ing, brother.  [  They  embrace. 
Walter  Lea.     But  thou  art  fair  as  ever, 

my  sweet  sister. 
Sir  Richard.     Art  thou  my  son? 
Walter  Lea.      I    am,   good   father,  I 

am. 
Sir  Richard.     I  had  despair'd  of  thee 

— that  sent  me  crazed. 
Thou  art  worth  thy  weight  in  all   those 

marks  of  gold, 
Yea,   and   the  weight  of  the  very  land 

itself, 
Down  to  the  inmost  centre. 

Robin.  Walter  Lea, 

Give   me    that   hand  which    fought    for 

Richard  there. 
Embrace    me,    Marian,  and  thou,  good 

Kate,  [  To  Kate  entering. 

Kiss  and  congratulate  me,  my  good  Kate. 

\_She  kisses  him. 

Little  yohn.     Lo  now  !  lo  now  ! 

I  have  seen  thee  clasp  and  kiss  a  man 

indeed. 
For  our  brave  Robin  is  a  man  indeed. 
Then  by  thine  own  account  thou  shouldst 

be  mine. 


Kate.     Well  then,  who  kisses  first? 
Little  John.  Kiss  both  together. 

[  They  kiss  each  other. 
Robin.     Then  all  is  well.      In  this  full 

tide  of  love. 
Wave  heralds  wave :  thy  match  shall  fol- 
low mine  {to  Little  John). 
Would    there    were    more — a    hundred 

lovers  more 
To  celebrate  this  advent  of  our  King ! 
Our  forest  games  are  ended,  our  free  life, 
And  we  must  hence  to  the  King's  court. 

I  trust 
We  shall  return  to  the  wood.    Meanwhile, 

farewell 
Old  friends,  old  patriarch  oaks.     A  thou- 
sand winters 
Will  strip  you  bare  as  death,  a  thousand 

summers 
Robe  you  life-green  again.      You  seem,  as 

it  were. 
Immortal,    and   we   mortal.      How   few 

Junes 
Will  heat  our  pulses  quicker !     How  few 

frosts 
Will  chill  the  hearts  that  beat  for  Robin 

Hood! 
Marian.     And  yet  I  think  these  oaks 

at  dawn  and  even, 
Or  in  the  balmy  breathings  of  the  night. 
Will  whisper  evermore  of  Robin  Hood. 
We  leave   but  happy   memories   to  the 

forest. 
We  dealt  in  the  wild  justice  of  the  woods. 
All  those  poor  serfs  whom  we  have  served 

will  bless  us. 
All  those  pale  mouths  which  we  have  fed 

will  praise  us — 
All  widows  we  have  holpen  pray  for  us, 
Our  Lady's  blessed  shrines  throughout  the 

land 
Be    all   the  richer    for  us.      You,  good 

friar. 
You  Much,  you   Scarlet,  you  dear  Little 

John, 
Your  names  will  cling   like   ivy  to   the 

wood. 
And    here    perhaps     a    hundred    years 

away 
Some  hunter  in  day-dreams  or  half  asleep 
Will  hear  our  arrows  whizzing  overhead. 
And    catch  the   winding   of  a   phantom 

horn. 


848 


THE  FORESTERS. 


ACT    IV. 


Robin.      And    surely   these    old   oaks 

will  murmur  thee 
Marian  along  with  Robin.     I  am  most 

happy — 
Art  thou  not  mine? — and  happy  that  our 

King 
Is  here  again,  never  I  trust  to  roam 
So  far  again,  but  dwell  among  his  own. 
Strike  up  a  stave,  my  masters,  all  is  well. 


Song  while  they  dance  a  Country  Dance. 

Now  the  king  is  home  again,  and  nevermore  to 

roam  again, 
Now  the  king  is  home  again,  the  king  will  have 

his  own  again, 
Home  again,  home  again,  and  each  will  have  his 

own  again, 
All  the  birds  in  merry  Sherwood  sing  and  sing 

him  home  again. 


THE 


DEATH   OF   CENONE, 

AKBAR'S    DREAM, 

AND    OTHER   POEMS 


BY 

ALFRED 

LORD    TENNYSON 

poet'  laureate 


THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

LONDON  :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1898 

All  Tights  reserved 


Copyright,  1892, 
By  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


THE    DEATH    OF    CENONE, 

AKBAR'S   DREAM, 
AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


JUNE     BRACKEN    AND 
HEATHER. 

To  . 

There  on  the  top  of  the  down, 

The  wild  heather  round  me  and  over  me 

June's  high  blue, 
When  I  look'd  at  the  bracken  so  bright 

and  the  heather  so  brown, 
I  thought  to  myself  I  would  offer  this 

book  to  you, 
This,  and  my  love  together. 
To  you  that  are  seventy-seven. 
With  a  faith  as  clear  as  the  heights  of 

the  June-blue  heaven, 
And  a  fancy  as  summer-new 
As  the  green  of  the  bracken  amid  the 

gloom  of  the  heather. 


TO    THE    MASTER    OF 
BALLIOL. 

I.  ^ 

Dear  Master  in  our  classic  town, 
You,  loved  by  all  the  younger  gown 

There  at  Balliol, 
Lay  your  Plato  for  one  minute  down, 

II. 

And  read  a  Grecian  tale  re-told. 
Which,  cast  in  later  Grecian  mould, 

Quintus  Calaber 
Somewhat  lazily  handled  of  old; 

III. 

And  on  this  white  midwinter  day — 
For  have  the  far-off  hymns  of  May, 

All  her  melodies. 
All  her  harmonies  echo'd  away? — 

*  Copyright,  1892,  by 


IV. 


To-day,  before  you  turn  again 

To  thoughts  that  lift  the  soul  of  men, 

Hear  my  cataract's 
Downward  thunder  in  hollow  and  glen. 


V. 


Till,  led  by  dream  and  vague  desire, 
The  woman,  gliding  toward  the  pyre. 

Find  her  warrior 
Stark  and  dark  in  his  funeral  fire. 


THE   DEATH    OF   CENONE.* 

QiNONE  sat  within  the  cave  from  out 
Whose  ivy-matted  mouth  she  used  to  gaze 
Down  at  the  Troad ;   but  the  goodly  view 
Was  now  one  blank,  and  all  the  serpent 

vines 
Which  on  the  touch  of  heavenly  feet  had 

risen, 
And    gliding    thro'    the    branches    over- 

bower'd 
The  naked  Three,  were  wither'd  long  ago. 
And  thro'   the  sunless  winter    morning- 
mist 
In  silence  wept  upon  the  flowerless  earth. 
And  while   she   stared   at  those   dead 

cords  that  ran 
Dark  thro'  the  mist,  and  linking  tree  to 

tree, 
But  once  were  gayer  than  a  dawning  sky 
With  many  a  pendent  bell  and  fragrant 

star. 
Her  Past  became  her  Present,  and  she 

saw 
Him,  climbing  toward  her  with  the  golden 

fruit, 
Him,  happy  to  be  chosen  Judge  of  Gods, 
Her  husband  in  the  flush  of  youth  and 

dawn, 
Paris,  himself  as  beauteous  as  a  God. 
Macmillan  &  Co.  31;  I 


852 


THE  DEATH  OF  (EN ONE. 


Anon  from  out  the  long  ravine  below, 
She  heard  a  wailing  cry,  that  seem'd  at 

first 
Thin  as  the  batlike  shrilWngs  of  the  Dead 
When  driven  to  Hades,  but,  in  coming 

near, 
Across   the   downward    thunder    of   the 

brook 
Sounded  '  CEnone  ' ;   and  on  a  sudden  he, 
Paris,  no  longer  beauteous  as  a  God, 
Struck  by  a  poison'd  arrow  in  the  fight, 
Lame,  crooked,  reeling,  livid,  thro'  the 

mist 
Rose,  like  the  wraith  of  his  dead  self, 

and  moan'd 
*  CEnone,  my  Qinone,  while  we  dwelt 
Together  in  this  valley — happy  then — 
Too  happy  had  I  died  within  thine  arms, 
Before  the  feud  of  Gods  had  marr'd  our 

peace, 
And  sunder'd   each  from  each.      I  am 

dying  now 
Pierced   by  a  poison'd  dart.     Save  me. 

Thou  knowest. 
Taught  by  some  God,  whatever  herb  or 

balm 
May  clear  the  blood  from  poison,  and  thy 

fame 
Is  blown  thro'  all  the  Troad,  and  to  thee 
The    shepherd    brings    his   adder-bitten 

lamb, 
The  wounded  warrior  climbs  from  Troy 

to  thee. 
My  life  and  death  are  in  thy  hand.     The 

Gods 
Avenge  on  stony  hearts  a  fruitless  prayer 
For  pity.     Let  me  owe  my  life  to  thee. 
I  wrought  thee  bitter  wrong,  but  thou 

forgive, 
Forget  it.     Man  is  but  the  slave  of  Fate. 
CEnone,   by   thy   love   which    once    was 

mine. 
Help,  heal  me.     I   am  poison'd  to  the 

heart.' 
*  And  I  to  mine '  she  said  *  Adulterer, 
Go  back  to  thine  adulteress  and  die  !  ' 
He  groan'd,  he  turn'd,  and  in  the  mist 

at  once 
Became  a  shadow,  sank  and  disappear'd. 
But,   ere    the    mountain    rolls    into    the 

plain. 
Fell  headlong  dead;    and  of  the  shep- 
herds one 


Their  oldest,  and  the  same  who  first  had 

found 
Paris,  a  naked  babe,  among  the  woods 
Of  Ida,  following  lighted  on  him  there. 
And  shouted,  and  the  shepherds  heard 

and  came. 
One  raised  the  Prince,  one  sleek'd  the 

squalid  hair. 
One  kiss'd  his  hand,  another  closed  his 

eyes. 
And   then,  remembering  the  gay   play- 
mate rear'd 
Among  them,  and  forgetful  of  the  man. 
Whose  crime  had  half  unpeopled  Ihon, 

these 
All  that  day  long  labour'd,  hewing  the 

pines, 
And  built  their  shepherd-prince  a  funeral 

pile; 
And,  while  the  star  of  eve  was  drawing 

light 
From  the  dead  sun,  kindled  the  pyre, 

and  all 
Stood  round  it,  hush'd,  or  calling  on  his 

name. 
But  when  the  white  fog  vanish'd  like  a 

ghost 
Before  the  day,  and  every  topmost  pine 
Spired  into  bluest  heaven,  still   in   her 

cave, 
Amazed,  and  ever  seeming  stared  upon 
By  ghastlier   than  the  Gorgon  head,  a 

face, — 
His  face  deform'd  by  lurid  blotch  and 

blain — 
There,  like  a  creature  frozen  to  the  heart 
Beyond  all  hope  of  warmth,  Qinone  sat 
Not  moving,  till  in  front  of  that  ravine 
Which  drowsed  in  gloom,  self-darken'd 

from  the  west. 
The  sunset  blazed  along  the  wall  of  Troy. 
Then  her  head  sank,   she  slept,  and 

thro'  her  dream 
A  ghostly  murmur  floated,  '  Come  to  me, 
Qi^none  !    I  can  wrong  thee  now  no  more, 
Qinone,  my  CEnone,'  and  the  dream 
Wail'd  in  her,  when  she  woke  beneath 

the  stars. 
What  star  could  burn  so  low?  not  Ilion 

yet. 
What   light   was  there?     She  rose  and 

slowly  down, 
By  the  long  torrent's  ever-deepen'd  roar. 


ST.    TELEMACHUS. 


853 


Paced,  following,  as  in  trance,  the  silent 

cry. 
She  waked  a  bird  of  prey  that  scream'd 

and  past; 
She  roused  a  snake  that  hissing  writhed 

away ; 
A  panther  sprang  across  her  path,  she 

heard 
The  shriek  of  some  lost  life  among  the 

pines, 
But  when  she  gain'd  the  broader  vale, 

and  saw 
The  ring  of  faces  redden'd  by  the  flames 
Enfolding  that  dark  body  which  had  lain 
Of  old  in  her  embrace,  paused — and  then 

ask'd 
Falteringly,  'Who  lies  on  yonder  pyre?' 
But  every  man  was  mute  for  reverence. 
Then  moving  quickly  forward  till  the  heat 
Smote  on  her  brow,  she  lifted  up  a  voice 
Of  shrill  command,  '  Who  burns  upon  the 

pyre  ? ' 
Whereon  their  oldest  and  their  boldest 

said, 
'  He,  whom  thou  wouldst  not  heal  I  '  and 

all  at  once 
The  morning  light   of  happy   marriage 

broke 
Thro'  all  the  clouded  years  of  widowhood, 
And  muffling  up  her  comely  head,  and 

crying 
*  Husband !  '  she  leapt  upon  the  funeral 

pile. 
And  mixt  herself  with  him  and  past  in  fire. 


ST.    TELEMACHUS.* 

Had  the  fierce  ashes  of  some  fiery  peak 
Been  hurl'd  so  high  they  ranged  about 

the  globe? 
For  day  by.  day,  thro'  many  a  blood-red 

eve. 
In    that    four-hundredth    summer    after 

Christ, 
The  wrathful  sunset  glared  against  a  cross 
Rear'd  on  the  tumbled  ruins  of  an  old 

fane  j 

No  longer  sacred  to  the  Sun,  and  flamed    i 
On  one  huge  slope  beyond,  where  in  his    , 

cave 
The  man,  whose  pious  hand  had  built  the    1 

cross,  ' 

*  Copyright,  1892,  by 


A  man  who  never  changed  a  word  with 

men. 
Fasted  and  pray'd,  Telemachus  the  Saint. 

Eve  after  eve  that  haggard  anchorite 
Would    haunt    the    desolated    fane,  and 

there 
Gaze  at  the  ruin,  often  mutter  low 
*  Vicisti  Galilaee  ';   louder  again, 
Spurning  a  shatter'd  fragment  of  the  God, 
'  Vicisti  Galilaie  I  '  but — when  now 
Bathed  in  that  lurid  crimson — ask'd  '  Is 

earth 
On  fire  to  the  West?  or  is  the  Demon-god 
Wroth  at  his  fall?  '  and  heard  an  answer 

'  Wake 
Thou  deedless  dreamer,  lazying  out  a  life 
Of  self-suppression,  not  of  selfless  love.' 
And  once  a  flight  of  shadowy  fighters 

crost 
The  disk,  and  once,  he  thought,  a  shape 

with  wings 
Came  sweeping  by  him,  and  pointed  to 

the  West, 
And    at    his    ear    he    heard   a   whisper 

'  Rome ' 
And  in  his  heart  he  cried  '  The  call  of 

God!' 
And   call'd    arose,  and,  slowly  plunging 

down 
Thro'  that  disastrous  glory,  set  his  face 
By   waste    and  field  and  town  of  alien 

tongue, 
Following  a   hundred   sunsets,   and  the 

sphere 
Of  westward-wheeling  stars  ;   and  every 

dawn 
Struck  from  him  his  own  shadow  on  to 

Rome. 
Foot-sore,     way-worn,    at    length    he 

touch'd  his  goal, 
The  Christian   city.      All  her  splendour 

fail'd 
To  lure  those  eyes  that  only  yearn'd  to 

see. 
Fleeting    betwixt    her    column'd  palace- 
walls. 
The  shape  with  wings.      Anon  there  past 

a  crowd 
With    shameless  laughter,    Pagan    oath, 

and  jest, 
Hard  Romans  brawling  of  their  monstrous 

games; 
He,  all  but  deaf  thro'  age  and  weariness, 

Macmillan  &  Co. 


854 


AK BAR'S  DREAM. 


And  muttering  to  himself  'The  call  of 

God' 
And  borne  along  by  that  full  stream  of 

men, 
Like  some  old  wreck  on  some  indrawing 

sea, 
Gain'd  their  huge  Colosseum.     The  caged 

beast 
Yell'd,  as  he  yell'd  of  yore  for  Christian 

blood. 
Three   slaves  were  trailing  a   dead  lion 

away. 
One,  a  dead  man.     He  stumbled  in,  and 

sat 
Blinded;  but  when  the  momentary  gloom, 
Made  by  the  noonday  blaze  without,  had 

left 
His  aged  eyes,  he  raised  them,  and  beheld 
A  blood-red  awning  waver  overhead. 
The  dust   send   up   a   steam  of  human 

blood. 
The  gladiators  moving  toward  their  fight, 
And    eighty    thousand    Christian    faces 

watch 
Man  murder  man.      A  sudden   strength 

from  heaven, 
As  some  great  shock  may  wake  a  palsied 

limb, 
Turn'd  him  again  to  boy,  for  up  he  sprang, 
And'glided  lightly  down  the  stairs,  and 

o'er 
The  barrier  that  divided  beast  from  man 
Slipt,  and  ran  on,  and  flung  himself  be- 
tween 
The  gladiatorial  swords,  and  call'd  *  For- 
bear 
In  the  great  name  of  Him  who  died  for 

men, 
Christ  Jesus ! '     For  one  moment  after- 
ward 
A  silence  follow'd  as  of  death,  and  then 
A  hiss  as  from  a  wilderness  of  snakes, 
Then   one    deep   roar  as  of  a  breaking 

sea, 
And  then  a  shower  of  stones  that  stoned 

him  dead, 
And   then   once    more    a   silence    as   of 

death. 
His  dream  became  a  deed  that  woke 

the  world. 
For  while  the  frantic  rabble  in  half-amaze 
Stared  at  him  dead,  thro'  all  the  nobler 

hearts  ! 

*  Copyright,  1892,  by 


In  that  vast  Oval  ran  a  shudder  of  shame. 
The    Baths,    the   Forum  gabbled  of  his 

death, 
And   preachers    linger'd    o'er  his  dying 

words, 
Which  would  not  die,  but  echo'd  on  to 

reach 
HonoriuSj  till  he  heard  them,  and  decreed 
That  Rome  no  more  should  wallow  in  this 

old  lust 
Of  Paganism,  and  make  her  festal  hour 
Dark  with  the  blood  of  man  who  mur- 

der'd  riian. 

(For  Honorius,  who  succeeded  to  the  sov- 
ereignty over  Europe,  supprest  the  gladiatorial 
combats  practised  of  old  in  Rome,  on  occasion  of 
the  following  event.  There  was  one  Telemachus, 
embracing  the  ascetic  mode  of  life,  who  setting 
out  from  the  East  and  arriving  at  Rome  for  this 
very  purpose,  while  that  accursed  spectacle  was 
being  performed,  entered  himself  the  circus,  and 
descending  into  the  arena,  attempted  to  hold  back 
those  who  wielded  deadly  weapons  against  each 
other.  The  spectators  of  the  murderous  fray, 
possest  with  the  drunken  glee  of  the  demon  who 
delights  in  such  bloodshed,  stoned  to  death  the 
preacher  of  peace.  The  admirable  Emperor 
learning  this  put  a  stop  to  that  evil  exhibition. 
— Theodoret's  Ecclesiastical  History.') 


AKBAR'S    DREAM.* 

An  Inscription  by  Abul  Fazl  for  a  Temple 
IN  Kashmir  (Blochmann  xxxii.). 

O  God  in  every  temple  I  see  people  that  see 
thee,  and  in  every  language  I  hear  spoken,  peo- 
ple praise  thee. 

Polytheism  and  Islam  feel  after  thee. 

Each  religion  says,  '  Thou  art  one,  without 
equal.' 

If  it  be  a  mosque  people  murmur  the  holy 
prayer,  and  if  it  be  a  Christian  Church,  people 
ring  the  bell  from  love  to  Thee. 

Sometimes  I  frequent  the  Christian  cloister, 
and  sometimes  the  mosque. 

But  it  is  thou  whom  I  search  from  temple  to 
temple. 

Thy  elect  have  no  dealings  with  either  heresy 
or  orthodoxy;  for  neither  of  them  stands  behind 
the  screen  of  thy  truth. 

Heresy  to  the  heretic,  and  religion  to  the 
orthodox, 

But  the  dust  of  the  rose-petal  belongs  to  the 
heart  of  the  perfume  seller. 

Macmillan  &  Co. 


AKBAR'S  DREAM. 


855 


Akbar  and  Abul  P'azl  before  the  palace 
at  Futehpur-Sikri  at  night. 

*  Light  of  the  nations '  ask'd  his  Chron- 

icler 

Of  Akbar  '  what  has  darken'd  thee  to- 
night?' 

Then,  after  one  quick  glance  upon  the 
stars, 

And  turning  slowly  toward  him,  Akbar 
said 

*  The  shadow  of  a  dream — an  idle  one 
It  may  be.     Still  I  raised  my  heart  to 

heaven, 
I  pray'd  against  the  dream.     To  pray,  to 

do- 
To  pray,  to  do  according  to  the  prayer. 
Are,  both,  to  worship  Alia,  but  the  prayers. 
That  have  no  successor  in  deed,  are  faint 
And  pale  in  Alla's  eyes,  fair  mothers  they 
Dying  in  childbirth  of  dead  sons.  I  vow'd 
Whate'er  my  dreams,  I  still  would  do  the 

right 
Thro'    all    the   vast    dominion   which   a 

sword. 
That  only  conquers  men  to  conquer  peace, 
Has  won  me.     Alia  be  my  guide  ! 

But  come, 
My  noble  friend,  my  faithful  counsellor. 
Sit  by  my  side.     While  thou  art  one  with 

me, 
I  seem  no  longer  like  a  lonely  man 
In  the  king's  garden,  gathering  here  and 

there 
From  each  fair  plant  the  blossom  choic- 
est-grown 
To  wreathe  a  crown  not  only  for  the  king 
But  in  due  time  for  every  Alussulman, 
Brahmin,   and   Buddhist,  Christian,  and 

Parsee, 

Thro'  all  the  warring  world  of  Hindustan. 

Well  spake  thy  brother  in  his  hymn  to 

heaven 

"  Thy  glory  baffles  wisdom.    All  the  tracks 

Of  science  making  toward  Thy  Perfect- 

ness 
Are  blinding  desert  sand;   we  scarce  can 

spell 
The  Alif  of  Thine  Alphabet  of  Love." 
He    knows    Himself,  men    nor  them- 
selves nor  Him, 
For  every  splinter'd  fraction  of  a  sect 
Will  clamour  "  /  am  on  the  Perfect  Way, 


All  else  is  to  perdition." 

Shall  the  rose 
Cry  to  the  lotus  "No  flower  thou"?  the 

palm 
Call  to  the  cypress  "  I  alone  am  fair"? 
The  mango  spurn  the  melon  at  his  foot? 
"  Mine  is  the  one  fruit  Alia  made   for 

man." 
Look  how  the  living  pulse  of  Alia  beats 
Thro'  all  His  world.     If  every  single  star 
Should  shriek  its  claim  "  I  only  am  in 

heaven  " 
Why  that  were  such  sphere-music  as  the 

Greek 
Had  hardly  dream'd  of.     There  is  light 

in  all. 
And  light,  with  more  or  less  of  shade,  in 

all 
Man-modes  of  worship;  but  our  Ulama, 
Who  "  sitting  on  green  sofas  contemplate 
The    torment   of  the   damn'd "  already, 

these 
Are    like   wild    brutes    new-caged — the 

narrower 
The  cage,  the  more  their  fury.     Me  they 

front 
With  sullen  brows.     What  wonder !     I 

decreed 
That  even  the  dog  was  clean,  that  men 

may  taste 
Swine-flesh,  drink  wine;   they  know  too 

that  whene'er 
In  our  free  Hall,  where  each  philosophy 
And  mood   of  faith   may  hold  its  own, 

they  blurt 
Their  furious  formalisms,  I  but  hear 
The  clash  of  tides  that  meet  in  narrow 

seas, — 
Not  the  Great  Voice  not  the  true  Deep. 

To  drive 
A  people  from  their  ancient  fold  of  Faith, 
And  wall  them  up  perforce   in  mine — 

unwise, 
Unkinglike; — and    the    morning    of  my 

reign 
Was  redden'd  by   that  cloud  of  shame 

when  I  .  .  . 
I  hate  the  rancour  of  their  castes  and 

creeds, 
1  let  men  worship  as  they  will,  I  reap 
No  revenue  from  the  field  of  unbelief. 
I  cull  from  every  faith  and  race  the  best 
And  bravest  soul  for  counsellor  and  friend. 


856 


AK BAR'S  DREAM. 


I  loathe  the  very  name  of  infidel. 
I  stagger  at  the  KorSn  and  the  sword. 
I  shudder  at  the  Christian  and  the  stake; 
Yet  "Alia,"  says  their  sacred  book,  "is 

Love," 
And  when  the  Goan  Padre  quoting  Him, 
Issa  Ben  Mariam,  his  own  prophet,  cried 
"  Love    one    another    little    ones "    and 

"  bless  " 
Whom?  even  "  your  persecutors  "  !  there 

methought 
The  cloud  was  rifted  by  a  purer  gleam 
Than  glances  from  the  sun  of  our  Islam. 
And  thou  rememberest  what   a   fury 

shook 
Those  pillars  of  a  moulder'd  faith,  when 

he, 
That  other,  prophet  of  their  fall,  pro- 
claimed 
His  Master  as  "  the  Sun  of  Righteous- 
ness," 
Yea,  Alia  here  on  earth,  who  caught  and 

held 
His  people  by  the  bridle-rein  of  Truth. 
What  art  thou  saying?    "  And  was  not 

Alia  call'd 
In  old  Irdn  the  Sun  of  Love?  and  Love 
The  net  of  truth?" 

A  voice  from  old  Iran ! 
Nay,    but    I    know    it — his^    the    hoary 

Sheik, 
On  whom  the  women  shrieking  "Atheist " 

flung 
Filth  from  the  roof,  the  mystic  melodist 
Who  all  but  lost  himself  in  Alia,  him 

Ab(i  Said 

— a  sun  but  dimly  seen 
Here,  till  the  mortal  morning  mists  of 

earth 
Fade  in  the  noon  of  heaven,  when  creed 

and  race 
Shall  bear  false  witness,  each  of  each,  no 

more. 
But  find  their  limits  by  that  larger  light. 
And  overstep  them,  moving  easily 
Thro'  after-ages  in  the  love  of  Truth, 
The  truth  of  Love. 

The  sun,  the  sun  !  they  rail 
At  me  the  Zoroastrian.     Let  the  Sun, 
Who  heats  our  earth  to  yield  us  grain 

and  fruit. 
And  laughs  upon  thy  field   as  well    as 

mine. 


And    warms    the    blood    of    Shiah    and 

Sunnee, 
Symbol  the  Eternal !     Yea  and  may  not 

kings 
Express    Him   also  by  their  warmth  of 

love 
For  all  they  rule — by  equal  law  for  all? 
By  deeds  a  light  to  men? 

But  no  such  light 
Glanced  from  our  Presence  on  the  face 

of  one. 
Who  breaking  in  upon  us  yestermorn, 
With  all  the  Hells  a-glare  in  either  eye, 
Yell'd  "  hast  thoti  brought  us  down  a  new 

Korin 
From   heaven?    art   thou   the    Prophet? 

canst  thou  work 
Miracles?"    and  the  wild  horse,  anger, 

plunged 
To  fling  me,  and  fail'd.     Miracles !   no, 

not  I 
Nor  he,  nor  any.    I  can  but  lift  the  torch 
Of  Reason  in  the  dusky  cave  of  Life, 
And    gaze    on    this    great    miracle,    the 

World, 
Adoring  That  who    made,  and   makes, 

and  is. 
And  is  not,  what  I  gaze  on — all  else  Form, 
Ritual,  varying  with  the  tribes  of  men. 
Ay  but,  my  friend,  thou  knowest  I  hold 

that  forms 
Are    needful:    only   let    the   hand   that 

rules. 
With  politic  care,  with  utter  gentleness, 
Mould  them  for  all  his  people. 

And  what  are  forms? 
Fair  garments,  plain  or  rich,  and  fitting 

close 
Or  flying  looselier,  warm'd   but   by  the 

heart 
Within  them,  moved  but  by  the  living 

limb, 
And  cast  aside,  when  old,  for  newer, — 

Forms ! 
The  Spiritual  in  Nature's  market-place — 
The  silent  Alphabet-of-heaven-in-man 
Made  vocal — banners  blazoning  a  Power 
That  is  not  seen  and  rules  from  far  away — 
A  silken  cord  let  down  from  Paradise, 
When    fine    Philosophies  would    fail,   to 

draw 
The  crowd  from  wallowing  in  the  mire 

of  earth, 


AKBAR'S  DREAM. 


857 


And   all  the   more,  when  these   behold 

their  Lord, 
Who  shaped  the  forms,  obey  them,  and 

himself 
Here  on  this  bank  in  some  way  live  the  life 
Beyond  the  bridge,  and  serve  that  Infinite 
Within  us,  as  without,  that  All-in-all, 
And  over  all,  the  never-changing  One 
And  ever-changing   Many,  in  praise   of 

Whom 
The  Christian  bell,  the  cry  from  off  the 

mosque. 
And  vaguer  voices  of  Polytheism 
Make  but  one  music,  harmonising,  "Pray." 
There  westward — under  yon  slow-fall- 
ing star, 
The  Christians  own  a  Spiritual  Head; 
And  following  thy  true  counsel,  by  thine 

aid. 
Myself  am  such  in  our  Islam,  for  no 
Mirage  of  glory,  but  for  power  to  fuse 
My  myriads  into  union  under  one; 
To  hunt  the  tiger  of  oppression  out 
From  office;   and  to  spread  the  Divine 

Faith 
Like    calming   oil    on    all    their   stormy 

creeds, 
And  fill  the  hollows  between  wave  and 

wave ; 
To    nurse    my  children  on   the   milk   of 

Truth, 
And  alchemise  old  hates  into  the  gold 
Of  Love,  and  make  it  current;   and  beat 

back 
The  menacing  poison  of  intolerant  priests. 
Those  cobras  ever  setting  up  their  hoods — 
One  Alia !  one  Kalifa ! 

Still — at  times 
A  doubt,  a  fear, — and  yester  afternoon 
I  dream'd, — thou  knowest  how  deep  a 

well  of  love 
My  heart  is  for  my  son,   Saleem,  mine 

heir,^- 
And  yet  so  wild  and  wayward  that  my 

dream — 
He  glares  askance  at  thee  as  one  of  those 
Who  mix  the  wines  of  heresy  in  the  cup 

Of  counsel — so — I  pray  thee 

Well,  I  dream'd 
That  stone    by  stone  I  rear'd  a  sacred 

fane, 
A  temple,  neither  Pagod,  Mosque,  nor 

Church, 


But  loftier,  simpler,  always  open-door'd 
To  every  breath  from  heaven,  and  Truth 

and  Peace 
And  Love  and  Justice  came  and  dwelt 

therein; 
But  while  we  stood  rejoicing,  I  and  thou, 
I    heard    a    mocking   laugh    "  the    new 

Korin  !  " 
And   on    the    sudden,    and   with    a    cry 

"  Saleem  " 
Thou,  thou — I  saw  thee  fall  before  me, 

and  then 
Me  too  the  black-wing'd  Azrael  overcame, 
But  Death  had  ears  and  eyes;    I  watch'd 

my  son. 
And  those   that   follow'd,  loosen,  stone 

from  stone. 
All   my  fair  work;    and   from   the   ruin 

arose 
The  shriek  and  curse  of  trampled  mil- 
lions, even 
As   in    the    time   before;     but   while    I 

groan'd. 
From   out   the    sunset    pour'd   an   alien 

race. 
Who    fitted   stone    to   stone    again,  and 

Truth, 
Peace,  Love  and  Justice  came  and  dwelt 

therein. 
Nor  in  the  field  without  were  seen   or 

heard 
Fires  of  Suttee,  nor  wail  of  baby-wife, 
Or  Indian  widow;    and  in  sleep  I  said 
"  All  praise  to  Alia  by  whatever  hands 
My  mission  be   accomplish'd  !  "    but  we 

hear 
Music :  our  palace  is  awake,  and  morn 
Has  lifted  the  dark  eyelash  of  the  Night 
From  off  the  rosy  cheek  of  waking  Day. 
Our  hymn  to  the  sun.    They  sing  it.    Let 

us  go.' 


Hymn. 


Once  again  thou  flamest  heavenward,  once  again 

we  see  thee  rise. 
Every  morning  is  thy  birthday  gladdening  human 
hearts  and  eyes. 

Every  morning  here  we  greet  it,  bowing 
lowly  down  before  thee, 
Thee  the  Godlike,  thee  the  changeless  in  thine 
ever-changing  skies. 


858 


AKBAR'S  DREAM. 


Shadow-maker,    shadow-slayer,    arrowing    light 

from  clime  to  clime, 
Hear  thy  myriad  laureates  hail  thee  monarch  in 
their  woodland  rhyme. 

Warble  bird,  and  open  flower,  and,  men, 
below  the  dome  of  azure 
Kneel  adoring  Him  the  Timeless  in  the  flame 
that  measures  Time ! 


NOTES  TO  AKBAR'S  DREAM. 

The  great  Mogul  Emperor  Akbar  was  born 
October  14,  1542,  and  died  1605.  At  13  he  suc- 
ceeded his  father  Humayun;  at  18  he  himself 
assumed  the  sole  charge  of  government.  He 
subdued  and  ruled  over  fifteen  large  provinces; 
his  empire  included  all  India  north  of  the  Vindhya 
Mountains — in  the  south  of  India  he  was  not 
so  successful.  His  tolerance  of  religions  and 
his  abhorrence  of  religious  persecution  put  our 
Tudors  to  shame.  He  invented  a  new  eclectic 
religion  by  which  he  hoped  to  unite  all  creeds, 
castes  and  peoples:  and  his  legislation  was  re- 
markable for  vigour,  justice  and  humanity. 

*  Thy  glory  baffles  wisdom*  The  Emperor 
quotes  from  a  hymn  to  the  Deity  by  Faizi,  brother 
of  Abul  Fazl,  Akbar's  chief  friend  and  minister, 
who  wrote  the  A  in  i  Akbari  (Annals  of  Akbar) . 
His  influence  on  his  age  was  immense.  It  may 
be  that  he  and  his  brother  Faizi  led  Akbar's  mind 
away  from  Islam  and  the  Prophet — this  charge  is 
brought  against  him  by  every  Muhammadan 
writer;  but  Abul  Fazl  also  led  his  sovereign  to  a 
true  appreciation  of  his  duties,  and  from  the 
moment  that  he  entered  Court,  the  problem  of  suc- 
cessfully ruling  over  mixed  races,  which  Islam  in 
few  other  countries  had  to  solve,  was  carefully 
considered,  and  the  policy  of  toleration  was  the 
result  (Blochmann  xxix.). 

Abul  Faxl  thus  gives  an  account  of  himself 
*  The  advice  of  my  Father  with  difficulty  kept  me 
back  from  acts  of  folly ;  my  mind  had  no  rest  and 
my  heart  felt  itself  drawn  to  the  sages  of  Mongolia 
or  to  the  hermits  on  Lebanon.  I  longed  for  in- 
terviews with  the  Llamas  of  Tibet  or  with  the 
padres  of  Portugal,  and  I  would  gladly  sit  with 
the  priests  of  the  Parsis  and  the  learned  of  the 
Zendavesta.  I  was  sick  of  the  learned  of  my  own 
land.' 

He  became  the  intimate  friend  and  adviser  of 
Akbar,  and  helped  him  in  his  tolerant  system  of 
government.  Professor  Blochmann  writes  '  Im- 
pressed with  a  favourable  idea  of  the  value  of  his 
Hindu  subjects,  he  (Akbar)  had  resolved  when 
pensively  sitting  in  the  evenings  on  the  solitary 
Stone  at  Futehpur-Sikri  to  rule  with  an  even  hand 


all  men  in  his  dominions;  but  as  the  extreme 
views  of  the  learned  and  the  lawyers  continually 
urged  him  to  persecute  instead  of  to  heal,  he 
instituted  discussions,  because,  believing  himself 
to  be  in  error,  he  thought  it  his  duty  as  ruler  to 
inquire.'  '  These  discussions  took  place  every 
Thursday  night  in  the  Ibadat-khana  a  building  at 
Futehpur-Sikri,  erected  for  the  purpose '  (Mal- 
leson) . 

In  these  discussions  Abul  Fazl  became  a  great 
power,  and  he  induced  the  chief  of  the  disputants 
to  draw  up  a  document  defining  the  '  divine  Faith ' 
as  it  was  called,  and  assigning  to  Akbar  the  rank 
of  a  Mujahid,  or  supreme  khalifah,  the  vicegerent 
of  the  one  true  God. 

Abul  Fazl  was  finally  murdered  at  the  insti- 
gation of  Akbar's  son  Salim,  who  in  his  Memoirs 
declares  that  it  was  Abul  Fazl  who  had  perverted 
his  father's  mind  so  that  he  denied  the  divine 
mission  of  Mahomet,  and  turned  away  his  love 
from  his  son. 

Faizi.  When  Akbar  conquered  the  North- 
West  Provinces  of  India,  Faizi,  then  20,  began 
his  life  as  a  poet,  and  earned  his  living  as  a 
physician.  He  is  reported  to  have  been  very 
generous  and  to  have  treated  the  poor  for  nothing. 
His  fame  reached  Akbar's  ears  who  commanded 
him  to  come  to  the  camp  at  Chitor.  Akbar  was 
delighted  with  his  varied  knowledge  and  scholar- 
ship and  made  the  poet  teacher  to  his  sons.  Faizi 
at  33  was  appointed  Chief  Poet  (1588).  He  col- 
lected a  fine  library  of  4300  MSS.  and  died  at  the 
age  of  40  (1595)  when  Akbar  incorporated  his 
collection  of  rare  books  in  the  Imperial  Library. 

The  Warring  World  of  Hindostan.  Akbar's 
rapid  conquests  and  the  good  government  of  his 
fifteen  provinces  with  their  complete  military, 
civil  and  political  systems  make  him  conspicuous 
among  the  great  kings  of  history. 

The  Goan  Padre.  Abul  Fazl  relates  that 
'  one  night  the  Ibadat-khana  was  brightened  by 
the  presence  of  Padre  Rodolpho,  who  for  intelli- 
gence and  wisdom  was  unrivalled  among  Chris- 
tian doctors.  Several  carping  and  bigoted  men 
attacked  him  and  this  afforded  an  opportunity 
for  the  display  of  the  calm  judgment  and  justice 
of  the  assembly.  These  men  brought  forward 
the  old  received  assertions,  and  did  not  attempt 
to  arrive  at  truth  by  reasoning.  Their  statements 
were  torn  to  pieces,  and  they  were  nearly  put  to 
shame,  when  they  began  to  attack  the  contradic- 
tions of  the  Gospel,  but  they  could  not  prove 
their  assertions.  With  perfect  calmness,  and 
earnest  conviction  of  the  truth  he  replied  to  their 
arguments.' 

Abit  Sa'ld.    '  Love  is  the  net  of  Truth,  Love 


THE  BANDIT'S  DEATH. 


859 


is  the  noose  of  God '  is  a  quotation  from  the  great 
Sufee  poet  Abu  Sa'id — born  a.d.  968,  died  at  the 
age  of  83.  He  is  a  mystical  poet,  and  some 
of  his  expressions  have  been  compared  to  our 
George  Herbert.  Of  Shaikh  Abu  Sa'id  it  is  re- 
corded that  he  said,  '  when  my  affairs  had  reacht 
a  certain  pitch  I  buried  under  the  dust  my  books 
and  opened  a  shop  on  my  own  account  {i.e. 
began  to  teach  with  authority),  and  verily  men 
represented  me  as  that  which  I  was  not,  until  it 
came  to  this,  that  they  went  to  the  Qadhi  and 
testified  against  me  of  unbelieverhood  ;  and 
women  got  upon  the  roofs  and  cast  unclean 
things  upon  me.'  {Vide  reprint  from  article  in 
National  Review,  March,  1891,  by  C.  J.  Pick- 
ering.) 

Aziz.  I  am  not  aware  that  there  is  any  rec- 
ord of  such  intrusion  upon  the  king's  privacy, 
but  the  expressions  in  the  text  occur  in  a  letter 
sent  by  Akbar's  foster-brother  Aziz,  who  refused 
to  come  to  court  when  summoned  and  threw  up 
his  government,  and  '  after  writing  an  insolent 
and  reproachful  letter  to  Akbar  in  which  he 
asked  him  if  he  had  received  a  book  from  heaven, 
or  if  he  could  work  miracles  like  Mahomet  that 
he  presumed  to  introduce  a  new  religion,  warned 
him  that  he  was  on  the  way  to  eternal  perdition, 
and  concluded  with  a  prayer  to  God  to  bring  him 
back  into  the  path  of  salvation'  (Elphinstone). 

'  The  Koran,  the  Old  and  New  Testament, 
and  the  Psalms  of  David  are  called  books  by  way 
of  excellence,  and  their  followers  "  People  of  the 
Book"'  (Elphinstone). 

Akbar  according  to  Abdel  Kadir  had  his  son 
Murad  instructed  in  the  Gospel,  and  used  to 
make  him  begin  his  lessons  *  In  the  name  of 
Christ '  instead  of  in  the  usual  way  '  In  the  name 
of  God.' 

To  drizie 
A  people  from  the  irancient  fold  of  Truth,  etc. 

Malleson  says '  This  must  have  happened  because 
Akbar  states  it,  but  of  the  forced  conversions 
I  have  found  no  record.  This  must  have  taken 
place  whilst  he  was  still  a  minor,  and  whilst  the 
chief  authority  was  wielded  by  Bairam.' 

^  I  reap  no  revenue  from  the  field  of  tinbelief.' 

The  Hindus  are  fond  of  pilgrimages,  and  Akbar 
removed  a  remunerative  tax  raised  by  his  prede- 
cessors on  pilgrimages.  He  also  abolished  the 
fezza  or  capitation  tax  on  those  who  differed 
from  the  Mahomedan  faith.  He  discouraged 
all  excessive  prayers,  fasts  and  pilgrimages. 

Sati.  Akbar  decreed  that  every  widow  who 
showed  the  least  desire  not  to  be  burnt  on  her 
husband's  funeral  pyre,  should  be  let  go  free  and 
uuharmed. 


Baby-Tuife.  He  forbad  marriage  before  the 
age  of  puberty. 

Indian  widow.  Akbar  ordained  that  remar- 
riage was  lawful. 

Music.  '  About  a  watch  before  daybreak,' 
says  Abul  Fazl,  the  musicians  played  to  the  king 
in  the  palace.  '  His  Majesty  had  such  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  science  of  music  as  trained  musicians 
do  not  possess.' 

'  The  Divine  Faith.'  The  Divine  Faith  slowly 
passed  away  under  the  immediate  successors  of 
Akbar.  An  idea  of  what  the  Divine  P'aith  was 
may  be  gathered  from  the  inscription  at  the  head 
of  the  poem.  The  document  referred  to,  Abul 
Fazl  says  'brought  about  excellent  results  (i) 
the  Court  became  a  gathering  place  of  the  sages 
and  learned  of  all  creeds ;  the  good  doctrines  of 
all  religious  systems  were  recognized,  and  their 
defects  were  not  allowed  to  obscure  their  good 
features;  (2)  perfect  toleration  or  peace  with  all 
was  established;  and  (3)  the  perverse  and  evil- 
minded  were  covered  with  shame  on  seeing  the 
disinterested  motives  of  His  Majesty,  and  these 
stood  in  the  pillory  of  disgrace.'  Dated  Septem- 
ber 1579 — Ragab  987  (Blochmann  xiv.). 


THE   BANDIT'S   DEATH.* 

TO  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.i 

0  great  and  gallant  scott, 

True  gentleman  heart,  blood  and  bone, 

i  would  it  had  been  my  lot 

to  have  seen  thee,  and  heard  thee,   and 

KNOWN. 

Sir,  do  you  see  this  dagger?  nay,  why  do 
you  start  aside  ? 

1  was  not  going  to  stab  you,  tho'  I  a;;i  the 

Bandit's  bride. 

You  have  set  a  price  on  his  head  :   I  may 

claim  it  without  a  He. 
What  have  I  here  in  the  cloth?     I  will 

show  it  you  by-and-by. 

Sir,  I  was  once  a  wife.     I  had  one  brief 

summer  of  bliss 
But  the  Bandit  had  woo'd  me  in  vain,  and 

he  stabb'd  my  Piero  with  this. 

1  I  have  adopted  Sir  Walter  Scott's  version  of 
the  following  story  as  given  in  his  last  journal 
(Death  of  II  Bizarro) — but  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  of  making  some  $light  alterations, 


Copyright,  1892,  by  Magmillan  &  Co. 


86o 


THE    CHURCH-WARDEN  AND    THE    CURATE. 


And  he  dragg'd  me  up  there  to  his  cave 
in  the  mountain,  and  there  one 
day 

He  had  left  his  dagger  behind  him.  I 
found  it.     I  hid  it  away. 

For  he  reek'd  with  the  blood  of  Piero; 

his  kisses  were  red  with  his  crime, 
And  I  cried  to  the  Saints  to  avenge  me. 

They  heard,  they  bided  their  time. 

In  a  while  I  bore  him  a  son,  and  he  loved 

to  dandle  the  child, 
And  that  was  a  link  between  us;   but  I — 

to  be  reconciled? — 

No,  by  the  Mother  of  God,  tho'  I  think  I 

hated  him  less, 
And — well,  if  I  sinn'd  last  night,  I  will 

find  the  Priest  and  confess. 

Listen !  we  three  were  alone  in  the  dell 

at  the  close  of  the  day. 
I  was  lilting  a  song  to  the  babe,  and  it 

laugh'd  like  a  dawn  in  May. 

Then  on  a  sudden  we  saw  your  soldiers 

crossing  the  ridge, 
And  he  caught  my  little  one  from  me : 

we  dipt  down  under  the  bridge 

By  the  great  dead  pine — you  know  it — 
and  heard,  as  we  crouch'd  below, 

The  clatter  of  arms,  and  voices,  and  men 
passing  to  and  fro. 

Black  was  the  night  when  we  crept  away 
— not  a  star  in  the  sky — 

Hush'd  as  the  heart  of  the  grave,  till  the 
little  one  utter'd  a  cry. 

I  whisper'd  '  give  it  to  me,'  but  he  would 

not  answer  me — then 
He  gript  it  so  hard  by  the  throat  that  the 

boy  never  cried  again. 

We  return'd  to  his  cave — the  link  was 
broken — he  sobb'd  and  he  wept, 

And  cursed  himself;  then  he  yawn'd,  for 
the  wretch  cou/d sleep,  and  he  slept 

Ay,  till  dawn  stole  into  the  cave,  and  a 

ray  red  as  blood 
Glanced  on  the  strangled  face — I  could 

make  Sleep  Death,  if  I  would — 


Glared  on  at  the  murder'd  son,  and  the 
murderous  father  at  rest,  .   .   . 

I  drove  the  blade  that  had  slain  my  hus- 
band thrice  thro'  his  breast. 

He  was  loved  at  least  by  his  dog :  it  was 
chain'd,  but  its  horrible  yell 

*  She  has  kill'd  him,  has  kill'd  him,  has 
kill'd  him '  rang  out  all  down  thro' 
the  dell, 

Till  I  felt  I  could  end  myself  too  with  the 
dagger — so  deafen'd  and  dazed — 

Take  it,  and  save  me  from  it !  I  fled.  I 
was  all  but  crazed 

With  the  grief  that  gnaw'd  at  my  heart, 
and  the  weight  that  dragg'd  at  my 
hand; 

But  thanks  to  the  Blessed  Saints  that  I 
came  on  none  of  his  band; 

And  the  band  will  be  scatter'd  now  their 

gallant  captain  is  dead. 
For  I  with  this   dagger  of  his — do  you 

doubt  me?     Here  is  his  head ! 


THE  CHURCH-WARDEN  AND 
THE  CURATE. 

This  is  written  in  the  dialect  which  was  current 
in  my  youth  at  Spilsby  and  in  the  country  about  it. 


Eh?  good  daay !  good  daay !  thaw  it 
bean't  not  mooch  of  a  daay. 

Nasty,  casselty  weather !  an'  mea  haafe 
down  wi'  my  haay ! 

II. 

How  be  the  farm  gittin  on?   noaways. 

Gittin  on  i'deead ! 
Why,  tonups  was  haafe  on  'em    fingers 

an'   toas,   an'  the  mare  brokken- 

kneead. 
An'  pigs  didn't  sell  at  fall,  an'  wa  lost 

wer  Haldeny  cow, 
An'  it  beats  ma  to  knaw  wot  she  died  on, 

but  wool's  looking  oop  ony  how. 


THE    CHURCH-WARDEN  AND    THE    CURATE. 


86i 


III. 

An'  soa  they've  maade  tha  a  parson,  an' 

thou'll  git  along,  niver  fear, 
Fur  I  bean  chuch-warden  mysen  i'  the 

parish  fur  fifteen  year. 
Well — sin  ther  bea  chuch-wardens,  ther 

mun  be  parsons  an'  all, 
An'  if  t'one  stick  alongside  t'uther  the 

chuch  weant  happen  a  fall. 

IV. 

Fur  I  wur  a  Baptis  wonst,  an'  agean  the 

toithe  an'  the  raate, 
Till  I  fun  that  it  warn't  not  the  gaainist 

waay  to  the  narra  Gaate. 
An'  I  can't  abear  'em,  I  can't,  fur  a  lot 

on  'em  coom'd  ta-year — 
I  wur  down  wi'  the  rheumatis  then — to 

my  pond  to  wesh  thessens  theere — 
Sa  I  sticks  like  the  ivin  as  long  as  I  lives 

to  the  owd  chuch  now. 
Fur  they  wesh'd  their  sins  i'  my  pond, 

an'  I  doubts  they  poison'd  the  cow. 


Ay,  an'  ya  seed  the  Bishop.     They  says 

'at  he  coom'd  fra  nowt — 
Burn  i'  traade.     Sa  I  warrants  'e  niver 

said  haafe  wot  'e  thowt, 
But  'e  creeapt  an'  'e  crawl'd  along,  till  'e 

feeald  'e  could  howd  'is  oan, 
Then  'e  married  a  great  Yerl's  darter,  an' 

sits  o'  the  Bishop's  throan. 

VI. 

Now  I'll  gie  tha  a  bit  o'  my  mind  an'  tha 

weant  be  taakin'  offence. 
Fur  thou  be  a  big  scholard   now  wi'  a 

hoonderd  haacre  o'  sense — 
But  sich  an  obstropulous  lad — naay,  naay 

— fur  T  minds  tha  sa  well, 
Tha'd  niver  not  hopple  thy  tongue,  an' 

the  tongue's  sit  afire  o'  Hell, 
As  I  says  to  my  missis  to-daay,  when  she 

hurl'd  a  plaate  at  the  cat 
An'  anoother  agean  my  noase.     Ya  was 

niver  sa  bad  as  that. 

VII. 

But  I  minds  when  i'  Howlaby  beck  won 
daay  ya  was  ticklin'  o'  trout, 


An'  keeaper  'e  seed  ya  an  roon'd,  an'  'e 

beal'd  to  ya  '  Lad  coom  hout ' 
An'  ya  stood  oop  maakt  i'  the  beck,  an' 

ya  tell'd  'im  to  knaw  his  awn  plaace 
An'  ya  call'd  'im  a  clown,  ya  did,  an'  ya 

thraw'd  the  fish  i'  'is  faace. 
An'  'e   torn'd  as  red   as  a   stag-tuckey's 

wattles,  but  theer  an'  then 
I  coamb'd  'im  down,  fur  I  promised  ya'd 

niver  not  do  it  agean. 

VIII. 

An'   I   cotch'd  tha  wonst  i'  my  garden, 

when  thou  was  a  height-year-howd, 
An'  I  fun  thy  pockets  as  full  o'  my  pippins 

as  iver  they'd  'owd, 
An'  thou  was  as  pearky  as  owt,  an'  tha 

maade  me  as  mad  as  mad. 
But  I  says  to  tha '  keeap  'em,  an'  welcome  * 

fur  thou  was  the  parson's  lad. 

IX. 

An'  Parson  'e  'ears  on  it  all,  an'   then 

taakes  kindly  to  me. 
An'  then  1  wur  chose  Chuch-warden  an' 

coom'd  to  the  top  o'  the  tree, 
Fur  Quoloty's  hall  my  friends,  an'  they 

maakes  ma  a  help  to  the  poor, 
^Yhen  I  gits  the  plaate  fuller  o'  Soondays 

nor  ony  chuch-warden  afoor, 
Fur  if  iver  thy  feyther  'ed  riled  me  1  kep' 

mysen  meeak  as  a  lamb, 
An'  saw  by  the  Graace  o'  the  Lord,  Mr. 

Harry,  I  ham  wot  I  ham. 


But  Parson  'e  will  speak  out,  saw,  now  'e 

be  sixty-seven. 
He'll  niver  swap  Owlby  an'  Scratby  fur 

owt  but  the  Kingdom  o'  Heaven; 
An'  thou'll  be  'is  Curate  'ere,  but,  if  iver 

tha  means  to  git  'igher, 
Tha  mun  tackle  the  sins  o'  the  Wo'ld,  an' 

not  the  faults  o'  the  Squire. 
An'  I  reckons  tha'U  light  of  a  livin'  some- 

wheers  i'  the  Wowd  or  the  Fen, 
If  tha  cottons   down  to  thy  betters,  an' 

keeaps  thysen  to  thysen. 
But  niver  not   speak   plaain  out,  if  tha 

wants  to  git  forrards  a  bit. 
But  creeap  along  the  hedge-bottoms,  an' 

thou'll  be  a  Bishop  yit. 


862 


CHARITY. 


XI. 


Naay,   but  tha  mun  speak  hout   to  the 

Baptises  here  i'  the  town, 
Fur  moast  on  'em  talks  agean  tithe, 

an'  I'd  Hke  tha  to  preach  'em  down, 
Fur  theyve.  been  a-preachin'  7?iea  down, 

they  heve,  an'  I  haates  'em  now, 
Fur  they  leaved   their  nasty  sins  i'  my 

pond,  an'  it  poison'd  the  cow. 

GLOSSARY. 

'  Casselty,'  casualty,  chance  weather. 

'  Haafe  down  wi'  my  haay,'  while  my  grass  is 
only  half-mown. 

'  Fingers  an'  toas,'  a  disease  in  turnips. 

'  Fall,'  autumn. 

'  If  t'one  stick  alongside  t'uther,'  if  the  one 
hold  by  the  other.  One  is  pronounced  like 
*  own.' 

'  Fun,'  found. 

'  Gaainist,'  nearest. 

'  Ta-year,'  this  year. 

'  Ivin,'  ivy. 

'  Obstropulous,'  obstreperous — here  the  Curate 
makes  a  sign  of  deprecation. 

'  Hopple '  or  '  hobble,'  to  tie  the  legs  of  a  skit- 
tish cow  when  she  is  being  milked. 

'  Beal'd,'  bellowed. 

In  such  words  as  '  torned,'  '  turned,'  '  hurled,' 
the  r  is  hardly  audible. 

'  Stag-tuckey,'  turkey-cock. 

'  Height-year-howd,'  eight-year-old. 

'  'Owd,'  hold. 

'  Pearky,'  pert. 

*  Wo'ld,'  the  world.     Short  o. 

'  Wowd,'  wold. 


CHARITY 


What  am  I  doing,  you  say  to  me,  '  wast- 
ing the  sweet  summer  hours '  ? 

Haven't  you  eyes?  I  am  dressing  the 
grave  of  a  woman  with  flowers. 


For  a  woman  ruin'd  the  world,  as  God's 

own  scriptures  tell. 
And  a  man  ruin'd  mine,  but  a  woman, 

God  bless  her,  kept  me  from  Hell. 

*  Copyright,  1892,  by  Macmillan  &  Co 


in. 


Love  me  ?  O  yes,  no  doubt — how  long — 
till  you  threw  me  aside  ! 

Dresses  and  laces  and  jewels  and  never  a 
ring  for  the  bride. 


■IV 


All  very  well  just  now  to  be  calling  me 

darling  and  sweet. 
And  after  a   while   would    it  matter  so 

much  if  I  came  on  the  street? 


V, 


You 


he 


when    I    met    you    first — when 
brought  you  ! — I  turn'd  away 
And  the  hard  blue  eyes  have  it  still,  that 
stare  of  a  beast  of  prey. 


VI. 


You  were  his  friend — you — you — when  he 
promised  to  make  me  his  bride. 

And  you  knew  that  he  meant  to  betray 
me — you  knew — you  knew  that  he 
lied. 


VII. 


He  married  an  heiress,  an  orphan  with 

half  a  shire  of  estate, — 
I  sent  him  a  desolate  wail  and  a  curse, 

when  I  learn'd  my  fate. 


VIII. 


For  I  used  to  play  with  the  knife,  creep 
down  to  the  river-shore, 

Moan  to  myself '  one  plunge — then  quiet 
for  evermore.' 


IX. 


Would  the  man  have  a  touch  of  remorse 
when  he  heard  what  an  end  was 
mine? 

Or  brag  to  his  fellow  rakes  of  his  conquest 
over  their  wine? 


X. 


Money — my  hire — his  money- 
back  what  he  gave. — 


-I  sent  him 


KAPIOLANI. 


863 


Will  you  move   a   little  that  way?  your 
shadow  falls  on  the  grave. 


XI. 


Two  trains  clash'd  :  then  and  there  he 
was  crush'd  in  a  moment  and  died, 

But  the  new-wedded  wife  was  unharm'd, 
tho'  sitting  close  at  his  side. 


XII. 


She  found  my  letter  upon  him,  my  wail 

of  reproach  and  scorn; 
I  had  cursed  the  woman  he  married,  and 

him,  and  the  day  I  was  born. 


XIII. 


They  put  him  aside  for  ever,  and  after  a 

v/eek — no  more — 
A  stranger  as  welcome  as  Satan — a  widow 

came  to  my  door  : 


XIV. 


So  I  turn'd  my  face  to  the  wall,  I  was 

mad,  I  was  raving-wild, 
I  was  close  on  that  hour  of  dishonour,  the 

birth  of  a  baseborn  child. 


XV. 


I      O  you  that  can  flatter  your  victims,  and 
I  juggle,  and  lie  and  cajole, 

I      Man,  can  you  even  guess  at  the  love  of  a 
soul  for  a  soul? 

XVI. 

I  had  cursed  her  as  woman  and  wife,  and 
in  wife  and  woman  I  found 

The  tenderest  Christ-like  creature  that 
ever  stept  on  the  ground. 

XVII. 

She  watch'd  me,  she  nursed  me,  she  fed 
me,  she  sat  day  and  night  by  my 
bed, 

Till  the  joyless  birthday  came  of  a  boy 
born  happily  dead. 


XVIII. 


And  her  name?  what  was  it?  I  ask'd 
her.     She  said  with  a  sudden  glow 

On  her  patient  face  '  My  dear,  I  will  tell 
you  before  I  go.' 


XIX. 


And  I  when  I  learnt  it  at  last,  I  shriek'd, 

I  sprang  from  my  seat, 
I  wept,  and  I  kiss'd  her  hands,  I  flung 

myself  down  at  her  feet, 


XX. 


And  we  pray'd  together  for  him,  for  ]iini 
who  had  given  her  the  name. 

She  has  left  me  enough  to  live  on.  I 
need  no  wages  of  shame. 


XXI. 


She  died  of  a  fever  caught  when  a  nurse 

in  a  hospital  ward. 
She  is  high  in  the  Heaven  of  Heavens, 

she  is  face  to  face  with  her  Lord, 


XXII. 


And  He  sees  not  her  like  anywhere  in 
this  pitiless  world  of  ours  ! 

I  have  told  you  my  tale.  Get  you  gone. 
I  am  dressing  her  grave  with  flow- 
ers. 


KAPIOLANI. 

Kapiolani  was  a  great  chieftainess  who  lived 
in  the  Sandwich  Islands  at  the  beginning  of  this 
century.  She  won  the  cause  of  Christianity  by 
openly  defying  the  priests  of  the  terrible  goddess 
Peele.  In  spite  of  their  threats  of  vengeance  she 
ascended  the  volcano  Mauna-Loa,  then  clambered 
down  over  a  bank  of  cinders  400  feet  high  to  the 
great  lake  of  fire  (nine  miles  round) — Kilauea — 
the  home  and  haunt  of  the  goddess,  and  flung  into 
the  boiling  lava  the  consecrated  berries  which  it 
was  sacrilege  for  a  woman  to  handle. 

I. 

When  from  the  terrors  of  Nature  a  peo- 
ple have  fashion'd  and  worship  a 
Spirit  of  Evil, 


864 


THE  DAWN. 


Blest  be  the  Voice  of  the  Teacher  who 

calls  to  them 
'  Set  yourselves  free  ! ' 

II. 

Noble  the  Saxon  who  hurl'd  at  his  Idol 
a  valorous  weapon  in  olden  Eng- 
land ! 

Great  and  greater,  and  greatest  of  women, 
island  heroine,  Kapiolani 

Clomb  the  mountain,  and  flung  the  berries, 
and  dared  the  Goddess,  and  freed 
the  people 

Of  Hawa-i-ee ! 

III. 

A  people  believing  that  Peele  the  Goddess 

would  wallow  in  fiery  riot  and  revel 
On  Kilauea, 
Dance  in  a  fountain   of  flame  with  her 

devils,  or  shake  with  her  thunders 

and  shatter  her  island, 
Rolling  her  anger 
Thro'  blasted  valley  and  flaring  forest  in 

blood-red  cataracts  down   to   the 

sea! 

IV. 

Long  as  the  lava-light 
Glares  from  the  lava-lake 
Dazing  the  starlight. 
Long  as  the  silvery  vapour  in  daylight 
Over  the  mountain 

Floats,  will  the  glory  of  Kapiolani  be  min- 
gled with  either  on  Hawa-i-ee. 


What  said  her  Priesthood? 

*  Woe  to   this  island   if   ever   a   woman 

should  handle  or  gather  the  berries 

of  Peele ! 
Accursed  were  she !  • 
And  woe  to  this  island  if  ever  a  woman 

should  climb  to  the    dwelling   of 

Peele  the  Goddess ! 
Accursed  were  she  ! ' 

VI. 

One  from  the  Sunrise 
Dawn'd  on  His  people,  and  slowly  before 
him 


Vanish'd  shadow-like 

Gods  and  Goddesses, 

None  but  the  terrible  Peele  remaining  as 
Kapiolani  ascended  her  mountain, 

Baffled  her  priesthood, 

Broke  the  Taboo, 

Dipt  to  the  crater, 

Call'd  on  the  Power  adored  by  the  Chris- 
tian, and  crying  '  I  dare  her,  let 
Peele  avenge  herself!  ' 

Into  the  flame-billow  dash'd  the  berries, 
and  drove  the  demon  from    Ha- 


THE   DAWN. 


You  are  but  children." 

Egyptian  Priest  to  Solon. 


Red  of  the  Dawn ! 
Screams  of  a  babe  in  the  red-hot  palms 
of  a  Moloch  of  Tyre, 
Man   with   his  brotherless    dinner   on 

man  in  the  tropical  wood. 
Priests  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  passing 
souls  thro'  fire  to  the  fire, 
Head-hunters  and  boats  of  Dahomey  that 
float  upon  human  blood ! 

II. 

Red  of  the  Dawn ! 
Godless  fury  of  peoples,  and  Christless 
frolic  of  kings. 
And  the  bolt  of  war  dashing  down  upon 

cities  and  blazing  farms. 
For  Babylon  was  a  child  new-born,  and 
Rome  was  a  babe  in  arms. 
And  London  and  Paris  and  all  the  rest 
are  as  yet  but  in  leading-strings. 

III. 

Dawn  not  Day, 
While  scandal  is  mouthing  a  bloodless 
name  at  he7-  cannibal  feast, 
And  rake-ruin'd  bodies  and   souls   go 

down  in  a  common  wreck. 
And  the  Press  of  a  thousand  cities  is 
prized  for  it  smells  of  the  beast. 
Or  easily  violates  virgin  Truth  for  a  coin 
or  a  cheque. 


THE  MAKING    OF  MAN—MECHANOPHILUS. 


865 


IV. 

Dawn  not  Day ! 
Is  it  Shame,  so  few  should  have  climb'cl 
from  the  dens  in  the  level  below, 
Men,  with  a  heart  and  a  soul,  no  slaves 

of  a  four-footed  will? 
But  if  twenty  million  of  summers  are 
stored  in  the  sunlight  still, 
We  are  far  from  the  noon  of  man,  there 
is  time  for  the  race  to  grow. 


Red  of  the  Dawn  ! 
Is  it  turning  a  fainter  red?  so  be  it,  but 
when  shall  we  lay 
The  Ghost  of  the  Brute  that  is  walking 
and  haunting  us  yet,  and  be  free? 
In  a  hundred,  a  thousand  winters?    Ah, 
what  will  our  children  be. 
The  men  of  a  hundred  thousand,  a  million 
summers  away? 


THE   MAKING   OF   MAN. 

Where  is  one  that,  born  of  woman,  alto- 
gether can  escape 

From  the  lower  world  within  him,  moods 
of  tiger,  or  of  ape? 
Man  as  yet  is  being  made,  and  ere  the 
crowning  Age  of  ages, 

Shall  not  aeon  after  aeon  pass  and  touch 
him  into  shape  ? 

All   about    him  shadow   still,  but,   while 

the  races  flower  and  fade, 
Prophet-eyes   may   catch  a  glory  slowly 

gaining  on  the  shade, 
Till  the  peoples  all  are   one,   and    all 

their  voices  blend  in  choric 
Hallelujah, to  the  Maker  'It  is  finish'd. 

Man  is  made.' 


THE  DREAMER. 

On  a  midnight  in  midwinter  when  all  but 

the  winds  were  dead, 
*  The  meek  shall  inherit  the  earth  '  was  a 

Scripture  that  rang  thro'  his  head. 
Till  he  dream'd  that  a  Voice  of  the  Earth 

went  wailingly  past  him  and  said  : 


'  I  am  losing  the  light  of  my  Youth 
And  the  Vision  that  led  me  of  old, 
And  I  clash  with  an  iron  Truth, 
When  I  make  for  an  Age  of  gold, 
And  I  would  that  my  race  were  run, 
For  teeming  with  liars,  and  madmen, 

and  knaves. 
And  wearied    of  Autocrats,  Anarchs, 

and  Slaves, 
And  darken'd  with  doubts  of  a  Faith 

that  saves, 
And  crimson  with  battles,  and  hollow 

with  graves. 
To  the  wail  of  my  winds,  and  the  moan 

of  my  waves 
I  whirl,  and  I  follow  the  Sun.' 

Was  it  only  the  wind  of  the  Night  shrill- 
ing out  Desolation  and  wrong 

Thro'  a  dream  of  the  dark?  Yet  he 
thought  that  he  answer'd  her  wail 
with  a  song — 

Moaning  your  losses,  O  Earth, 
Heart-weary  and  overdone ! 

But  all's  well  that  ends  well, 
Whirl,  and  follow  the  Sun  ! 

He  is  racing  from  heaven  to  heaven 
And  less  will  be  lost  than  won, 

For  all's  well  that  ends  well, 
Whirl,  and  follow  the  Sun  ! 

The  Reign  of  the  Meek  upon  earth. 

O  weary  one,  has  it  begun  ? 
But  all's  well  that  ends  well, 

Whirl,  and  follow  the  Sun ! 

For  moans  will  have   grown    sphera 
music 

Or  ever  your  race  be  run ! 
And  all's  well  that  ends  well, 

Whirl,  and  follow  the  Sun ! 


MECHANOPHILUS. 

(In  the  time  of  the  first  railways.) 

Now  first  we  stand  and  understand. 
And  sunder  false  from  true, 

And  handle  boldly  with  the  hand, 
And  see  and  shape  and  do. 


866 


RIFLEMEN  FORM— THE    TOURNEY. 


Dash  back  that  ocean  with  a  pier, 

Strow  yonder  mountain  flat, 
A  railway  there,  a  tunnel  here. 

Mix  me  this  Zone  with  that ! 

Bring  me  my  horse — my  horse?  my  wings 

That  I  may  soar  the  sky. 
For  Thought  into  the  outward  springs, 

I  find  her  with  the  eye. 

O  will  she,  moon^^ke,  sway  the  main, 
And  bring  or  chase  the  storm, 

Who  was  a  shadow  in  the  brain. 
And  is  a  living  form  ? 

Far  as  the  Future  vaults  her  skies, 
From  this  my  vantage  ground 

To  those  still-working  energies 
I  spy  nor  term  nor  bound. 

As  we  surpass  our  fathers'  skill. 
Our  sons  will  shame  our  own; 

A  thousand  things  are  hidden  still 
And  not  a  hundred  known. 

And  had  some  prophet  spoken  true 

Of  all  we  shall  achieve, 
The  wonders  were  so  wildly  new 

That  no  man  would  believe. 

Meanwhile,  my  brothers,  work,  and  wield 

The  forces  of  to-day. 
And  plow  the  Present  like  a  field, 

And  garner  all  you  may ! 

You,  what  the  cultured  surface  grows, 
Dispense  with  careful  hands  : 

Deep  under  deep  for  ever  goes. 
Heaven  over  heaven  expands. 


RIFLEMEN    FORM! 

There  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar, 
Storm  in  the  South  that  darkens  the  day  ! 
Storm  of  battle  and  thunder  of  war  ! 
Well  if  it  do  not  roll  our  way. 
Storm,  Storm,  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  against  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  Riflemen,  Riflemen  form ! 

Be  not  deaf  to  the  sound  that  warns, 
Be  not  guird  by  a  despot's  plea ! 


Are  figs  of  thistles?  or  grapes  of  thorns? 
How  can  a  despot  feel  with  the  Free? 
Form,  Form,  Riflemen  Form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  Riflemen,  Riflemen  form ! 

Let  your  reforms  for  a  moment  go  ! 
Look  to  your  butts,  and  take  good  aims ! 
Better  a  rotten  borough  or  so 
Than  a  rotten  fleet  and  a  city  in  flames ! 
Storm,  Storm,  Riflemen  form  I 
Ready,  be  ready  against  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  Riflemen,  Riflemen  form ! 

Form,  be  ready  to  do  or  die  ! 
Form  in  Freedom's  name  and  the  Queen's^ 
True  we  have  got — such  a  faithful  ally 
That    only  the    Devil    can   tell  what  he 

means. 
Form,  Form,  Riflemen  Form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  Riflemen,  Riflemen  form  !  ^ 

1  I  have  been  asked  to  republish  this  old 
poem,  which  was  first  published  in  '  The  Times,' 
May  9,  1859,  before  the  Volunteer  movement 
began. 


THE   TOURNEY. 

Ralph  would  fight  in  Edith's  sight. 
For  Ralph  was  Edith's  lover, 

Ralph  went  down  like  a  fire  to  the  fight. 

Struck  to  the  left  and  struck  to  the  right, 
Roll'd  them  over  and  over. 

'  Gallant  Sir  Ralph,'  said  the  king. 

Casques    w^ere    crack'd    and    hauberks 
hack'd. 
Lances  snapt  in  sunder. 
Rang  the  stroke,  and  sprang  the  blood. 
Knights  were   thwack'd  and  riven,  and 
hew'd 
Like  broad  oaks  with  thunder. 
*0  what  an  arm,'  said  the  king. 

Edith  bow'd  her  stately  head, 

Saw  them  lie  confounded, 
Edith  Montfort  bow'd  her  head, 
Crown'd  her  knight's,  and  flush'd  as  red 

As  poppies  when  she  crown'd  it. 
'  Take  her  Sir  Ralph,'  said  the  king. 


BEE  AND   FLOWER— DOUBT  AND  PRAYER. 


867 


THE  BEE  AND  THE  FLOWER. 

The  bee  buzz'd  up  in  the  heat, 
'  I  am  faint  for  your  honey,  my  sweet.' 
The  flower  said  *  Take  it  my  dear, 
For  now  is  the  spring  of  the  year. 
So  come,  come  ! ' 
' Hum !  ' 
And  the  bee  buzz'd  down  from  the  heat. 

And  the  bee  buzz'd  up  in  the  cold 
When  the  flower  was  wither'd  and  old. 
'  Have  you  still  any  honey,  my  dear? ' 
She  said  '  It's  the  fall  of  the  year, 
But  come,  come  I  ' 
'  Hum ! ' 
And  the  bee  buzz'd  off  in  the  cold. 


THE   WANDERER. 

The  gleam  of  household  sunshine  ends. 
And  here  no  longer  can  I  rest; 
Farewell  I — You  will  not  speak, my  friends. 
Unfriendly  of  your  parted  guest. 

O  well  for  him  that  finds  a  friend, 
Or  makes  a  friend  where'er  he  come. 
And  loves  the  world  from  end  to  end. 
And  wanders  on  from  home  to  home  ! 

0  happy  he,  and  fit  to  live. 

On  whom  a  happy  home  has  power 
To  make  him  trust  his  life,  and  give 
His  fealty  to  the  halcyon  hour  I 

1  count  you  kind,  I  hold  you  true; 
But  what  may  follow  who  can  tell? 
Give  me  a  hand — and  you — and  you — 
And  deem  me  grateful,  and  farewell ! 


POETS   AND   CRITICS. 

This  thing,  that  thing  is  the  rage, 
Helter-skelter  runs  the  age; 
Minds  on  this  round  earth  of  ours 
Vary  like  the  leaves  and  flowers, 

Fashion'd  after  certain  laws; 
Sing  thou  low  or  loud  or  sweet, 
All  at  all  points  thou  canst  not  meet. 

Some  will  pass  and  some  will  pause. 


What  is  true  at  last  will  tell : 
Few  at  first  will  place  thee  well ; 
Some  too  low  would  have  thee  shine, 
Some  too  high — no  fault  of  thine — 

Hold  thine  own,  and  work  thy  will ! 
Year  will  graze  the  heel  of  year. 
But  seldom  comes  the  poet  here, 

And  the  Critic's  rarer  still. 


A  VOICE  SPAKE  OUT  OF  THE 
SKIES. 

A  Voice  spake  out  of  the  skies 
To  a  just  man  and  a  wise — 
'  The  world  and  all  within  it 
Will  only  last  a  minute  I  ' 
And  a  beggar  began  to  cry 
'  Food,  food  or  I  die  ! ' 
Is  it  worth  his  while  to  eat, 
Or  m.ine  to  give  him  meat. 
If  the  world  and  all  within  it 
Were  nothing  the  next  minute? 


DOUBT   AND  PRAYER. 

Tho'  Sin  too  oft,  when  smitten  by  Thy 

rod. 
Rail  at  '  Blind  Fate '  with  many  a  vain 

'  Alas : ' 
From  sin  thro'  sorrow  into  Thee  we  pass 
By  that  same  path  our  true  forefathers 

trod; 
And   let   not    Reason    fail  me,   nor  the 

sod 
Draw  from  my  death  Thy  living  flower 

and  grass, 
Before  I  learn  that  Love,  which  is,  and 

was 
My   Father,    and    my   Brother,   and   mv 

God! 
Steel  me  with  patience  I   soften  me  with 

grief ! 
Let  blow  the  trumpet  strongly  while   I 

pray. 
Till  this  embattled  wall  of  unbelief 
My  prison,  not  my  fortress,  fall  away ! 
Then,  if  thou  wiliest,  let  my  day  be  brief. 
So  Thou  wilt  strike  Thy  glory  thro'  the 

dav. 


868 


FAITH— DEATH  OF   THE  DUKE    OF  CLARENCE. 


FAITH. 


Doubt  no  longer  that  the  Highest  is  the 

wisest  and  the  best, 
Let  not  all  that  saddens  Nature\blight  thy 

hope  or  break  thy  rest, 
Quail  not  at  the  fiery  mountain,  at  the 

shipwreck,  or  the  rolling 
Thunder,^ or  the  rending  earthquake,  or 

th^  famine,  or  the  pest ! 

II. 

Neither  mourn  if  human  creeds  be  lower 

than  the  heart's  desire  ! 
Thro'   the   gates  that   bar   the    distance 

comes  a  gleam  of  what  is  higher. 
Wait  till  Death  has  flung  them  open,, 

when  the  man  will  make  the  Maker 
Dark  no  more  with  human  hatreds  in  the 

glare  of  deathless  fire  ! 

THE    SILENT  VOICES.*    . 

When  the  dumb  Hour,  clothed  in  black, 

Brings  the  Dreams  about  my  bed, 

Call  me  not  so  often  back. 

Silent  Voices  of  the  dead, 

Toward  the  lowland  ways  behind  me, 

And  the  sunlight  that  is  gone  ! 

Call  me  rather,  silent  voices. 

Forward  to  the  starry  track 

Glimmering  up  the  heights  beyond  me 

On,  and  always  on  ! 

GOD   AND   THE   UNIVERSE. 


Will  my  tiny  spark  of  being  wholly  van- 
ish in  your  deeps  and  heights? 

Must  my  day  be  dark  by  reason,  O  ye 
Heavens,  of  your  boundless  nights. 

Rush  of  Suns,  and  roll  of  systems,  and 
your  fiery  clash  of  meteorites? 


II. 


*  Spirit,  nearing  yon  dark  portal  at  the 
limit  of  thy  human  state. 

Fear  not  thou  the  hidden  purpose  of  that 
Power  which  alone  is  great. 

Nor  the  myriad  world,  His  shadow,  nor 
the  silent  Opener  of  the  Gate.' 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE 
OF  CLARENCE  AND  AVON- 
DALE. 

To  THE  Mourners. 

The  bridal  garland  falls  upon  the  bier. 
The   shadow  of  a  crown,  that  o'er  him 

hung. 
Has   vanish'd   in    the    shadow   cast    by 

Death. 
So  princely,  tender,  truthful,  reverent, 

pure — 
Mourn !      That    a    world-wide    Empire 

mourns  with  you. 
That  all  the  Thrones  are  clouded  by  your 

loss, 
Were  slender  solace.    Yet  be  comforted; 
For   if  this    earth  be   ruled  by  Perfect 

Love, 
Then,  after  his  brief  range  of  blameless 

days. 
The  toll  of  funeral  in  an  Angel  ear 
Sounds  happier  than  the  merriest  mar- 
riage-bell. 
The  face  of  Death  is  toward  the  Sun 

of  Life, 
His   shadow    darkens    earth :     his    truer 

name 
Is  '  Onward,'  no  discordance  in  the  roll 
And  march  of  that  Eternal  Harmony 
Whereto  the  worlds  beat  time,  tho'  faintly 

heard 
Until    the   great    Hereafter.     Mourn   in 

hope ! 


*  Copyright,  1892,  by  Macmillan  &  Co. 


CROSSING    THE   BAR. 


869 


CROSSING  THE   BAR. 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 
Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 

When   that  which    drew  from    out  the 
boundless  deep 
Turns  again  home. 


Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  fare- 
well. 

When  I  embark; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time 
and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 


INDEX    TO    THE    EIRST    LINES. 


A  CITY  clerk,  but  gently  born  and  bred,  152. 
Act  first,  this  Earth,  a  stage  so   gloom'd  with 

woe,  812. 
Ah  God!   the  petty  fools  of  rhyme,  232. 
Airy,  fairy  Lilian,  6. 
All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest  white, 

229. 
Altho'  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind,  83. 
And  Willy,   my  eldest-bom,  is  gone,  you   say, 

little  Anne?  220. 
A  plague  upon  the  people  fell,  232. 
Are  you  sleeping?  have  you  forgotten?  do  not 

sleep,  my  sister  dear!  540. 
A  spirit  haunts  the  year's  last  hours,  12. 
A  still  small  voice  spake  unto  me,  30. 
A  storm  was  coming,  but  the  winds  were  still,  373. 
As  when  with  downcast  eyes  we  muse  and  brood, 

24- 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville 

lay,  497. 
At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas  Eve,  66. 
Athelstan  King,  523. 

A  thousand  summers  ere  the  time  of  Christ,  536. 
At  times  our  Britain  cannot  rest,  781. 
A  Voice  spake  out  of  the  skies,  867. 

Banner  of  England,  not  for  a  season,  O  banner 

of  Britain,  hast  thou.  509. 
'  Beat,  little  heart —  I  give  you  this  and  this,'  807. 
Beautiful  city,  the  centre  and  crater,  811. 
Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep,  5. 
Be  thou  a-gawin'  to  the  long  barn,  756. 
Break,  break,  break,  121. 
Brooks,  for  they  call'd   you  so  that  knew  you 

best,  522. 
Bury  the  Great  Duke,  212. 

Caress'd  or  chidden  by  the  slender  hand,  25. 
Chains,  my  good  lord:    in  your  raised  brows  I 

read,  514. 
Clear-headed  friend,  whose  joyful  scorn,  8. 
Clearly  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its  flowing,  3, 


Come  not,  when  I  am  dead,  116. 

Come,  when  no  graver  cares  employ,  229. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'lis 

early  morn,  95. 
'  Courage !  '    he   said,   and   pointed    toward    the 

land,  53. 

Dagonet,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in  his  mood, 

435- 
Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would  you  wander? 

231. 
Dead,  559. 
Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that,  which  lived, 

508. 
Dear  Master  in  our  classic  town,  851. 
Dear,  near  and  true  —  no  truer  Time  himself,  235. 
Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows,  107. 
Dosn't  thou  'ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as  they  canters 

awaay?  225. 
Doubt  no  longer  that  the  Highest  is  the  wisest 

and  the  best,  868. 
Dust  are  our  frames;  and,  gilded  dust,  our  pride, 

139- 

Eh?  good  daay!  good  daay!  thaw  it  bean't  not 

mooch  of  a  daay,  860. 
Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable,  388. 
Eyes  not  down-dropt  nor  over-bright,  but  fed,  6. 

Faint  as  a  climate-changing  bird  that  flies,  783. 
Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place,  230. 
Fair  things  are  slow  to  fade  away,  783. 
Farewell,    Macready,    since    to-night    we    part, 

565. 
Farewell,  whose  like  on  earth  I   shall  not   find, 

813. 
Fifty  times  the  rose  has  flower'd  and  faded,  782. 
First  pledge  our  Queen  this  solemn  night,  562. 
Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea.  116. 
Flower  in  the  crannied  wall,  235. 
From  noiseful  arms,  and  acts  of  prowess  done,  410. 
Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow,  60. 


872 


INDEX   TO    THE   FIRST  IINES. 


Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song, 

233- 
Golden-hair'd  Ally  whose  name  is  one  with  mine, 

490. 

Had  the  fierce  ashes  of  some  fiery  peak,  853. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league,  217. 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name  —  Halleluiah !  522. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands,  xi6. 

'  He  is  fled  —  I  wish  him  dead — ,  797. 

Helen's  Tower,  here  I  stand,  561. 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid,  116. 

Her,  that  yer  Honour  was  spakin*  to?     Whin, 

yer  Honour?  last  year,  543. 
Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted;   I  to  the  East, 

136. 
Here  far  away,  seen  from  the  topmost  cliff,  467, 
Here,  it  is  here,  the  close  of  the  year,  232. 
He  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope,  230. 
He  that  only  rules  by  terror,  112. 
He  thought  to  quell  the  stubborn  hearts  of  oak,  25. 
Hide  me,  Mother!    my  Fathers  belong'd  to  the 

church  of  old,  530. 
How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden  down,  25. 

I  BUILT  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house,  43. 

If  I  were  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be,  26. 

I  had  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late,  117. 

I  hate  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood, 
281. 

I  knew  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor,  65. 

Illyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls,  121. 

I'm  glad  1  walk'd.  How  fresh  the  meadows 
look,  79. 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  gaily,  113. 

I  read,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their  shade,  55. 

I  see  the  wealthy  miller  yet,  36. 

I  send  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory,  43. 

Is  it  you,  that  preach'd  in  the  chapel  there  look- 
ing over  the  sand?  533. 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king,  93. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow,  in. 

I  waited  for  the  train  at  Coventry,  loi. 

I  was  the  chief  of  the  race  —  he  had  stricken  my 
father  dead,  518. 

I  wish  I  were  as  in  the  years  of  old,  527. 

.  King  Arthur  made  new  knights  to  fill  the  gap, 

425- 
King,  that  hast  reign'd  six  hundred  years,  and 
grown,  526. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  48. 

Late,  my  grandson !    half  the   morning   have  I 

paced  these  sandy  tracts,  548. 
Leodogran,  the  King  of  Cameliard,  303. 
Life  and  thought  have  gone  away,  15. 
'  Light  of  the  nations'  ask'd  his  Chronicler,  855. 


Like  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain,  115. 

Live  thy  Life,  812. 

Lo !   there  once  more  —  this  is  the  seventh  night, 

637- 

Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left  a  chasm,  122. 

Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought,  63. 

Low-flowing  breezes  are  roaming  the  broad  val- 
ley dimm'd  in  the  gloaming,  3. 

Lucilia,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found,  157. 

Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs  after 

many  a  vanished  face,  788. 
Many,  many  welcomes,  812. 
Mellow  moon  of  heaven,  790. 
Midnight —  in  no  midsummer  tune,  561. 
Milk  for  my  sweet-arts,  Bess!  fur  it  mun  be  the 

time  about  now,  545. 
Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit,  full  and  free,  24, 
Minnie  and  Winnie,  231. 
Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave,  116. 
My  father  left  a  park  to  me,  105. 
My  friend  should  meet  me  somewhere  hereabout, 

511- 
My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men,  107. 
My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe,  17. 
My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  —  thou  wilt  be,  24. 
My  life  is  full  of  weary  days,  23. 
My  Lords,  we  heard  you  speak:  you  told  us  all, 

216. 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind,  21. 
Mystery  of  mysteries,  20. 

Naay,  noa  mander  o'  use  to  be  callin'  'ira  Roa, 

Roa,  Roa,  785. 
Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies,  62. 
Nightingales  warbled  without,  230. 
Not  here!  the  white  North  has  thy  bones;  and 

thou,  526. 
Not  this  way  will  you  set  your  name,  557. 
Now  first  we  stand  and  understand,  865. 
Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work,  16. 

O  blackbird!  sing  me  something  well,  60. 
O  bridesmaid,  ere  the  happy  knot  was  tied,  26. 
CEnone  sat  within  the  cave  from  out,  851. 
Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close,  90. 
Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights,  63. 
OGod!  my  God!  have  mercy  now,  3. 
O  Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak,  102. 
Old  Fitz,  who  from  your  suburb  grange,  526. 
Old  poets  foster'd  under  friendlier  skies,  565. 
O  Love,  Love,  Love!   O  withering  might!  38. 
O  love,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine,  227. 
O  loyal  to  the  royal  in  thyself,  466. 
O  me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake,  81. 
O  mighty-mouth'd  inventor  of  harmonies,  237. 
On   a  midnight  in   midwinter  when  all  but  the 
winds  were  dead,  865. 


INDEX   TO    THE   FIRST  IINES. 


873 


Once  in  a  golden  hour,  230. 

Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls,  86. 

Once  more  the  Heavenly  Power,  560. 

On  either  side  the  river  lie,  27. 

O  Patriot  Statesman,  be  thou  wise  to  know,  562. 

O  plump  head-waiter  at  The  Cock,  108. 

O  purblind  race  of  miserable  men,  347. 

O  sweet  pale  Margaret,  20. 

O  thou  so  fair  in  summers  gone,  563. 

O  thou,  that  sendest  out  the  man,  65. 

Our  birches  yellowing  and  from  each,  556. 

Our  doctor  had  call'd  in  another,   I  never  had 

seen  him  before,  507. 
'Ouse-keeper  sent  tha  my  lass,  fur  New  Squire 

coom'd  last  night,  504. 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the  deep,  521. 
O  well  for  him  whose  will  is  strong!  229. 
O  you  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers,  238. 
O  young  Mariner,  806. 
O  you  that  were  eyes  and  light  to  the  King  till 

he  past  away,  526. 

Pellam  the  King,  who  held  and  lost  with  Lot, 

362. 
Pme,   beech   and   plane,   oak,   walnut,   apricot, 

730. 

Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court,  and  sat, 
447- 

Ralph  would  fight  in  Edith's  sight,  866. 
Red  of  the  Dawn!  864. 
Revered,  beloved  —  O  you  that  hold,  i. 
Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest,  558. 
Rose,  on  this  terrace  fifty  years  ago,  812. 
Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your  Sirmione 
row!   561. 

Sea-kings'  daughter  from  over  the  sea,  218. 
Sir,  do  you  see  this  dagger?  nay,  why  do  you 

start  aside?  859. 
Sir  Walter  Vivian  all  a  summer's  day,  161. 
Slow  sail'd  the  wearj'  mariners  and  saw,  14. 
So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roU'd,  67. 
So  Hector  spake;    the  Trojans  roar'd  applause, 

238. 
So  saying,  light-foot  Iris  pass'd  away,  525. 
So,  my  lord,  the  Lady  Giovanna,  who  hath  been 

away,  746. 
So  then  our  good  Archbishop  Theobald,  676. 
'  Spring-flowers ' !     While  you  still  delay  to  take, 

803. 
Stand  back,  keep  a  clear  lane !  566. 
Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane,  117. 
Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love,  241. 
'  Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming,  812. 
Sunset  and  evening  star,  869. 
Sweet  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town,  108. 


That  story*  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere,  458. 

The  bee  buzz'd  up  in  the  heat,  867. 

The  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's  court, 

335- 
The  bridal  garland  falls  upon  the  bier,  868. 
'The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd,  and  not  a 

room,  78. 
The   charge   of  the   gallant  three  hundred,   the 

Heavy  Brigade!  556. 
The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent!  25. 
The  gleam  of  household  sunshine  ends,  867. 
The  groundflame  of  the  crocus  breaks  the  mould, 

804. 
The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent,  311. 
The  lights  and  shadows  fly!   239. 
The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to  the  soul  of  a 

man,  810. 
The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare,  15. 
The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born.  13. 
The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose,  121. 
There  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar,  866. 
There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier,  39. 
There  on  the  top  of  the  down,  851. 
These  lame  hexameters  the  strong-wing'd  music 

of  Homer!  237. 
These  roses  for  my  Lady  Marian,  814. 
These  to  His  Memory  —  since  he  held  them  dear, 

302. 
The  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove  for  power, 

219. 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills 

and  the  plains,  234. 
The  voice  and  the  Peak,  234. 
The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth,  6. 
The  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain,  blows,  61. 
The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall,  94. 
They  have  left  the  doors  ajar;  and  by  their  clash, 

499. 
They  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle  sails,  523. 
This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day,  71. 
This  thing,  that  thing  is  the  rage,  867. 
Those  that  of  late  had  fleeted  far  and  fast,  522. 
Thou  art  not  steep'd  in  golden  languors,  8. 
Tho'  Sin  too  oft,  when  smitten  by  Thy  rod,  867. 
Thou  third  great  Canning,  stand  among  our  best, 

562. 
Thou  who  stealest  fire,  11. 
Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not,  22. 
Thy   prayer  was  'Light  —  more   Light  —  while 

Time  shall  last!  '  562. 
Thy  tuwhits  are  luU'd,  I  wot,  9. 
Two  children  in  two  neighbour  villages,  18. 
Two  Suns  of  Love  make  day  of  human  life,  563. 

Ulysses,  much-experienced  man,  802. 
Uplift  a  thousand  voices  full  and  sweet,  2i7.- 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind,  14. 


874 


INDEX   TO    THE  FIRST  LIVES. 


Victor  in  Drama,  Victor  in  Romance,  523. 

Waait  till  our  Sally  cooms  in,  fur  thou  mun  a' 

sights  to  tell,  494. 
Wailing,   wailing,  wailing,    the  wind   over   land 

and  sea,  492. 
*  Wait  a  little,'  you  say,  '  you  are  sure  it'll  all 

come  right,'  490. 
Wan  Sculptor,  weepest  thou  to  take  the  cast,  26. 
Warrior  of  God,  man's  friend  and  tyrant's  foe, 

562. 
Warrior  of  God,  whose  strong  right  arm  debased, 

24. 
We  left  behind  the  painted  buoy,  114. 
Welcome,  welcome,  with  one  voice !  564. 
Well,  you  shall  have  that  song  which  Leonard 

wrote,  91. 
We  move,  the  wheel  must  always  move,  811. 
We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race,  43. 
What  am  I  doing,  you  say  to  me,  '  wasting  the 

sweet  summer  hours'?  862. 
What  be  those  crown'd  forms  high  over  the  sacred 

fountain?  810. 
What  sight  so  lured  him  thro'  the  fields  he  knew, 

811. 
What  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gathering  light, 

17- 
Wheer  asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin'  'ere 

aloan?  223. 
When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come,  9. 


When  from  the  terrors  of  Nature  a  people  have 

fashion'd  and  worship  a  Spirit  of  Evil,  863. 
When  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew  free,  9. 
When  the  dumb  Hour,  clothed  in  black,  868. 
When  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of  flowing,  2. 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth,  2. 
Where  is  one  that,  born  of  woman,  altogether  can 

escape,  865. 
While  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Neronian 

legionaries,  235. 
While  man  and  woman  still  are  incomplete,  812. 
'  Whither,  O  whither,  love,  shall  we  go,'  231. 
Who  would  be,  18. 
Who  would  be,  19. 
Why  wail  you,  pretty  plover?  and  what  is  it  that 

you  fear?  798. 
Will  my  tiny  spark  of  being  wholly  vanish  in 

your  deeps  and  heights?  868. 
With  a  half-glance  upon  the  sky,  13. 
With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots,  7. 
With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode,  75. 
With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet,  29. 

You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease,  63. 

You  make  our  faults  too  gross,  and  thence  main- 
tain, 812. 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name,  120. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 
mother  dear,  49. 

You,  you,  {/"you  shall  fail  to  understand,  564. 


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near  a  thousand  pages,  and  is  all  that  it  need  be  in  type  and  clearness  of  arrange- 
ment. It  stands  midway  oetween  the  editions  de  luxe  and  the  cheap  typographical 
renderings  of  other  classics  of  the  En.fjlish  school.  In  a  good  binding  it  would  do 
perfectly  well  for  the  library  of  a  millionaire;  in  serviceable  cloth  it  would  make 
almost  a  library  in  itself  for  the  student  of  humble  means.  It  has  a  good  bibli- 
ography of  all  the  poet's  writings,  a  catalogue  of  biographies,  an  index  of  first  lines 
and  a  complete  list  of  the  poems  in  the  order  of  their  production  year  by  year. 
Above  all,  it  has  an  introduction  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Juhn  Morley."  — Daily  Xews. 


SHAKESPEARE'S   COMPLETE    WORKS. 

Edited  by  W.  G.  Clark,  M.A.,  and  W.  Aldis  Wright,  M.A.     With  Glossary. 

New  Edition. 

MORTE    D'ARTHUR. 

Sir  Thomas  Malory's  Book  of  King  Arthur,  and  of  his  Noble  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table.  The  Edition  of  Caxton,  revised  for  modern  use.  With  an  Intrc 
duction.  Notes,  and  Glossary,  by  Sir  Edward  Strachey.     New  Edition. 

ROBERT    BURNS'    COMPLETE    WORKS. 

The  Poems,  Songs,  and  Letters.  Edited,  with  Glossarial  Index,  and  Bio- 
graphical Memoir,  by  Alexander  Smith.     New  Edition. 

SIR  WALTER    SCOTT'S    POETICAL   WORKS. 

With  Biographical  and  Critical  Essay  by  Francis  Turner  Palgrave.  New 
Edition. 

OLIVER   GOLDSMITH'S    MISCELLANEOUS   WORKS. 

With  Biographical  Introduction  by  Professor  Masson.     New  Edition. 

EDMUND   SPENSER'S   COMPLETE    WORKS.  / 

Edited  with  Glossary  by  R.  Morris,  and  Memoir  by  J.  W.  Hales.  N'ew 
Edition.  / 

ALEXANDER  POPE'S    POETICAL   WORKS.  / 

Edited,  with  Notes  and  Introductory  Memoir,  by  Professor  Ward.  New 
Edition. 

JOHN   DRYDEN'S    POETICAL   WORKS. 

Edited,  with  a  Revised  Text  and  Notes,  by  W.  D.  Christie,  M.A.,  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge.     New  Edition. 

COWPER'S    POETICAL   WORKS. 

Edited,  with  Notes  and  Biographical  Introduction,  by  Rev.  W.  Benham,  B.D. 
New  Edition. 

MILTON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 

With  Introductions  by  Professor  Masson. 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY, 

66    FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


14  DAY  USE 

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IV. 


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